She’s armored. Prey that knows it’s being hunted.
But armor has weak points. The slight tremor in her hand as she sets down her briefcase. The way she won’t quite meet my eyes—not avoidance, but self-preservation. She’s still feeling our last session.
Good.
I remember the way her pulse jumped when I tucked that strand of hair behind her ear. How her breath hitched when my fingers brushed her shoulder. She tried to hide it, but her bodytold me everything—the slight lean into my touch before she caught herself, the flush that crept up her neck. She wanted me to touch her again. Still wants it, judging by how carefully she’s avoiding my reach.
I can smell something different on her today. Not just the perfume, but something sharper underneath. Fear? Anticipation?
Both, I decide.
My pulse kicks up a notch, an involuntary response I haven’t had to anyone in years. My body recognizes it before my mind catches up, muscles coiling with something that isn’t quite tension, isn’t quite anticipation.
It’s hunger.
“Good morning, Mr. Gagarin,” she says, voice cool. Cooler than last time.
Interesting.
I turn from the window slowly, taking my time. Letting her feel the weight of my attention.
“Dr. Agapova,” I reply. “You look particularly…fortified this morning.”
I catch her tell, the way her throat works when she swallows, the defensive angle of her shoulders. She’s trying so hard not to show weakness. It makes me want to circle closer, find the soft spots, sink my teeth in. She takes her seat without acknowledging the bait, notebook balanced, pen poised.
Professional. Unshaken. Almost.
“I thought we’d discuss your childhood today,” she says without missing a beat. “Your early dynamic with your father.”
I don’t sit.
We both know the choreography—she waits, I sit, the game begins. But instead, I remain standing. I watch the way tension threads through her shoulders.
It’s subtle. But it’s there.
“My childhood,” I repeat, drawing out the syllables. “Curious choice. I would’ve thought we’d dig into something fresher. Betrayal. Blood. Bullets. I still can’t sleep on my left side, you know.”
I tap lightly on my chest where Jaromir left his mark. A warning shot meant to disable, not kill.
She doesn’t respond to the provocation.
“Early experiences inform current patterns,” she says instead. “Your relationship with your father likely shaped how you interpret control, loyalty, and consequence.”
I circle behind her chair like in our last session, letting my fingers trail along the leather back.
I know how much it unsettles her.
Last time, when I touched her notebook, her knuckles went white. When I took her pen, her fingers trembled as they reached for it. Such small touches, but they lit her up like struck matches. I wonder what would happen if I touched her with intent.
I’m close enough that she must feel the heat of me, the disruption of air as I move. Her breathing changes; she’s tracking me without turning her head.
“My father raised me the only way the Bratva teaches,” I say, pausing directly behind her. My voice is deliberately low, forcing her to strain to hear. “Through order. Through fear. Through the knowledge that every misstep costs someone something.”
I lean down, my mouth near her ear. “What does this cost you, Doctor? These sessions with me?”
She looks up, calm and composed, but I catch it, the flicker in her pupils. The readjustment of breath.
“And what exactly are you, Mr. Gagarin?”
