Chapter 9
9
T he babysitter is definitely not here to be my friend. Not that I want one right now, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy someone watching my every move. Her presence is inescapable as I pick at my lunch alone, because sharing a meal with me isn’t part of the job.
Her rule. Not mine.
When does she even eat? In the dead of night? While I’m in the tub? Except…she followed me into the bathroom once already, much to my dismay.
I don’t have time to dwell on her schedule, though. Oliver returns as I’m setting down my fork, signaling it’s time to send me off to the shrink.
The ride to the main floor is quick, punctuated by Astrid’s nonverbal form of communication. I’m on autopilot as I navigate the halls, the babysitter keeping pace behind me.
But as we pass a familiar door I haven’t dared approach in weeks, my steps almost falter.
Sebastian’s studio.
A jagged pang rips through my chest. I don’t stop, but that closed door hovers in my periphery, dragging me back to a time I’d give anything to go back to.
The day he had me sprawled in a chair, shy and innocent, yet somehow wearing my nudity like power beneath the heat of his ocean eyes. I’d savored the way he brought me to life on his canvas. God, how he painted me.
Not like a girl, but a woman.
A woman with undeniable sensuality.
A woman he wanted.
Sebastian saw me, his brushstrokes a possessive caress, discovering every curve through his art. Those hours weren’t forbidden or stolen, but they were ours.
Now the shadows of what could have been haunt me down the hall. My pulse wavers, throttled by regret, and I don’t fight the fog waiting to swallow me whole.
It’s the only way to survive.
I reach Dr. Price’s office and find it oddly empty. Untethered without instruction, I hesitate before sinking onto a plush velvet settee as Astrid melts into the background. Still, the weight of her surveillance remains, blending with thought, time, and the cushion beneath my thighs. Unsure of what else to do, I press a thumb into my damp palm and give myself over to a mindless rhythm that erases the world.
“Miss Van Buren?”
A deep baritone cuts through the haze, snapping me back to awareness, and I register a man sitting across from me, hands folded in his lap. His eyes are an unusual shade of grey, almost colorless in the soft light of the room. Vaguely, I remember seeing him last night at dinner.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You were looking right at me.”
I muster a lift of my shoulder.
“It’s unfortunate we’re having our first proper meeting under these circumstances.” He rests an elbow on the armrest, his square jaw framed by a well-manicured hand. The crisp navy of his suit is free of imperfections, each stitch a tailored work of art. “I’m Dr. Price.”
Another shrug.
“I’m here to help you, Novalee.”
“Are we dropping the formalities already?”
His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
“Sixty seconds ago, you addressed me by my surname.”
“Is it important that I use your surname?”
“No, just an observation.”
Several beats pass.
I stare at him. He stares back.
“Are we going to sit in silence to pass the time?” he asks, leaning forward. “Or will you indulge me in a conversation?”
My lips press together.
“I don’t mind. Silence can be as telling as words.” His lips curve into something resembling a smile. “I’ve cleared my schedule for the night.”
The insinuation threatens to yank me into surrender. Oliver, Liam, the doctor—they hold all the power. If I don’t cooperate, I’ll be stuck here indefinitely. Still, I can’t bring myself to take the bait.
Dr. Price exhales through his nose, an enduring sort of amusement in his gaze. “Or we can play the silent game.” He dusts an imaginary speck from his knee. “You might win, for a while.”
With a sigh, I take in the room, from the cozy fireplace in the corner to the mullion windows facing the grounds. Astrid is gone, so I’m guessing she left upon his arrival.
I turn back to Dr. Price. “Is this session confidential?”
“Outside of the Brotherhood? Of course.”
A humorless laugh bursts free. “Of course.”
“You don’t trust the men in this tower. That much is obvious.”
“Perceptive,” I mutter.
“And yet, I imagine you’re perceptive as well.” Unfazed, he shifts toward the edge of his seat, fingers raking through his thick blond hair, trimmed short at the sides. “Tell me, Novalee, what do you think I’m here to talk about?”
The question sinks into the quiet, an invitation and a trap all at once. I hold my tongue, stubbornness and self-preservation fighting to win.
“I’ll make it easy for you,” he continues, his gratingly smooth voice pushing through the stillness. “Why don’t we start with last night?”
The room shrinks, walls closing in, as images tumble through my thoughts like shuffled film reels.
Liam, pulling me back from the brink.
Our desperate union in his penthouse, afterward.
His heartbreaking devastation.
I picture him buckling to the floor, dragging me with him, both of us trembling from cold and adrenaline. Regret slithers through me, and a chill skates across my skin. I brush my fingers over the gooseflesh rising on my arms.
“Your resistance is telling.” The doctor’s tone takes on a thoughtful cadence. “If there was nothing to be ashamed of, you’d have no trouble talking about it, would you?”
