I don’t know why she’s so intent on considering herself plain—she may not have the obvious flashiness of a certain sort of woman, but Clare’s beauty is all the more powerful for its subtlety. The delicacy and luminescence of her skin, like the slightest touch would bruise it… those large, dark eyes, so liquid that they almost seem tearful…
Her fragility makes me want to do terrible things to her.
And yet, I almost want to protect her, too… like a little bird that could fit in the hollow of my hand… a nightingale, singing only for me…
“Don’t be modest. You’ve seen the way men look at you. Tell the truth, Clare.”
She bites the edge of her lip, irritated at my use of her first name, and at my commanding tone.
Still, I see the way that tone takes hold of her, compelling her to answer me.
“Men always stare at women,” she says.
“They stare at you more… how could they not?”
“Mr. Rogov,” she says, sharply. “I told you, we’re not here to discuss me.”
“I remember,” I say.
But I think she will discuss herself if I push her. Because no matter how hard Ms. Nightingale tries to be stern, to maintain professionalism, I see the truth behind her thin façade. I see how she flinches when I bark, how she squirms under my stare. How her eyes flit up to meet mine when I use a gentler tone, and how her cheeks flush pink when I compliment her. Clare has been raised to respect authority. To crave it, even…
“How exactly do you plan to rehabilitate me?” I ask.
The tip of her tongue darts out, moistening those pale lips.
“Often it’s useful to examine whether there’s an underlying psychiatric issue that may contribute to negative behaviors. We can do tests to determine if schizophrenia or depression might—”
“I’m not crazy,” I say, flatly.
“Mental health is a spectrum,” she says. “There’s no bright line between mental illnesses and sound, rational minds. And in any case, even without a diagnosable condition, I can still help you to understand your triggers and correct your behavior.”
“Really,” I say. “And how many prisoners have you helped in this way?”
She shifts in her seat. “That’s not really—”
“How long have you worked here?” I demand.
I heard her stumble while introducing herself. I’m pretty fucking sure she was about to admit that I was her first patient.
“I’m new to this prison,” she says, with a valiant attempt at dignity. “But I assure you, I’m a fully licensed psychologist with—”
“Yeah?” I laugh. “When’d you get that license? Is the ink dry?”
Clare takes a slow breath, trying to shake off my taunts.
It doesn’t work. As she moves to open my folder, her hand jerks, knocking her pen onto the floor.
It falls between us.
She leans far out of her chair to retrieve it, that long sheet of shining dark hair slipping over her shoulder and hanging down toward the dingy carpet.
She grabs the pen and pulls herself up again.
As she’s rising, I lunge forward, all the way to the end of my chain. I seize that sheaf of hair and wrap it tight around my hand, jerking her out of her chair toward me. I don’t have much room to maneuver, but even chained I overpower her with ease.
I pull her all the way inside the circle of my right arm, my hand wrapped up in her hair, my fingers clamped around the base of her neck. I yank her against me until her petite little body is pressed up against my chest. We’re eye to eye, nose to nose, my other hand clamped over her mouth.
In this position I could kiss her or strangle her with the same bare minimum effort.