The word softens his entire face. A rare thing. Vulnerable.
“She made me want to be more than what I was shaped into. Not softer, just…forward facing. Less about blood and legacy. More about future.”
“Love as redemption,” I murmur, and can’t help the flicker of doubt in my tone.
“Not love alone,” he says, catching it. “Purpose. Something to protect. Something bigger than revenge.”
I say nothing. But the words settle in the space between us.
Later, he drives me home. I don’t argue when he insists on walking me to my door. With men like Nikolai, protection isn’t just instinct, it’s culture. Denying it feels more disruptive than accepting it.
“Will you be alright the next time you go to see him?” he asks as I turn my key. “I can send someone.”
“I’ll manage.” I give him a small smile. “But thank you.”
Once inside, I slide back into my routine. Shower. Comfortable clothes. Tea steeping on the counter. I sit on the sofa with my research—articles on trauma loops and post-sociopathic adaptation strategies—but my mind doesn’t stay on the page.
It drifts.
Back to the therapy room. To Yakov, with his surgical silences and eyes that dissect. To Pablo, whose charm is too calculated and whose words feel more rehearsed than revealing. One speaks in riddles. The other in threats disguised as flirtation.
Both of them wearing masks. Different materials. Same effect.
I pull my knees to my chest, but the movement makes my blouse shift, and I catch Yakov’s scent again, faint but unmistakable. How is he still on my clothes? In my hair? I should shower again. Should wash him off.
I don’t move.
My phone vibrates against the table.
Unknown:Beautiful dreams, Dr. Agapova. Thank you for your time today.
No name.No signature. I never gave Pablo my personal number. But then again, I never gave it to?—
My pulse races. The formal phrasing could be Yakov’s precise voice. Or Pablo’s attempt at charm. Both had sessions today. Both pushed boundaries. Both want something from me I shouldn’t give.
Outside the window, headlights flare across the glass, brief and deliberate, before the car slips away into the night.
I clutch the phone, unable to tell if the shiver running through me is fear or something far more dangerous.
Two predators. Two very different hunts.
And I’m caught between them with no idea which one is circling closer.
5
FRACTURE POINT
YAKOV
Iknow she’s coming before the door opens.
Already, my body recognizes the shift in air pressure, the rhythm of her footsteps, the subtle pause just before the latch clicks open. Eleven o’clock. On the dot. Not a second early, not a second late.
Precision is her ritual.
It’s becoming mine, too.
She enters, sharp and polished. Black suit today, structured, severe. No jewelry except for the glint of a watch that never strays from her wrist. Hair wound tight. Not a strand out of place.
