For a beat, the therapy room disappears, and it’s just us. Me, across from the man I was told not to trust. Him, looking at me like he already knows what I’m going to say next.
“Is he dangerous?” I ask, quiet but clear.
Yakov’s expression sharpens.
“Do you want the truth, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
He studies me. A flicker moves across his face, the ghost of emotion flaring across features usually carved from stone. I might’ve imagined it. But I don’t think I did.
“If he’s who I suspect,” Yakov says, voice low and measured, “then yes. He’s dangerous. Not like Volkov or Sokolov—those men are disciplined. Predictable. Bound by rules, even whenthey break them. This one? He plays by different rules. Or none at all.”
“You know him?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
“I know men like him.” His eyes have gone darker now, colder. “The kind who look at what belongs to someone else and think they can take it.” His hands grip the back of my chair, knuckles white. “He’s been watching you. Following you. Thinking about you.” Each word comes out sharper, more violent. “He treats boundaries like suggestions.”
He stands, circles my chair the way he did in our first session. But this time it feels different. Protective rather than predatory.
“The way he looks at you,” Yakov continues, voice dropping, “like you’re already his. I’ve seen that look. Hell, I’ve worn that look.” He stops behind me, close enough that I feel his heat. “The difference is, I wait for permission.”
“Do you?” I breathe.
His fingers ghost over my shoulder. The almost-touch is worse than contact would be. My nipples tighten, visible through my blouse, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. He’s noticed. Of course he has.
“I’m waiting now, aren’t I?”
I shiver despite the room’s stable temperature.
“What would you do,” I ask, “if you were me?”
A smile ghosts his lips, humorless and quiet. “I would’ve neutralized the threat the moment he crossed the line. But I imagine you’re after something less…permanent.”
My mouth curves despite myself. “A slightly less criminal solution, yes.”
“Then change your number. Stop using predictable routes home. And carry something sharp. Pepper spray at minimum.” His gaze sharpens. “And don’t ever be alone with him again. Not even once.”
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—low, firm, not asking for agreement, just expecting that I’ll listen.
And I do.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He looks at me like the words don’t compute. “For basic advice?”
“For not pretending it’s not real,” I clarify. “Most people would tell me I’m being paranoid. That it’s nothing.”
“Most people don’t know what a predator looks like,” he replies. “I do.”
And somehow, that doesn’t scare me.
It should.
He returns to his chair, but the space between us crackles. We continue the session. When he talks about Anastasiya, his voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my thighs clench. I’ve stopped taking notes; my hands shake too much to write. Instead, I watch his mouth form words and remember how close it was to mine days ago.
When the hour ends, Igor is waiting outside the door, a shadow with a pulse. He clocks my expression before I’ve even said a word.
“Remember what I told you,” he says under his breath as we walk. “Men like Gagarin don’t change. They adapt.”
