Depraved Devotion

Book 1: Villains & Vices

by Morgan Bridges

Genres: Billionaires Romance; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Romantic Comedy; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

The Joker meets Pen Pal in this dark, forbidden romance where a criminal psychologist enters a game of cat and mouse with her serial killer patient.

My patient is stalking me… and he’s a psychopath.

I’ve dedicated my life to understanding the darkest corners of the human psyche, but nothing prepares me for him. Ghost. The man is a brilliant, ruthless serial killer who thrives on chaos. Just like his cult following enrapt by his brutality and beauty, he’s completely unhinged. And he’s obsessed with me.

So when Ghost turns himself in and demands to speak to me, I’m forced to confront the beautiful monster sitting across the glass. And the one inside—the one lurking in my own fractured soul. Ghost's rapt attention brings goosebumps to my skin and sends chills down my spine. I choose to believe my reaction is based in fear. When I'm alone in bed, it's harder to convince myself.

As boundaries fade and the line between doctor and patient blurs, Ghost proves to know more about me than possible. Soon, I’m faced with a question: What am I willing to pay to unveil the truth about my haunted past? Because to Ghost, the price is me. All of me.

DEPRAVED DEVOTION is Book 1 in the Villains & Vices duet. It contains explicit sexual content and a morally gray hero that's OTT/JP, a stalker who falls first, has Touch Her & Die energy, and is willing to do whatever it takes to have her. A complete list of the TWs can be found below.

stalking/obsession, blackmail/coercion, breaking and entering, violence, murder, dubious consent, off-the-page rape set in the past, parental grief
 

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

Ghost is corporeal, a man of flesh and blood.

He’s not the ethereal being the media has made him out to be. Or the elusive poltergeist the police think he is. As a criminal psychologist, I’d say that Ghost is barely human… if you consider the number of people he’s admitted to killing.

I make my way toward the courthouse steps that are packed full with people. My skin crawls at the idea of unwanted contact with strangers, each touch brought on by pushing and shoving. But it’s unavoidable if I want to witness this high-profile arraignment.

News reporters, with their cameramen right behind them, wield microphones like batons, nearly assaulting anyone who gets too close. Protesters carry their signs like badges of honor, hoisting the homemade signs into the air, their chanting loud and continuous. Some advocate for the death penalty, despite this being New York City. The other half pleads for mercy on behalf of Ghost, saying his crimes were justified.

Without a psychological profile on him, no one can know for sure.

I tuck my chin and ball my fists, prepared to do a little pushing and shoving of my own, if necessary. I’m almost at the top of the courthouse steps when someone slams into me from behind. My feet trip over themselves as I stumble. Before I can recover, I collide with a stranger.

A tall man with dark hair and medium build swings around to face me, his features twisted in a sneer. “You better watch where you’re going, bitch!”

I step back to gain some distance, but I’m still surrounded by people on all sides. And close enough to make out the scratches on his wrist. They’re not from a cat.

“I apologize,” I say calmly. “Someone pushed me, and I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

“Save your story for someone who gives a shit.”

“Fine.” When he doesn’t give me any indication that he’s going to move, I clear my throat. “You’re in my way.”

The man glares at me. I glare back.

He leans forward, towering over me. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

I square my shoulders and lift my chin, unwilling to back down. I’m getting in that courtroom, come hell or high water. Seeing Ghost in person is an opportunity I won’t miss out on because of some asshole with a complex.

I keep my gaze locked on the man in front of me, scanning his features for microexpressions and to analyze his body language for nonverbal cues. He crosses his arms, turning his torso away from me, indicating he’s uncomfortable with my challenging him. Due to the curl of his upper lip, along with his use of the word “bitch,” my intuition says he hates women. It’s highly doubtful the deep scratches on his wrists were inflicted by a man he recently attacked.

His position on the stair above me gives him a feeling of superiority, so I even the playing field and get on his level, continuing to hold his stare. His brows lift in surprise.

“You may like to hurt women to gain a sense of control,” I say, “but you only do it behind closed doors because you’re a coward. So, either man up and hit me, or get the fuck out of my way.”

