She looks at the camera again, then back at me. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Since the first time you walked into this room.”
She looks up at me, eyes dark with want and uncertainty. “This is insane.”
“Probably.” I lower my head, my lips brushing hers in a feather-light touch. “Do it anyway.”
I sweep my tongue along the seam of her lips until she parts them and allows me entry. The kiss quickly turns desperate, hungry, like she’s been starving for days, and I’m sustenance. I back her against the wall, hands framing her face, and she goes willingly. The soft sound she makes when I deepen the kiss nearly undoes me.
My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her closer, and she melts against me. Every rational thought disappears except this—her warmth, her taste, the way she fits perfectly in my arms.
But then reality crashes back.
“No.” She pushes at my chest, breathing hard. “We can’t. I can’t.”
I don’t let go immediately. The feel of her in my arms is the first thing that’s felt real in years.
“Mila—”
“This is exactly why I can’t be your therapist.” She’s gathering herself, but I can see the cracks in her composure. “This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.”
“Don’t.”
But she’s already moving toward the door, her professional mask sliding back into place even though her hands are trembling.
“Dr. Agapova,” I try, falling back on formality.
She pauses at the door but doesn’t turn around. “This session is over.”
“Is it? Or are we just getting started?”
I see her shoulders tense and the way she grips the door handle like an anchor.
“This can’t happen again,” she says quietly as she opens the door and walks away, leaving me alone, her taste on my lips and the knowledge that she wants me as desperately as I want her.
That thought stays long after she’s gone, threading through my mind with unwanted clarity. I’ve known my purpose for years. Revenge was simple. Clean. Sharp.
Now I want things I shouldn’t. A quiet voice in the dark. A hand that reaches without trembling. A woman who sees the monster—and doesn’t flinch.
That kind of want is a threat I never prepared for.
14
PERIMETER BREACH
MILA
I’m three minutes late, and I know he’s noticed. After what happened in our last session—the way he kissed me, the way I let him—timing feels loaded with meaning I don’t want to examine.
I’ve spent the past day trying to convince myself it was an aberration. A moment of weakness I won’t repeat. But my hands shake as I turn the door handle, and the red lipstick I swore I wouldn’t wear again is back on.
I step into the therapy room, trying to wear professionalism like armor that actually fits. But Yakov’s already there, and the moment our eyes meet, I know my armor is paper-thin.
He turns at the sound of the door. No smirk. No heat. Just that unnerving stillness that always feels like the moment before something breaks.
“You’re late,” he says. His voice is different. Not the cold control I’ve grown used to, but warmer. More intimate. Like we share a secret.
Which we do.
