Mila:Don’t
One word.But I know what she means. Don’t text. Don’t push. Don’t make this harder.
I type back:
Me:Too late
Monday.Three days. Seventy-two hours of her fighting this pull.
She’ll lose. We both will.
And I can’t fucking wait.
10
COUNTERTRANSFERENCE
MILA
My hands are tight on the steering wheel as I navigate the winding road toward the mansion. Knuckles pale, thoughts circling back to Igor’s warning like a low-pressure system that won’t break. Pablo Montoya isn’t just a boundary-crossing patient with a flair for discomfort, he’s blood to one of the most volatile cartel players on our radar. A threat. A message. A door I never should’ve opened.
And Yakov knows it. I saw it in his eyes during our last session, that flash of violence when I mentioned Pablo’s messages. The way his hands clenched like he was imagining them around someone’s throat.
I’ve already taken the necessary steps—canceled the sessions, changed my number, alerted Nikolai. But no amount of damage control will steady the internal shift I can’t quite name. The part of me that still feels watched.
The security gate swings open before I reach the intercom. No questions asked. I pull into my usual space, rain pounding the roof of the car. No umbrella detail today. I make a dash for the entrance, soaked through in seconds, water trailing behind me on the marble floors.
Inside, I shake out my coat, adjusting the collar of my blouse where it’s clinging to my skin. One of the guards nods toward the therapy room. “He’s already inside.”
Of course he is. Always early. Always positioned. Always watching.
When I enter, Yakov is at the window—his usual vantage—but today he turns as soon as the door clicks shut. He scans me. Not with cruelty or critique. Just observation, precise and unapologetic. His gaze lingers where my blouse clings to my skin, transparent from the rain. I see his jaw tighten and his hands flex at his sides.
“You’re soaked,” he says, voice rougher than usual.
“No umbrella service today.” I try for lightness, but my voice comes out breathless. Because he’s looking at me like he wants to peel the wet fabric off with his teeth.
My nipples tighten visibly beneath the wet silk. I cross my arms, but it’s too late, he’s seen. His nostrils flare, and I watch his hands clench into fists again.
My wet hair. My damp sleeves. The tension I thought I’d hidden.
“The storm’s intensifying,” he says. “They’re expecting grid failures across the eastern corridor.”
“Let’s hope the power holds.” I slip out of my coat and hang it on the door. “You’ve been watching the forecasts?”
“A minor privilege,” he says. “Someone in the chain of command has decided I deserve access to internet.”
He’s dressed in a deep red sweater today. Softer. Less armor, more humanity. The effect is…unsettling.
“That color suits you,” I say before I can stop myself.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Careful, Doctor. That sounded dangerously close to personal.”
“Objective observation,” I say, regaining ground. “Clinical, of course.”
His mouth curves, barely. “Naturally.”
There’s something different about him today. Warmer. Unsettlingly so. The room feels it too—drawn toward him, slightly off-kilter.
