“I didn’t realize you had company,” she says, her voice more gentle than usual. “Our session isn’t for another twenty minutes. I thought I’d come get you and we could walk together today. But I’ll wait outside.”
“No need,” I say, my voice steady again. “We’re nearly done. Damien was about to checkmate me.”
The boy’s eyes light up. He looks back at the board, suddenly alert. “I was?”
“You were.” I nod toward his rook.
He studies it for a moment, then moves it with newfound confidence. “Check.”
“And now,” I say, tapping my chin with exaggerated consideration, “I’m completely out of moves.”
He grins, proud. “I win?”
I tip my king gently onto its side. “You win.”
She is still standing by the door, watching us. I can feel her observing, not just the game, but everything under it. The tone. The posture. The way I didn’t let myself win.
She glances at her watch, a gesture I’ve come to recognize. Our session time.
“I’ll walk you to the therapy room,” she says. “Your guard will meet us there.”
The boy looks between us, too perceptive for his age. “You have therapy with Uncle Yakov?”
“I do.” She keeps her voice neutral, but I catch the slight flush creeping up her neck. Does she remember our last session? The way she trembled when I touched her?
“Is he getting better?” Damien asks.
Her eyes find mine across the room. “That remains to be seen.”
“Your car’s waiting,” I interrupt, as he begins to gather the pieces. His hands are careful, precise—Ana’s touch. “We’ll continue next time.”
“Promise?”
The word cuts deeper than it should. But I nod. “Promise.”
He rises and gives me a quick, awkward hug that I don’t expect.
We walk in strange procession—Damien chattering about chess strategies, Mila silent beside him, me and a guard trailing behind, watching the way she holds herself. Stiffer than usual. Armored.
At the therapy room, Damien turns to me once more.
“Next time?”
“Next time,” I confirm.
He hugs me again—quick, fierce—then disappears down the hall.
Mila and I stand in the doorway of our designated cage. The air between us thickens. Without Damien as buffer, the last session crashes back.
“Shall we?” she asks, but her voice catches slightly.
She steps inside first. I follow, noting the changes immediately. Her chair is farther back now, away from where Iusually sit. The table between us has been shifted, angled into a barrier.
“Rearranging the furniture, Doctor?” I stay standing. “Afraid I’ll touch you again?”
She doesn’t respond.
“You missed your chance to observe the dangerous captive bonding with an impressionable child,” I add, letting the edge in my voice sharpen the air. “Shame. That would’ve made for compelling notes in your case study.”