I snap my attention back to him, teeth clenched. He commands the space with practiced authority, but his words fall with a casual edge that shoots unease through me.
“Guilt often takes the shape of silence,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Or maybe it was something else. A cry for help? Is that why you were on the cliffs?”
I push the memory of last night’s snowy trek aside and focus on the fireplace, where the flames dance in pirouettes.
“I want to help you through this, Novalee, but I can’t do that unless you meet me somewhere in the middle. It doesn’t even have to be halfway, but I need you to give me something.”
“Last night was…”
Blurred from alcohol.
Drenched in grief.
Sharpened by guilt.
“Cold,” I finally answer.
He purses his full lips. “What else?”
“And dark.”
“Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Last night, I wasn’t.”
Numb to the core, I’d found the kind of darkness I’ve never experienced before, with its void inviting me into the fold, promising to swaddle me against pain and tragedy. In that moment, there wasn’t a scary thing about it.
“What prompted you to venture outside?” he asks, as if the answer is simple. As if he’s not dredging up the words I can’t unsay to Liam.
The guilt I can’t outrun.
I want to squirm, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“When was the last time you felt in control?” he asks, steering the conversation in a new direction, his voice gentler now, laced with persuasion.
“You mean…since I’ve been here?”
Never.
“I mean in your life, your body, your emotions.”
My lips part, but no answer comes.
“I imagine it’s been a while, but that’s what grief does, Novalee. It steals control and makes you powerless.”
“How do I get it back?” Instantly, I want to rewind time and tape my mouth shut.
“By understanding that it’s not about avoidance. Desire, grief, pain…” His fingers drum against the armrest. “Ignoring these emotions won’t make them disappear. They’ll just show up in other ways.”
“How so?”
“They can manifest as self-destruction, isolation, even resistance.”
“Resistance to what?” Unable to hide a scowl, I cross my arms. “To you?”
“Resistance to healing .”
“Oh, so you have the cure for that, do you?” I let out a mocking laugh. “That’s a good one.”
“Not a cure. A method.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
He nods, as if he understands. “Will you close your eyes for me?”
“Why?”
“Please, indulge me for a moment.”
Hesitation takes hold, but his patience lasts until my eyes flutter shut.
“Good,” he says. “I want you to think back to last night. You’re standing on the cliff. Tell me what you feel.”
Tilting my head back, I’m torn from the settee and thrust onto the icy ledge. “Snowflakes. They’re falling on my cheeks. I should be cold, but I’m not anymore.”
“Why aren’t you cold?”
“I’m not sure. The waves bring me comfort. I just feel…”
“Describe it.”
“I feel numb, and a…a sense of peace.”
“Let’s go back. Now you’re walking through the snow. What are you thinking about?”
“Sebastian.” His name escapes, raw on my tongue.
“Keep going,” he urges.
“I feel his ghost watching me.” Grief crushes my heart all over again, and my eyes pop open. “I don’t want to do this.”
Dr. Price studies me, peeling away my defenses, layer by layer. “You’re still standing on that cliff, Novalee. Even in this room.”
A blink sends hot drops down my face. “I don’t want to be.”
“Are you sure? Because you did try to jump, did you not?”
I should be indifferent, not crying in front of this man. But his questions cut deep, carving out every flimsy excuse.
“I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to stop hurting so much.”
“What if I told you I have a way for you to let go of the pain?”
“I’m all ears, Doctor.” Sarcasm coats my words, but deep down, I want to believe there’s a way.
His focus sharpens, latching on to the fraying threads of my resolve.
“I’d like for you to explore the concept of delayed gratification.”
“Delayed… what ?” Doesn’t he know I’m already an expert, baptized in denial my first month here?
“It’s a controlled response, a way to ease the mind and body into recognizing that pleasure, like pain, isn’t something that controls you. You control it.”
Shameful heat spirals low in my belly. “What do you suggest?”
“Tonight, when you’re in bed, I want you to bring yourself to the edge of orgasm. Picture the cliff. But this time, instead of jumping, you’ll take your power back.”
I swallow, fingers gripping the cushion beneath me. “You’re telling me not to…come?”
“Control is yours, Novalee.” A twitch of a smile pulls at his mouth. “The longer you hold out, the stronger your power grows. Don’t climax tonight, or even tomorrow. Draw it out. You’ll know when it’s time to let go.”
“This method sounds…” I search for the right words. “Strange, coming from a shrink.”
“I specialize in sexuality.” He glances at the clock. “And unfortunately, that’s all the time we have.”
“I thought you cleared your schedule?” I hold his gaze, brows arched in challenge.
“You gave me exactly what I needed. There’s no need to keep you.”
I blink, momentarily thrown.
A game. That’s what this is.
An illusion of choice.
The quiet manipulation of my mind.
And I’m already playing—my queen’s piece moving across the board before I realize the match has begun.