“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, and his voice is low, grounded. No manipulation. Just truth.
I nod, swallowing against the tightness that creeps into my throat. “Thank you.”
Thunder cracks overhead, sharp and sudden. I flinch before I can stop myself. The lights flicker once, then hold.
“Storm’s close now,” Yakov says, eyes still on me.
“It’s been building for a while,” I say, and we both know we’re not just talking about the weather anymore.
His gaze holds mine. Steady. Intense. “Storms are strange things. They destroy. They reveal. They change everything in their path.”
“They also pass,” I say quietly. “They clear the air. Strip things back to what’s real.”
A flicker of something—maybe humor, maybe understanding—tugs at the edge of his mouth. “That’s an optimist’s answer.”
“No,” I correct gently. “That’s a realist’s. Storms pass. It’s what we do in them that matters.”
He leans forward just slightly, like the gravity between us has shifted again. “And what do we do in this one, Mila?”
His voice wraps around my name like it belongs to him. Like we’ve crossed a line neither of us wants to acknowledge yet.
I take a slow breath. “We hold the line.”
The rain keeps falling. The wind keeps pounding at the windows. But inside this room, the air feels electric. And I can’t tell if it’s about to break, or if we already have.
His gaze flicks to my mouth before returning to my eyes. Steady. Intentional. “And what choices are you making, Dr. Agapova?”
My heart slams against my ribs. My palms go slick with sweat. I have to press my thighs together to ease the sudden, vicious throb of need. “Smart ones,” I say, and the words taste like fiction even as I say them.
He doesn’t push. Just lets a quiet smile settle across his face, measured and knowing. “Naturally. Always the therapist.”
The lights flicker again, long enough to cast the room in shadow. The thunder rolls a little closer. When the power comes back, he’s moved.
He’s closer now. Not overtly, not threatening. Just…nearer. His posture hasn’t changed. Still poised. Still controlled. The space between us contracts, tense with everything unspoken.
“You should fear me,” he says softly. Too softly. “And yet you don’t. You look at me like…”
He trails off. A beat of silence. Then:
“Like you see someone worth saving.”
I don’t know what hurts more, that he sounds surprised or that he might be right.
“I see you,” I say quietly. Because it’s the only truth I have left. “Not just the monster you’ve made them believe in. Not just the man who’s done terrible things. I seeyou.”
For a second, neither of us breathes.
And then he moves.
Not toward me. Around me. Behind my chair before I can react.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, mouth near my ear. “Cold from the rain? Or something else?”
His hands come to rest on the back of my chair, caging me without touching. I feel the heat of him, smell that intoxicating mix of cedar and danger.
“This is what you do to me.” His control is fracturing, voice raw. “Every session. Every minute. You sit there in your tailored clothes, asking your questions, and all I can think about is?—”
“Don’t.” But the word comes out as a plea, not a command.