My words have the intended effect. His mouth falls open and he blinks at me. Using his stupefied condition, I slip past him. The crowd of people closes around me, shielding me from his view. I don’t stop until I’m in line for the security check.

I take a deep breath and release it slowly, trying to rid myself of the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Even though I was pretty sure the man outside wouldn’t have hit me, there’s never complete certainty when dealing with human beings. Like animals, their behavior can be unpredictable when they’re in pain or mentally unstable.

The security guard waves a hand at me. “Ma’am, step forward.”

I walk through the metal detectors, earn a nod from the officer, and retrieve my purse just as my cell phone begins to ring. While making my way down the hallway and navigating through a crowd—that’s not as hectic as the one outside, but still too many people for my liking—I look at the screen.

Shit. It’s Mason.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Gen. I’m surprised you answered the phone. You haven’t lately.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose hard enough to hurt, and to keep my thoughts about his “charm” to myself. “I’ve been busy. What’s up?”

“I was hoping I could come over to your place tonight… It’s been a while.”

“Mason, you don’t need to be coy about wanting sex.”

He laughs, the sound airy and fake. Like our relationship. I only agreed to the term “girlfriend” to discourage the guys at the office from hitting on me. I’m more turned on by my work than by men. That’s either really pathetic… or serves to exemplify the quality of males I’ve encountered.

“I’d love to take you to that new restaurant on Fifth Street,” Mason says. “We can order a bottle of wine and spend some time together.”

It wouldn’t matter if he wined and dined me every night; our interactions are purely transactional. I let him have sex with me and he brings me sexual relief. Sometimes. If I don’t come, neither does he.

“I’m busy tonight,” I say.

“Let me guess: You have another serial killer to profile in order to save lives and whatever?”

“Yes. You know I love my job.”

He huffs on the phone. I press my lips together as my annoyance grows. First, he insults my career. Then, he acts as though I’ve inconvenienced him. There’s no way I’m having sex with him now.

“Fine, Gen. Why don’t you call me when you’re ready to have sex or dinner or both.”

“Okay.”

I pull the phone away from my ear just as he says my name. With a shake of my head, I end the call. I don’t have time for Mason’s childish behavior. Not when there’s a real man to study.

A murderer, to be exact.

Today is the first time the public will lay eyes on Ghost in person. The only glimpse anyone has had of him is the single mugshot that’s been plastered across every news outlet.

His hair is pure white, making it hard to pinpoint his age, but his features place him somewhere in his thirties. His hazel-green eyes are bright with intelligence and his expression is confident. The way he looks at the camera in the picture displays a smirk filled with mockery, as if he’s amused by the whole ordeal.

Even from a still image, Ghost exudes charisma, a raw magnetism that unnerves me. Then there’s the scar on his right cheek, starting at the corner of his eye and slashing down to the edge of his mouth. It does nothing to detract from his physical appearance. If anything, it adds to his appeal. The mark speaks of violence but also survival.

What has he gone through?

He’s refused every interview, denied every request to tell his story or explain his misdeeds.

People all across the country have heard about Ghost and started to romanticize him. They write letters to him, send him gifts, and post on social media about how they’d do anything to be with him. It’s off-putting to me as a woman, but fascinating from a psychological standpoint to witness a whole contingent, made up mostly of women, viewing him as a tragic misunderstood figure, as opposed to the cold-blooded killer he really is.

Hybristophilia: the attraction to someone who’s committed a heinous crime.

It’s a twisted form of admiration that’s borne from a desperate need to connect with someone powerful. Even if that power comes from violence. These people believe they see something in Ghost that no one else does, and that they can “fix” him.

Idiots.

Deep down, I understand Ghost’s appeal. My education gives me the ability to diagnose behavior, label it, and distance myself from it. But as a woman, it’s hard not to acknowledge reality. And the fact is that Ghost is ridiculously attractive.

I sigh with relief when I’m finally allowed entrance into the courtroom. Of its own accord, my gaze scans the room for Ghost and I find the defendant’s table empty. I imagine him sitting there soon and anticipation swells in my chest. It’s hard to manage my intrigue when Ghost is arguably the most interesting man alive.

