Her expression doesn’t shift.
I push harder.
“I think you study broken men to feel powerful. Or maybe just to forget the broken parts of yourself.”
And there it is.
Anger. Not loud. Not messy. But real.
And underneath it, something else. Not pain. Not exactly.
Recognition.
She recovers quickly. “And what doyoulook for, Yakov?” she asks, dropping the formalities. “Cracks to exploit? Or your own reflection?”
I move back to my chair, wanting to watch her face to face.
She’s not breaking. She’s bracing. But I can smell her arousal beneath the fear—sweet and sharp, like blood in the water. It makes me want to drag her down, show her what happens when you swim in dangerous depths.
This is getting good.
“We all seek reflections,” I say quietly. “Some of us just have more fractured pieces to choose from.”
I don’t look at her, but I feel her watching me. It’s like being touched, her gaze trailing over my shoulders, my hands. Is she wondering what those hands would feel like on her skin? I am. I’m imagining marking her, claiming her, making her forget every professional boundary she’s ever learned.
“You retreat into philosophy when the questions hit too close to home,” she says. Calm. Unflinching. “It’s another one of your tells.”
“And you lean on psychoanalysis like it’s armor,” I say, facing her. “Your control is just a more polished form of deflection.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“Like that dream you have,” I continue, watching her carefully. “The one at 3:17 a.m.”
She goes completely still. Not even breathing.
“The one where you’re drowning in your mother’s hospital room.” I keep my voice soft, almost gentle. “The monitors keep beeping, but you can’t breathe. You’re underwater, but somehow still in that chair beside her bed, watching her die again while you suffocate.”
The color drains from her face.
“Stop.” Her voice is in shambles. Just for a beat. But it’s enough.
I move closer, drawn by the crack in her armor. “But you can’t stop, can you? Every night, same time. Same dream. Same guilt.”
She’s trembling now, and I realize I’ve miscalculated. This isn’t just professional composure shattering; this is real pain. Raw. Unguarded.
Without thinking—and that’s the problem, I’mnotthinking anymore—I reach out, my fingers barely grazing her wrist. The movement surprises me as much as her. This wasn’t planned. This wasn’t strategic. This is pure, unfiltered need. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. My heart hammers against my ribs, too fast, too hard. I’m supposed to be breaking her down, but my hand trembles as it touches her skin.
Who’s really losing control here?
“I…” I start to say something, anything to regain the upper hand, but the words die. Because I’m touching her, and my mind has gone blank. All my careful strategies, my practiced manipulations—gone. There’s just her skin under mine and the terrifying realization that I’d do anything to keep touching it.
“Mila.” Just her name. Nothing more. “You’re drowning right now. That same look. Like you’re underwater, watching something terrible happen that you can’t prevent.”
She straightens, and for a moment, I think she’ll pack up and leave. But she doesn’t.
“It’s not your fault she died alone, Mila.”
Something breaks in her expression. Not tears. Something worse. Raw recognition.
