"What?" I heard his devilish laugh rumble through the corridor, spilling from the open door at the end of the hall. "You afraid I'm gonna eat you too, Collins?"

"You wouldn't be able to get to me faster than I can get to my gun, Croc, so shut up."

I rounded the corner and stepped into the room, my eyes instantly settling on Waylon and Collins. Waylon was seated in a chair directly in front of the desk as Collins fastened his hands to the arm rests. They were standard asylum-issue shackles, large brown leather straps with barely-there, worn off padding lining the insides. I watched as Waylon's huge forearm tensed and the powerful muscles flexed beneath the material.

Sitting down, he was almost the same height as Collins was standing up; he was leaning forward, his head tilted up towards Collins, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. Collins looked down at him, scowling. Waylon stretched as far as he could so his face was directly in Collins'.

"Do you want to test that fucking theory?"

As Collins' hand tightened on the grip of his rifle, I chose that moment to clear my throat and announce my presence. Immediately, Waylon's head whipped around and stared at me, his eyes burning. I blushed crimson and tried my best to cover it up, hoping that Collins hadn't been watching.

He had. With a sound of disgust, Collins pulled the last of the restraints tight—too tight—around Waylon's wrists and then left the room.

In keeping with her illness ruse, Nancy had deferred to her secondary office and when Collins shut the door behind him, it was just me and Waylon in the room. I gulped, shivered, and then tried to get my act together. I didn't really believe I was in danger with Waylon, but what did I know? I didn't honestly think he'd kill anyone while he was in the Asylum, and he did it anyway. Surprisingly, there were few repercussions for him and I had to wonder whether that was his motivation to kill at all while in custody.

"And what the fuck do you want?"

My eyes snapped to Waylon's in an instant. I was embarrassed that I had let my mind wander around him because I was afraid it made me look stupid or weak. And when the personality type of my patient was one of cold, intelligent calculation, I couldn't necessarily afford to give him the upper hand. Even though he most likely had had it all along.

"You have a session today."

"Well no shit." He tried to turn his hands over so they were palm-up, but the shackles were simply too tight. "And I fucking wondered what this shit was for. Tsch."

"What is your problem?"

His brows shot sky high. "My problem?"

"Yes, yours," I snapped back as I folded my arms over my chest.

"I don't have a goddamned problem, you do. I didn't ask to be tied down to a fucking chair—a wooden chair—and forced to sit through another one of these stupid fucking sessions. Its not going to be any different than any of the others."

"So what if it is a wooden chair," I said as I rounded the desk and sat down. "That's not the point. Why won't you ever answer any of the questions?"

"That is the fucking point. Any shithead with half a brain would know that I could break it. Whether you tied me down like a dog or not." He was growling now, but I still wasn't sure if he was as pissed off as I'd seen him before. Like during his first session with me. The session when I actually thought I was going to die.

I sighed. "Here we go again." My elbows braced on the desk, I lifted my hands to my face when a creaking noise came from Waylon's direction. I looked up and watched as he flexed his arms, his biceps straining hard, until he broke the arms of the chair away from the base. Then, still seated, he lifted his arms one after the other up to his mouth and ripped the leather restraints with his teeth. All the while I stared at him, my mouth agape.

"I told you."

Collins and his companion must have been alerted by the security office that Waylon was loose because within seconds they had the door open and were gunning for him.

"I have it under control. You can leave."

"He's loose," Collins snarled. He would most likely never get that scowl off his face.

"I'm aware. I have the button to his collar," no I didn't, "and I'll shout if I need your help."

Begrudgingly they both relented and shut the door, once again leaving Waylon and I alone.

"Why would you do that? Why did you need to prove to me that you could break the chair? I knew you could, Collins knew you could, everyone knew you could. So why do it?"

"That's what you're concerned about. My reason behind breaking the fucking chair."

"Yes."

"My hands are free."

"Good, that must be a reprieve. Collins tightened them too much and it looked painful. Was it cutting off circulation?"

"Do I still have my hands?"

I chose not to answer due to his smart retort, but instead went down a different route with my questions. "So would you-"

"My hands are free."

"I'm aware. Now, would-"

"The closest person to protect you wouldn't get here before I ripped your throat open."

I felt a chill and goosebumps started crawling over my arms and legs.

"You wouldn't." I was scared for my life, but my resolve wouldn't let it show. Instead I tried my hand at bluffing.