Good looks aside, he’s captured the public’s attention in a way few criminals do.

He turned himself in.

Ghost has refused to explain why, after years of killing, he decided to accept punishment for his gruesome crimes. He’s rumored to be remarkably intelligent, so why would he risk a death sentence?

The sound of my heels clicking against the polished marble is swallowed by the murmurs of those already present. I choose the first available aisle seat closest to the front, sliding onto the wooden bench and double checking that my cell phone is on silent. Once that’s done, I retrieve my pen and notepad, placing them on my lap before rearranging my pencil skirt and straightening my sleeves. Then I wait.

More people file in, each one quickly grabbing their seats. A man with dark hair in a crisp beige suit takes the spot next to me. He gives me a curt nod that I return, my expression cool but polite.

A hush falls over the crowd as the bailiff stands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as we prepare to commence with today’s proceedings, please remember to turn off all electronic devices. There will be no talking or disruptions during the hearing. Anyone who fails to adhere to these rules will immediately be escorted from the courtroom.”

The man beside me mutters a profanity in Italian and retrieves his cell phone from his pocket. I keep him in my peripheral vision, watching as he changes the volume on his phone. Once he puts it away, I relax a little and go back to scanning the room.

Anxious murmurs and quiet conversation circulate between the occupants, creating a buzzing sound that weaves through the room. The noise, the scent of polished wood, and the sunlight beaming through the clerestory windows tickle my senses, dredging up memories.

The last time I was in this building, it was one of the best and worst days in my life.

“All rise for the honorable Judge Pritchett,” the bailiff says.

As a collective, everyone gets to their feet, eyes facing forward. The judge walks in, his full, black robes swishing with his measured steps. The man’s forehead is creased and his mouth thin, as if he’s already feeling the weight of the hearing.

The judge’s voice rings out once he’s settled in his chair with his gavel nearby. “Please be seated.”

I sit, anticipation thrumming along my arms until goosebumps appear on my flesh. Any minute now…

Everyone freezes the moment the side door opens and the sound of chains clinking together echoes in the room.

Ghost has arrived.

I stop breathing as Ghost walks in.

He towers over the five guards surrounding him. His large hands are cuffed in front of him, the metal gleaming under the lights with every step he takes. Despite the extra security—overkill or not enough?—and restraints, Ghost moves with a deadly grace and an air of confidence that belies his situation.

He’s devastating in person.

My lungs scream in protest, and I inhale deep as I run my gaze over his features. Features that no picture or camera lens could ever do justice.

His hair isn’t just white; it’s pure and blinding like the first snow of winter in Central Park. The man’s face is gorgeous: the kind only found in romance novels and movies. His orange jumpsuit doesn’t detract from his attractiveness whatsoever. Not when the black ink on his neck offers a sneak peek of the tattoos hidden underneath his clothing. His smirk—half-seductive, half-sinister—has me shifting in my seat.

Then there’s his eyes…

Cold and calculating, but there’s something else, too, something that’s not quite right.

Intensity?

Insanity?

Inhumanity?

As I continue to study Ghost, his gaze slides across the room. And lands on me.

I stiffen, an involuntary reaction to the weight of his stare. Ghost stops walking, holding my gaze as a knowing smile graces his lips. If it wasn’t for the way my skin heats, I’d believe I’m imagining the entire thing.

One of the deputies shoves Ghost, breaking our connection. I frown at the show of violence. Ghost needs to be held accountable for his actions but treating him like that isn’t something I condone.

“Keep moving,” the deputy says.

Ghost straightens to his full height of well over six feet, and cranes his neck back and forth before slowly turning around to look at the deputy over his shoulder. “If you do that again, I’ll kill you.”

The menace in his tone doesn’t override the sensuality of his deep voice. A woman in the row in front of me hums appreciatively, and I have the urge to smack her upside the head. Yes, he could probably make someone come from murmuring sweet nothings in their ear, but he literally just threatened to murder a man in broad daylight with over fifty witnesses.

Ghost is not only deranged but delusional.

The deputy freezes before his brows snap together. “Shut up and start walking.”

When he shoves Ghost a second time, I hold my breath again. The convict merely smirks.

