I splash water on my face. Ice-cold. Useless. The heat is still there, clinging to my skin, curled low in my belly, refusing to leave.
I’m so wet I have to change my underwear. Third time today, and it’s not even noon. My body is in constant arousal, nipples hard, clit swollen and sensitive. Every movement is torture. Every thought of him makes it worse.
I try to sit down with my notebook, but my hands are shaking too badly to hold the pen. I drop it twice, cursing.
Dr. Reyes.
The thought hits like a physical blow. I should call her. Should confess that I’m spiraling, that every professional boundary I’ve spent years building is crumbling in real time. She would know what to do. She’d help me untangle this mess of want and ethics and dangerous fascination.
But what would I say? That I’m obsessing over a patient? That I masturbated to his texts? That I’m counting down hours until I can see him again?
The shame of it makes my chest tight. I reach for the phone, then pull my hand back.
Not yet. I can still handle this. I can still regain control.
This is what he’s reduced me to, a trembling mess who can’t even pretend to work because all I can think about is tomorrow. Our session. What might happen when we’re alone again.
Try to focus. Build a session plan.
But all I see is him. The way he moved, sweat slicked, scarred, impossibly alive. The way his gaze found and held me like heknewI was unable to walk away.
I open my laptop, fingers trembling slightly, and begin calling patients. One by one. Postpone the non-essentials. Shift what I can to virtual.
The boundary isn’t blurred anymore. It’s gone.
And what terrifies me most isn’t how fast I’m falling.
It’s that I want to know what’s waiting at the bottom.
13
TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT
YAKOV
Outside my door, my father’s clipped cadence is layered over Vasiliy Volkov’s steadier baritone, punctuated by the softer lilt of a woman’s voice. Galina, no doubt. The air hums with civility.
I adjust the sleeves of my navy sweater with measured control. Every inch of me composed. Unannounced family visits are rarely about family.
The door opens. My father enters first, his expression a masterclass in studied concern. Behind him, Vasiliy flanks Galina, who carries an infant nestled against her shoulder. Something cold settles in my gut. Not the baby, but what he represents. Another generation, born into a world built on power and threat, inheritance and blood.
“Yakov,” my father says. “You look well.”
“Better than the last time you saw me being wheeled in here,” I reply coolly. “What is this? Family hour in the rehabilitation ward? Do I get a sticker if I behave?”
Vasiliy’s jaw shifts. Galina places a calming hand on his arm. Always the balance in the storm, that one.
“We thought a visit might be welcome,” my father says, settling into the nearest armchair. “Too much solitude can be…corrosive.”
I don’t sit. Let them feel the imbalance. “And the baby? You brought him for what, emotional conditioning? Symbolic innocence? Or are we just pretending this is a social call?”
Galina’s gaze sharpens, then smooths. “Vasya was sleeping. We brought him because leaving him would’ve been more disruptive.” A pause. “Besides, sometimes it helps to remember what matters.”
“Children are good for that,” I murmur. “Innocence has a way of making guilt louder.”
But we’re circling the real reason. Always the preamble before the ask.
My father finally cuts to it. “There’s been movement. The Colombians are pressing beyond Volkov and Sokolov fronts. They’re hitting across the Bratva.”
