17 - Frankie
17
Frankie
—
Two days later, I sit across from Dr. Doyle Whitaker, soaking in the sweet, apricot glow of the afternoon.
Oh, how I missed the warmth of sunshine on my face.
The private den makes an ideal spot for therapy, with its rich wood paneling and window views of the Sitka Sound.
Surprisingly, all three Strakh men decided to see Doyle as their therapist. I have suspicions about their easy cooperation, especially after Monty’s tantrum, but whatever.
Since Leo and Monty are still in the gym, they suggested that I take the first session.
Kody waits in the hall, probably leaning against the door with his supernatural senses on high alert. If a salty tear so much as leaves my eye, he’ll smell it and barge in.
I don’t plan on crying.
“This is a safe space.” Doyle reclines in the armchair, his posture inviting and open, his notepad resting on his thigh. “You can share anything with me.”
“I know.”
“If you’re not ready to talk about what happened, that’s okay, too. We can discuss anything you want.”
He only knows what the news is reporting. It’s up to me to talk about Denver’s abuse, Wolf’s death, the plane crash, Monty’s betrayal, my polyamorous relationship with Leo and Kody…all of it. Or none of it.
Sharing those personal things with him would be different than discussing it with detectives and reporters. Outside of this room, the information would be twisted and used against me.
In here, it would be confidential and used to help me heal.
Doyle watches me patiently, his dark hair tousled across his forehead, his hazel eyes softening with professional concern.
I forgot how handsome he is close up. His chiseled jawline and firm lips give him a hard edge, but he has the eyes of an empath, sensitive and gentle, creating an impression of boyish innocence. I know better. He’s a decade older than me.
“Frankie.” The deep tenor of his voice swirls through me, calming my nerves. “What’s on your mind?”
Slowly, I breathe in, then out, my thoughts flitting to the morning I was abducted. Monty needs to talk about that morning as much as I do. If I open the dialogue with Doyle, maybe Monty will do the same, and we can move on with our separate lives.
“I had a miscarriage.” My gaze shifts to the window for a moment before settling back on Doyle. “I was pregnant with Monty’s baby when I was abducted.”
His expression remains neutral, encouraging me to continue.
I walk through the fight about the pregnancy, my decision to leave, the kidnapping, my attempt to escape on the snow machine, and the miscarriage. I include all the relevant details without mentioning Wolf. Making his existence known would open a conversation I’m not ready to have. Not in this first session.
“Have you forgiven Monty for the way he handled the pregnancy?”
“Yes. I think so. But I haven’t forgiven him for the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“He fucked another woman while I was being held captive by his brother.”
“Oh.” Doyle straightens, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want condolences. Monty thought I left him, and he tried to move on. He doesn’t deserve all the blame.”
“Why do you say that?”
I murdered his brother and fell in love with his only surviving relatives. All this animosity, guilt, and back-and-forth emotion is a reaction to the pain inflicted by both Denver and Monty.
Since I’m not ready to share any of that, I settle on, “I’m not perfect.”
“Yet you’re angry with him.” He writes something in his notes.
“Of course, I’m fucking angry. Blinding, raving mad. But it goes beyond that. He’s distrustful of everyone, making me distrust him even more. He questions everyone’s motives, including yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yeah.”
Thanks to Monty’s paranoia, I’m questioning Doyle’s motives, too. It’s maddening.
“He thinks everyone is out to get me,” I say. “But what about him? Isn’t he out to get me?”
“Is he?”
“I don’t know. There’s so much to unpack, and I’m losing the energy and will to make the effort.”
“I understand your feelings, and your concerns are justified. Couples often struggle after traumatic events. It’s not uncommon for one partner to become overprotective, thinking they’re doing what’s best. It can create tension and lead to misunderstanding and resentment.”
“This is more than that.”
I’m in love with two other men.
“Have you talked to him about how you’re feeling?”
“Yeah. He listens. He seems more attentive and compromising now than before…the trauma.”
“It sounds like his actions come from a place of fear and insecurity. He’s afraid of losing you, but his methods are pushing you away.”
“He’s already lost me.”
Even as I say that, I know it’s not true.
I’m trying so hard to remain angry with him because if I’m not angry, what am I? If he’s not out to hurt me, what is he?
He’s a threat to my relationship with Leo and Kody, that’s what.
But he’s not a threat to me. I can’t believe the worst in him. I just can’t.
“Okay.” Doyle lifts his pen from the paper and meets my eyes without judgment. “Sometimes the best thing for a relationship is to step back. Give each other space to heal individually before you can heal together.”
“We’re not intimate. We don’t share a bed. Not since my kidnapping. I’ve been sleeping in the guest house. Except the night of my panic attack, I slept across the hall from him in case I got triggered again.”
“Do you want to talk about that? The PTSD episode?”
“I don’t remember it. Is that normal?”
“Yes, dissociation is a common symptom of PTSD.”
“When Monty called you, did he tell you what happened during the episode?”
“Yes.” His expression softens.
“Did he tell you he triggered it?”
“He said he approached you from behind.”