“Deputy Wilson, I hope you have a notarized will in place.”

Before the man can respond to the threat, Ghost faces forward and saunters away as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. The security maintains their positions, keeping the criminal between them, until they reach the table.

Ghost plops down unceremoniously in the chair and lifts his hands. “Let’s do this.”

The deputies are quick to secure his handcuffs to a chain on the table. One of them breathes a sigh of relief once Ghost is fully restrained. I find myself doing the same. There’s no doubt in my mind that Ghost would add to his list of crimes if given the chance.

“You are here today for your arraignment,” the judge says to Ghost. “The charges against you will be read. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Honorship.”

The judge doesn’t react to the sarcasm, except for tilting his head away from Ghost. The microexpression of annoyance doesn’t escape my notice. After Judge Pritchett gestures to the clerk, the man comes forward, document in hand.

“The court will now hear the case of the State of New York versus John Doe, case number 2025-CR-00567. The charges are twelve counts of first-degree murder—”

“Soon to be thirteen counts,” Ghost says loudly, grinning at Deputy Wilson. “Thirteen is my lucky number.”

Like a puff of smoke, gasps and whispers fill the room, permeating the space with shock and excitement. Judge Pritchett slams his gavel and silence reigns once more.

“Order in court.” The judge shifts his attention to Ghost, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. “You are to remain silent and listen as the charges are read. I will not tolerate interruptions.”

The court clerk clears his throat and continues. “The charges are multiple counts of first-degree murder, multiple counts of aggravated assault, arson, use of a deadly weapon, theft, and one count of…”

The clerk frowns in confusion as he stares at the paper in his hand. “One count of bird-napping.”

Ghost shrugs. “I had to save my cock from being caged.”

My lips fall apart before twitching at his absurdity while people all around me snicker. The judge glowers at the crowd. “Order.”

The convict places his boots on the table, reclining in his chair, an air of satisfaction enveloping him. I purse my lips when the deputies fail to instruct Ghost to place his feet on the floor, but a quick scan of their features offers mild relief. I suppose a relaxed serial killer in a non-threatening position isn’t worth provoking. At least not this one.

In a rush the clerk finishes, “Presiding over this case is Honorable Judge Pritchett.”

“Now that you’ve heard the charges against you, it’s my duty to ensure that you understand your rights throughout these proceedings,” the judge says to Ghost. “You have the right to an attorney, which you refused. Is that correct?”

Ghost shrugs. “Why would I hire someone dumber than me? Good help is so hard to find nowadays.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Doe.”

“I thought I did. I intend to represent myself.” His grin returns. “Your Honorship.”

The judge blows out a breath. “Given the results of your competency evaluation, I will allow it. Counselor?”

The prosecutor stands. He smooths out his blue tie and lifts his chin, eyes narrowed on Ghost before shifting his gaze to the judge. “Given the severity of the charges and the potential danger to the public, we request that the defendant be held without bail. The nature of the crimes indicates a high flight risk and further risk to the citizens of New York.”

Judge Pritchett nods at Ghost. “Do you wish to respond to the prosecution’s request for detention without bail?”

Ghost chuckles, his ever-present smirk still in place. “I have no intention to flee. I turned myself in, remember?”

The courtroom buzzes with suppressed laughter once again. Even I can’t stop the smile that forms on my lips. Although I’m quick to erase it from my face and focus my attention on taking notes.

“I’ll take your voluntary surrender into account, but you will be held in custody until your trial. With that being said, you have a right to a jury trial…”

The judge lists each and every one of Ghost’s legal rights, his voice steady and resonant. Every so often he sweeps his gaze over the courtroom, but Ghost doesn’t move. He stays reclined in his chair, nodding here and there as though aptly paying attention to the judge.

“It’s crucial, Mr. Doe, that you fully understand these rights, given the severity of the charges you face. What is your plea?”

Every pair of eyes shoot to Ghost as he tilts his head, causing his pale disheveled hair to graze his shoulder. “Guilty, your Honorship.”

The simplicity of the word “guilty” discredits the complexity of its implications. Which isn’t lost on anyone present. As a collective, we stare at this enigmatic man. What reason, other than to plead guilty, would he have to turn himself in? Yet it’s still a shock to hear him accept the charges and the loss of freedom that comes with it.