Although nothing happened physically, the room darkened. Waylon's mood had changed drastically; I could feel the heated anger radiating from his body.

"What makes you think that?" He asked lowly, cynically.

"If you were going to kill me, you've had plenty of chances to do so."

"Name one."

"Any time we've ever had a session."

"With the collar and the dopes with guns? Hardly."

"In the sewer."

He stopped for a minute. "I'd already eaten."

"So? If you wanted to kill me, you'd kill me."

"Are you afraid."

It wasn't a question. I didn't know whether to quit while I was ahead or continue. My adrenaline rush was telling me to keep going, that this was working. If I went toe-to-toe with Waylon in a setting where he felt in control, I might be able to get him to open up. But that was foolish, Waylon was always in control.

"N-no," at my stuttering I lost my composure and I felt the blood drain from my face. Waylon could actually kill me right here, right now if he so wished. I didn't even have the fob to his shock collar.

A toothy grin crept across his face and for the first time he looked truly menacing. Although he remained handsome, it was diminished by his calmly suppressed violence. "You're fucking terrible at lying."

"And so are you." Shouldn't have said that. Of all the ignorant decisions-

"I should fucking kill you," he said between growls. He was angry and there was no doubt about it. I tried to remain scared or worried like any sane person would, but Waylon was always in varying states of anger. There was no other emotion that he portrayed when people were around him and his fury was all I'd ever known of him. So it was hard for me to continue to be frightened when his hatred and outrage was the only emotion I knew him capable of. It was commonplace.

"If you answer my questions you can go back to the sewer." I was still partially bluffing because I didn't believe Waylon would give in to conditioning, but it was a start.

"That's going to happen anyway. I don't care."

"I'll remove the collar." I was more serious than I'd ever been with him.

"Like you could do that. You don't have the fucking authority or even the damn key."

I sat back in my chair, pulled the top drawer open, and grabbed the key. When I held it up for him to see, he smirked. "Its the same key that works on any of the pacification collars in this building. We have them at our disposal so we can use them on lower level patients if need be."

"You're going to get yourself fired."

"As if you cared about that."

"You're fucking crazy and you belong here more than I do."

I laughed, taken off guard. "Why?"

He, however, remained serious. "Because I know what I am. You and everyone else knows what I am. I kill and eat people. I'm locked up for it. But you're fucked up. You don't care if you die and you're always putting yourself in situations where you know damn well that you're going to get killed. I don't know if you want me to kill you, or you're just looking for any way to end up in the ground."

My smile faded completely and I tried to make sense of Waylon's speech. "That's not true. I don't want to die."

"Then why do you keep provoking me to kill you?"

"All I'm doing is asking questions. You're the one jumping to conclusions suggesting you're going to kill me."

"Because my past is none of your business."

"I'll have the collar removed for the duration of the session. Please." It wasn't that I was desperate, because I really wasn't. I just wanted to know—not for work or for any reason. I wanted to help him, sure. But deep down, this was the Waylon that he would always be. Even if he opened up to someone somewhere down the line, that would be the only person to know about him. He would keep up this facade with everyone. And that was it. He was never going to tell me anything. Unless...

I got up from my chair and, walking towards the corner of the room behind the door, I reached up on my tiptoes and pulled the cord from the camera. The audio and video feed from the security office was now gone and I felt the freedom to speak frankly for the first time since the incident in the sewer system today. When a knock came from the door and Collins began to twist the knob I opened the door and told him everything was fine. Or, I tried to.

"The feed's down. Either leave the door open or allow us in there. We'll terminate the session if you disagree." He obviously wasn't going to be swayed. At all. His jaw was set defiantly, his eyes glaring down at me.

"Look, I know what I'm doing. The camera must be bugging out, but everything's fine," I said in a hushed voice. "Waylon isn't going to say anything if there are witnesses. And that camera going out is a godsend. If you had a demented past that would ruin your reputation or put you in a state of vulnerability to the people who knew about it, would you want it recorded so anyone could see it?"

He seemed to think about it for a minute and I saw his expression waver.

"Please?"

"He broke out of the chair."

"Yes, I know, but he hasn't done anything."

"Yet."

"Collins, if he were going to do something he would have already done it. He didn't kill me in the sewer."

He was silent as he looked down at his boots and then at Waylon. His lip curled as he regarded my patient, but it wasn't hostility in his eyes. I wasn't sure what it was, but I believed in that second that Collins wanted me to get into Waylon's head. "Fine."