I nod. Leo and Kody come up behind me like that all the time, and I’m fine. But I keep that to myself.
“What if Monty is my trigger? I don’t believe he would ever physically hurt me. But deep down, I wonder if I fear him.”
“Can I be honest with you, Frankie?”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
“I’ve known you for many years.” He closes his notepad and sets it aside, bending forward. “I’ve always admired your inner strength. You’re wildly independent and tenacious and—I hope you don’t mind me saying—you are incredibly beautiful. You deserve someone who knows how to take care of a woman, how to touch you softly and fiercely at the same time, how to both claim you and set you free, and how to stand in the brilliant emerald glow of your soul without snuffing out your light.”
“Um…” I stare at him, stunned. “Thank you. That’s…”
“Monty isn’t good for you. He’s controlling, possessive, and selfish. The typical wealthy playboy with commitment issues and family secrets. I think you’re right to fear him. You’re better off without him.”
“Wow. Okay…” The tips of my ears burn. “Have you always thought that?”
“Yes. I’ve seen how his behavior affects you.” He gives me a reassuring smile. “You deserve someone who respects your independence, encourages your career, and supports your healing and reproductive rights.”
Ouch. Yeah, Monty doesn’t check most of those boxes.
Now would be a good time to tell him I have someone who does. Two someones. I don’t need to get into my sex life, especially after that weirdly flattering and slightly unprofessional declaration.
Leo and Kody will probably make our dynamic perfectly clear to Doyle during their sessions with him. But right now, I just want to focus on my support system.
“There’s something else.” I rub my palms on my jeans. “It’s about Leo and Kody.”
“Go on.” His eyes sharpen with interest.
“During our captivity, we became very close.” I draw a breath, my thoughts gathering. “We helped one another through a lot of harrowing, painful things. We escaped together, survived a plane crash, and now we’re facing a rough transition. They mean everything to me.”
“You developed a trauma bond. It’s a survival mechanism. A source of strength and support.” He tips his head, rubbing his jaw. “It’s normal to feel a deep connection with them after what you’ve been through.”
“I understand that, and while we share that special connection between the three of us, I feel it’s important for them to build a relationship with Monty. He’s the only family they have left, and they need stability. Monty can provide that. But it’s…complicated. Monty’s distrust and jealousy issues are getting in the way.”
“He feels threatened by your relationship with them.”
“For sure. But I don’t want him blaming Leo and Kody for our broken marriage. If they weren’t in the picture, Monty and I would still be separated. Leo and Kody have suffered their entire lives. They’ve never experienced the love and unconditional support of a tight-knit family. I want them to have that.”
“Family and relationships are crucial, especially after traumatic experiences. But these bonds can’t be forced. They must develop on their own.”
“I know.” Sighing, I look away. “I just want them to feel safe and loved.”
“You care deeply about them, and your desire to see them happy is commendable. But you must be patient.”
“Patience isn’t exactly my thing.”
He squints at me, staring too closely. The subtle shift in his posture suggests he’s gearing up to say something important.
“Most of our conversation today has been about Monty, Leo, and Kody. Their needs. Their well-being.” He dips forward, tilting into the space between us with elbows braced on his knees. “What about you? How are you feeling in all of this?”
I blink, suddenly aware of the tension in my shoulders and the tightness in my chest.
“I…I guess I haven’t thought about it. I’m grateful to be free. Each day brings a sense of wonder that I am alive and no longer have to fight every waking second to stay that way. But I survived only a fraction of the hell that Leo and Kody endured. They’ve never lived outside of the Arctic. Their transition is so much harder than mine. And Monty…” I blow out a breath.
“ Your recovery is just as important. You’ve been through significant trauma, too. Do you want to talk about what happened with Denver?”
I swallow hard, already shaking my head. “Not today. The details are…ugly and overwhelming. I need to work up to it.”
“That’s understandable. How about we just talk about what you’re feeling?”
What am I feeling?
I sit back and pry open some of those doors. “I was held against my will for nine months. Six days ago, we did the impossible and escaped. We’re free, but I don’t feel free. Not like I did before the abduction. I’m constantly on edge, waiting for something else to go wrong. Like, at any minute, the devil will reach out of the shadows and drag me back to hell.”
His eyes flash with a ghost of something darker, but it’s gone so quickly I’m certain I imagined it.
“PTSD can manifest in many ways.” He laces his hands together. “Feeling constantly on edge is a common symptom. But you’re safe here. With me.”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“That’s a natural response to what you’ve been through. Just remember, the devil— Denver —is dead.”
“The devil has many forms, many faces. Some might say he’s immortal.”
“Your nightmares, your demons, they’re a reflection of your trauma and can be incredibly powerful and persistent. But they’re part of your past.”
Unless the stalker in Denver’s riddle is real.
“The past and present try to blur together sometimes.” I look down, my hands twisting on my lap. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there. I can’t escape it.”
“Escaping isn’t about running from your fears. It’s about facing them, understanding them, and finding ways to cope with them. It’s a process, one that takes time. You need to take care of yourself, Frankie. Your heart is deeply scarred. Give yourself time and permission to heal.”