Judge Pritchett nods, his expression grave. “Mr. Doe, do you understand that by entering this plea, you waive your rights to a trial and to challenge the evidence against you?”

“I don’t want a trial.” Ghost shifts in his seat, removing one leg from the table. “That’d be a waste of my time. As far as evidence against me? I’ve provided everything you need. But if that’s not enough, then—”

With a swift movement that’s no more than a blur, Ghost swings his leg to slam his foot against Deputy Wilson’s shin. The guard stumbles before slamming onto the tabletop, his upper body draped across the surface. As the deputies retrieve their firearms, Ghost slings his other leg over Wilson’s neck, locking his ankles together.

The four deputies cock their weapons and aim them directly at Ghost’s head, their stances rigid and their gazes wary but determined. I brace myself for the blast of gunfire, but it doesn’t come. Not when there are innocent bystanders in the line of fire, located directly behind Ghost.

“Let him go!” one of the deputies shouts.

Wilson gasps and claws at Ghost’s legs, unsuccessful in prying them away. The deputy to the left of Ghost, whose name badge reads “Tanner,” presses the end of his pistol to Ghost’s temple. “I said, let him go.” This time the order is given without hesitation.

No one underestimates Ghost and his threats now.

He simply laughs in response. It’s a bone-chilling, blood-curdling sound that frightens me more than the violence I’m witnessing. The noise echoes off the walls, the sinister notes filling the atmosphere like a poisonous gas.

This is a man who has nothing to lose… or he’s already lost everything.

I sit there, eyes wide, my insides shriveling in horror. Wilson still tugs and scratches at the criminal’s legs, his movements growing more frantic with each second that passes as he continues to struggle for air.

Ghost tightens his hold on his captive and turns to press his forehead against the muzzle of the gun, staring up at the deputy. From the set of his jaw and his focused gaze, Ghost isn’t merely demonstrating dominance.

He’s making a statement.

Ghost lifts his hands as much as the handcuffs allow, rattling the chain-links. “Look, ma, no hands.”

He jerks in his seat and a sickening crack follows.

After that is silence, heavy with a chilling reality. Wilson’s body goes limp on the table, his hands falling away from Ghost’s legs.

The deputies freeze, their fingers tight on the triggers but none daring to make a move that could turn this standoff into a bloodbath. Ghost flicks his gaze around the room, taking in the faces of his audience, his expression unreadable. Except for that damn smirk on his lips. Then, very slowly, he unravels his legs and allows Wilson’s now lifeless body to slide off the table onto the floor with a dull thud.

The sound of the body hitting the floor reverberates through the room, and then chaos erupts. Half of the crowd screams hysterically, people already clamoring to leave. I grip my notebook tighter to stop my hands from shaking.

Tanner yells an order to seize Ghost, and the men rush forward all at once. But Ghost is already surrendering. The sinister echo of his deranged laugh fills the air, a haunting reminder of the darkness that resides in the human psyche.

I was wrong about my earlier conclusion. This was not just an act of defiance. It was a message that Ghost cannot and will not be controlled.

“What’s a man got to do to go to prison already?”I ask.

“Shut up, Doe.”

“Just ignore him.”

I grin at the guards flanking me as I sit on the medical exam table, one man then the other. Deputies Johnson and Garcia. From the way their gazes dart to and fro, they’re more alert than the guys in the courtroom. Or they were told about Wilson’s death, and that’s why I have shackles on my ankles and they’re watching me like I’m a bomb ready to explode.

Boom, motherfuckers.

“This med ward is boring,” I say. “Blood pressure, blood sample, etcetera… etcetera… You’d think I’d be thrown in a cell by now. Killing with style is mentally exhausting, you know? I really need some ‘me time.’”

Deputy Johnson stiffens beside me, but his gaze loses none of its focus. Deputy Garcia turns to look at me with a veil of hatred covering his features, and my smile widens. I swing my legs and wiggle on the parchment like a toddler, rattling the chains and wrinkling the paper underneath me.

“Doe, . . .