ALEXANDER
I watched my little anomaly leave the room.
Dashiell walked out of my office with that precise, careful gait of his, back straight, shoulders slightly tense, toes lifting just a fraction with each step. His white coat swayed gently, and I could see the faint tapping of his fingers against his thigh even from behind.
So fucking cute.
So fucking mine.
My eyes stayed glued to him until the door closed.
Eight years.
Eight years of watching him from afar, of making sure no one else got too close, of planning every detail so that one day he would be exactly where he belonged, under my roof, under my control, under me.
And now he was here. Walking around my hospital with my last name, my marks still faintly visible on his neck if you looked closely enough.
The thought made my cock twitch.
I wanted to drag him back in here, bend him over my desk, and fuck him until he couldn't even remember his own name. I wanted to mark him so deeply that every single person in this hospital would smell me on him from ten feet away.
A slow, cold smile curved my lips.
Soon.
I forced myself to stay seated for a few more minutes. Discipline was important. I pulled out my phone and opened the calendar.
3:00 PM – Dr. George (Psychiatry)
I stared at it for a second, completely unbothered.
My father had been forcing me to see psychiatrists since I was thirteen. "To manage your condition," he called it. As if therapy could fix what I was. As if any of them could do anything about the fact that I felt nothing for anyone except this one maddening, soft, brilliant little neurologist who had ruined me the moment I saw him at eighteen.
I had missed two sessions already. If I missed this one, Gregory would get an alert and start his usual bullshit about "stability" and "image."
How tedious.
I stood up, adjusted my white coat, and left the office.
When I entered Elias Grant's room on the cardiothoracic floor, the scene was exactly what I expected.
Dashiell was already there, standing at the foot of the bed, focused entirely on the teenage boy. His tablet was perfectly aligned on the rolling tray, notes arranged with obsessive precision. He was in full doctor mode, calm, methodical, and devastatingly competent. Elias's parents sat beside the bed looking exhausted and terrified.
Dashiell didn't even notice me enter at first. He was speaking directly to the boy, voice steady and honest.
"…the seizures are likely coming from small areas of low oxygen in your brain because of your heart condition. We're going to stabilize you first, then Dr. Astor will fix your heart. I'll be monitoring your brain waves the entire time during surgery."
The boy looked pale but nodded. His mother was crying quietly.
I stepped further into the room, and Dashiell finally looked up. His eyes met mine for a brief second. A faint flush colored his cheeks before he looked back at the family.
"Dr. Astor is here," he said simply.
I moved to stand beside him, close enough that my arm brushed his. The contact was deliberate and Possessive.
I began speaking to the parents in my usual cold, authoritative tone, explaining the surgical plan, the risks, the timeline. All the while, my mind was elsewhere, half on the case, half on the man standing right next to me.
*My husband.*
*My little anomaly.*
*Mine.*
I glanced down at Dashiell again. He was listening intently, occasionally tapping his fingers against the side of his tablet. So focused and perfect.
I wanted to drag him into the nearest on-call room and fuck the professionalism out of him.
Instead, I continued discussing the case like the respected Chief I was.
But later…
Later, I would remind him exactly who he belonged to.
******
"Alexander, you know I can't keep lying to your father about your attendance," Dr. George said, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "This is the third missed session this quarter. He's growing impatient."
I sat opposite him with my long legs elegantly crossed, completely relaxed. I gave him a small, indifferent smile.
"Then stop lying for me, Doctor. Tell him I find these sessions tedious and largely pointless. He'll survive the disappointment."
Dr. George sighed deeply, the kind of tired sigh I had heard from seven psychiatrists before him.
"You are my eighth psychiatrist in thirty-five years," I added calmly, as if making casual conversation. "The last one had a nervous breakdown after our sixth session. Do you remember? He started crying during our discussion about impulse control. Poor man. I believe he's teaching yoga in Vermont now."
Dr. George didn't flinch. He was made of sterner stuff than the others.
"Let's talk about your patterns," he said smoothly, pen poised over his notes. "Your antisocial personality traits remain very pronounced. You continue to show a profound lack of remorse, shallow affect, and grandiosity. You manipulate situations and people when it benefits you, and you feel no guilt when it harms them. Would you agree with that assessment?"
I tilted my head, considering.
"Yes," I answered honestly. "That sounds accurate."
Dr. George nodded, unsurprised by my bluntness.
"And the obsession?" he asked carefully. "The individual, the one you've been watching for a long time. Have those feelings evolved, or are they still… all-consuming?"
A slow, cold smile spread across my face.
"They've only grown stronger," I said. "He's mine now. Legally. Physically. In every way that matters. He sleeps in my house. Wears my ring. Moans my name when I fuck him. He even tries to 'fix' me with date nights and schedules." I let out a low chuckle. "It's fascinating. He knows what I am, he's seen pieces of it and he still stays."
Dr. George's expression remained professionally neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes.
"Alexander… what you're describing isn't love. It's a pathological fixation. You've spoken before about violent fantasies toward anyone who gets too close to him. That level of possessive jealousy combined with your ASPD is highly concerning. It's not sustainable, and it puts the other person at risk."
I shrugged lightly.
"He's safer with me than with anyone else. I would kill for him. Most people wouldn't even inconvenience themselves."
Dr. George set his pen down.
"That's exactly what worries me. You don't see the difference between protection and ownership. You don't feel empathy for how your actions might terrify or trap him. This isn't a relationship, it's control."
I looked at him with dead, calm eyes.
"I don't need empathy. I need him. And I have him. That's enough for me."
Dr. George was quiet for a long moment, studying me like I was a particularly complex puzzle he couldn't solve.
"You are one of the most high-functioning individuals with antisocial traits I've ever encountered," he said finally. "But even you have limits, Alexander. If this obsession escalates, if you act on the darker impulses you've hinted at in the past… there will be consequences. Legal. Professional and Personal."
I smiled, slow and empty.
"I'm aware. But consequences only matter if I care about them."
Dr. George sighed again and wrote something in his notes.
"We still have a lot of work to do."
I uncrossed my legs and stood up, checking my watch.
"Perhaps. But not today. I have a complicated case waiting for me."
As I reached the door, Dr. George spoke one last time.
"Try not to hurt him, Alexander. Even if you don't feel it… he will."
I paused, hand on the doorknob, and glanced back with a cold, amused smile.
"I won't hurt what belongs to me."
Then I left.