“I’m trying. But I feel like I have to be strong for everyone else. If I fall apart, who will hold everything together?”
“You don’t have to carry all of this on your own. Ask for help. Lean on others.”
“Trust me. I lean plenty. Like this session? Monty’s paying for it. He feeds me, clothes me, provides a roof over my head.”
“He’s your husband.”
“Only on paper. I don’t want to be dependent on him. I’m so used to being the one who takes care of everyone.”
“That’s the nurse in you.” He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on my arm. “You’ve shown incredible strength, but even the strongest people need support.”
“Yeah.” I slide my arm away. “You’re right.”
“It’s a process. Focus on mini-milestones. You’ve already started by meeting with me and opening up. It’s a big step.”
“Okay.” I roll back my shoulders, absorbing his words.
“You matter, Frankie. Your feelings and needs are just as important as everyone else’s. Through therapy and a solid support system, you’ll get through this.”
“My support system is incredible, but they’re struggling, too. I’m pushing them into therapy, even though they don’t want it and don’t think they need it.”
“Monty set up sessions for all four of you to meet with me. They may not like it but…” He grins. “This will only hurt a little.”
“What did you say?” A chill trickles across my scalp.
“He set up sessions—”
“No. You said…”
Don’t struggle. This will only hurt a little.
My breath quickens. My chest tightens, and my gaze darts to the exit, the first hints of panic creeping in.
I know what’s coming. I’ve seen this before, in Kody, in myself.
Closing my eyes, I focus on breathing. Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. Repeat.
“Frankie?” Doyle’s voice fades into the background.
My hands grip the edge of the chair. I know this is my body’s fight-or-flight response, my sympathetic nervous system in overdrive.
Breathe, Frankie. Fucking breathe.
Sweat beads on my forehead. A trickle runs down my back. But I keep counting, keep breathing, and slowly, my heart rate starts to slow.
I’m safe. I’m here. I’m now.
The rational part of my brain fights to regain control. I let it.
I keep my eyes closed for a few more minutes, giving my body time to settle. The wave of panic recedes, leaving me exhausted but functional.
I know I’ll have to face this again, but for now, I’ve won.
Opening my eyes, I straighten in the chair and take a deep breath.
“You had a panic attack.” He’s closer than he was before, his hand gripping the armrest of my chair.
I glare at it until he removes it and sits back.
“I started to panic, and I pushed it back.”
“Which part of what I said triggered it?”
“Something I heard from my captor’s mouth.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I’m good.”
“Frankie, I think—”
“I’m a nurse. I know what my body’s doing, and I can handle it.” I cross my legs. “Now where were we?”
His lips press into a line, and he pulls in a breath. “Monty set up sessions for all four of you.”
“Monty. Right. What if it’s a conflict of interest? How can you help him when you think so little of him?”
“My sessions with Monty will focus on his personal issues, mental health concerns, and goals rather than addressing your concerns as a couple. If I find that I’m inadvertently siding with you, and it compromises my ability to treat him, I’ll have an open discussion with him about it and likely refer him to another psychiatrist.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly and continue counting in my head, measuring every breath. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Remember, the devil may have many forms, but so do your strengths. We’ll find them together.”
His eyes burn with a genuine desire to help me. It doesn’t erase my fears, but it makes the fight feel a little less intimidating.
With a warm, encouraging smile, he wraps up the session and assigns journaling as homework. If he only knew how comfortable I am with that task.
How will the guys take to it as part of their treatment?
The notion of us healing feels so far away. It’s a daunting, ambitious goal but also a hopeful one.
As I walk Doyle to the door, his words echo in my mind, a reminder that I can’t take care of everyone all the time. I can stitch their surface wounds, but I can’t heal the ones inside. And they have so many.
“Kody should be right outside.” I reach for the knob. “Do you want to see him next?”
“Sure. Monty scheduled me for the entire day.”
I open the door and peer into the hallway.
Empty.
Alarm spikes through me, but I quickly shrug it off.
“Looks like he stepped away. Probably in the restroom.” I turn back and gasp, shocked to find Doyle standing so close.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He grips my bicep to steady me, his fingers sliding down my arm.
“It’s fine.” I step back, crossing the threshold into the hall.
“Are you sure?” He searches my eyes, his body following my retreat as if I’m pulling him in. “You look shaken. Are you still fighting a panic attack? Maybe you should sit.”
“No.” I put my hand up, accidentally brushing his chest. “Just need a minute.”
“Yes, of course.” Standing just inside the den, he lowers his chin and releases me from his penetrating stare. “Remember, you can always reach out if you need to talk, even if we’re off the clock.”
His fingers graze against mine, offering comfort.
But I don’t feel comfortable. Not with him hovering close enough to taste the spearmint on his breath.
As his hand lifts toward my face, I catch movement from the corner of my eye.
A menacing shadow peels away from the darkness of an adjacent doorway, and those black eyes lock onto Doyle’s hand as he touches my chin.
Kody, no!
His face contorts with rage. Before I can react, he lunges with a feral roar.