"Fine? Yes?" When he nodded in compliance I beamed. "Okay so we'll say that the door was left open?"

"Yeah, I'll get my partner to back it up. If no one walks by in the hall I'll say I stood in on the session."

I sighed in relief. "Thank you, Collins. Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet. If anything happens you yell right away. And keep that god damn collar fob close. The minute he even motions to get up-"

"I know, I know. Thank you," I waved him away as I shut the door. This was it... This, was it. If this worked, Waylon would have to answer some questions. If I could pull strings with the guards and get perks for him—oh, this was good. And I was excited. I turned around and-

Ran right into Waylon. I was sandwiched between him and the door, with nowhere to go. Timidly, I craned my neck to look up at him.

"When did you get up, why aren't you sitting down?" I asked in a small, quiet voice. He just stood there breathing evenly, silent as the grave.

"You don't have the button to the collar. Do you."

"No." I had no idea what was happening. What was he doing? What was I doing? He was standing so close. Too close. I was going to lose it. Why did I turn the feed off? Why did I do anything? Where was the button to his collar? Was it getting hot in the office?

Just then Waylon titled his chin up and breathed in deep, his eyes closing. He held his breath for a moment and then let it out, chuckling as he did. "You're scared."

It wasn't a question but I felt the need to answer him. "Yes. I could scream."

"Trust me, they wouldn't get the door open. I'm closer to you than they are."

"They'll kill you."

"Did they kill me for eating Ramirez? For sending Smith into ICU?" When I didn't answer, he knew he had me.

I was right, this was it. I was going to die. No more dramatic speculations. This really was it. I clenched my eyes shut and hugged myself in preparation. How was I going to die? Would it be quick? Was he going to eat me? I shivered at the thought.

"What's your problem." Not a question, a demand.

"Didn't we go over this? I'm scared."

"Hmm," he leaned in close and sniffed my neck, my face, my hair. "I know, I can smell it."

This was really weird. It felt really weird. I was scared, but I wasn't uncomfortable. I was shaken, but I wasn't ready to bolt.

"Where's your fucking common sense."

"You've asked me that before. And I told you. Now can I ask the questions?"

"The collar."

I looked up at him stare-for-stare as he looked down at me. His eyes, as always, were burning, blazing. The yellow was so pure up close that it could nearly take someone's breath away. I wondered how many people saw those yellow pits before they died. What terror had they felt? As if he could sense why I was staring, Waylon looked away to the right and exhaled. "The collar," he said again.

"Ah, er, yes," I mumbled as I slid past Waylon and be-lined for the desk. Standing safely behind the huge chunk of faux wood, I picked up the key and handed it out to him. The time it took him to walk up to the desk to grab the key was agonizing and it took an eternity. I took the time to question my sanity and my motives. In the name of discovery, I told myself.

Once he had the key he reached up with both arms behind his head to undo the lock. I stared at his chest as he did so, admiring the sharp lines of his abdominal muscles. Soft and mostly devoid of scales, the tint of his skin was a mix between a light shade of beige and apricot. I followed the planes of his stomach down to the subtle V-shape that continued well past the drawstring of his bright orange Asylum pants.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

Startled out of my thoughts, I jumped back and brought a hand up to my throat. My pulse was going haywire. He'd caught me staring. "Nothing, I was just thinking." What a dumb response. Nothing, I swear. Like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I attempted to straighten myself up by fixing my skirt, smoothing back my hair and wiping any mascara away from the delicate skin under my eyes.

I cleared my throat and sat down. "Do you want to get started?"

He set the collar on the desk with a dull thunk and tossed the key towards my folded hands. When he seated himself he exhaled gruffly and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. "What," he grumbled.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean."

"To you. What happened to you? Specifically, in your past."

"I had a piss poor childhood. Can I go now?"

"No, you agreed to answer my questions. So answer them." It was clear he wasn't going to elaborate. I sighed deeply and began to scribble some nonsense in his file to see if I could get him to continue. When he made no attempt to speak, I grew even more frustrated. "I know you're stubborn and I know that I'm stubborn too. So I guess what's going to happen is we're just going to sit at these sessions and not say or do a damned thing until one of us breaks."

"And it'd be you. I can guaran-fucking-tee that."

"We had a deal," I said with as much defiance and strength as I could muster.

"Do you think that means anything to me?"

"It should. If trust meant something to you, keeping your word should be equally as important."

He smirked. "I don't care if you trust me."

"Fine. I don't care if you trust me either. So if we're done here, I'll have Collins take you back to the sewer."

I didn't really expect him to react. In fact, I expected that he'd be happy with my decision to end the session. All I needed from him now was some snarky comeback about how he'd won and I was giving up. If Waylon was feeling anything like himself that wouldn't take long at all.

"Looks like my stubbornness outlasted yours. I fucking knew it would."

"Yep, congratulations. Before you leave, I'm having Collins put your collar back on. And I'm giving him the controller," I said disinterestedly as I got up to leave. Sneaking a glance at Waylon, I reveled in the look of disbelief on his face. It quickly faded with the growing presence of his anger. "What? Want to change your mind?"

"Like hell."

I laughed lightly, "Fine." I turned away from him again and as I neared the door I reached for the knob. Before my fingers had a chance to close around the cold brass, Waylon spoke up.

"My father left me to die."

I wasn't shocked, I wasn't horrified, I wasn't happy, I wasn't ecstatic. I was stunned. Stunned in similar fashion to an insect after it has been hit with a heavy object. My hand dropped from its failed attempt to grab the door knob and I stood there, facing away from him. I couldn't look at him, it wasn't that easy. As I processed the new information my mind raced with all sorts of conclusions—conclusions that I hoped were wrong. Did his father beat him? Was he abused in the foster care system? Of course he was... His appearance was enough to bring out the absolute ignorance in even the most mildly idiotic people. My heart welled for him.

I turned around and slowly made it back to my chair, hoping that he wouldn't stop talking. As I sat down I realized that was probably about as much as he felt like sharing. "Where was your mother?"

He looked over at me and glared, but not with malice. It was... irritation?

"She died giving birth to me, I never knew her."

"So who raised you? Were you in the foster system?"

That was it, he was finished. He looked away from me and stared out the window.

"How old were you? Will you at least tell me that?"

"I'm done. That's all I'm fucking spilling for now," he said, his voice elevated, as he reached for his pacification collar. Once it was snapped back in place around his neck I put the key back in the drawer and sighed. A glance at my wristwatch told me the session wasn't over for another twenty minutes and I didn't feel like calling it quits yet. "Are you going to call the guards." Irritation, his words were dripping with it. And it wasn't the irritation you got from someone waiting for their morning latte, either.

"I have to make some notes and we still have a few minutes left."

"Give me a fucking break."

"Just sit with me for a bit, please? I'd rather have you calm down than hand you over to the guards with your current temper," I said as I began to write minor, semi-vague notes into his file. The way that I chose to make the notations made them look as if they were my speculations and nothing more.

He huffed and I knew he'd rather rip his own legs off, but it was nice. If I could get him into the habit of talking and then sitting in silent reflection, maybe he would feel calm. For once? As I wrote I kept stealing glimpses of him, carefully planning them so he wouldn't catch me.

He was perfect. And I was weak. I knew it was a horrible, wicked thing that I was falling for Waylon Jones, of all people, but it was hard not to. Sure, he had the worst temper I'd ever dealt with but there was still something inside of him that was worth saving. He was damaged, but not broken. I didn't view him as a charity case, either. But he was so powerful and masculine sitting there in that chair, the way his massive chest rose and fell with his breath. The way his jaw clenched when he was biting his tongue, trying desperately not to let me know exactly what he was thinking. The way his eyes stared intensely and with such intelligence and calculation—intelligence that many people would argue wasn't there. But I knew it was.

As I was staring at his mouth, his black tongue darted out and he licked his lips. It was strange to me, that he would be born with a forked tongue when his affliction was skin-based. Or maybe he had it cut. It didn't matter which reason it was, he was still perfect to me. I didn't care that he was covered in green scales, I didn't care that he had sharp teeth, I didn't care that his tongue was forked, or black. I was able to see past all of that and I still found him attractive.

Quell your passion for that monster.

We don't need another Harley Quinn.

Nancy's words suddenly broke into my mind and I felt the blood drain from my face. It was becoming a habit. "I'm not Harley Quinn," I mumbled to myself under my breath.

Waylon's head whipped around in my direction, his brows furrowed. I looked up immediately and my stomach fell through the floor, the pen dropping from my hand.

I apologize for the delay and I sincerely hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait!

-Soule