Imprisoned

13. Willow

13

WILLOW

I arrive at my office early, hoping to gather my thoughts before another intense day. The familiar scent of coffee and sanitizer fills the air, but something’s different. A cream-colored envelope sits in the center of my desk.

I pick it up. The handwriting is exquisite—flowing cursive that belongs in an art gallery, not a maximum security prison. My heart tumbles over itself in its hurry as I see the signature at the bottom of the letter.

Axel Morrison.

“This isn’t possible.” I glance around my empty office, feeling exposed. The security protocols are strict—inmates can’t send mail to staff offices, and every correspondence goes through multiple checkpoints.

I scan the letter, my cheeks burning hotter with each line. The words blur together, but their meaning is crystal clear.

“Think, Willow.” I force myself to set the letter down and examine the facts. Someone had to physically bring this here. Either Axel has connections among the staff, or...

A knock at my door makes me jump.

“Morning, Dr. Matthews.” The janitor tips his hat and pushes his cleaning cart past my office.

The janitor, perhaps? He can access every room and works early hours when no one’s around. How many other staff members has Axel corrupted?

The thought should disturb me more than it does. Instead, I find myself almost... impressed by his resourcefulness. After all, haven’t I already crossed similar lines myself? The money I slipped to Martinez for private time with Axel makes me no better than whoever smuggled this letter.

My face flushes again. I fold the letter carefully, sliding it into my pocket. Another thread in the web of secrets I’m weaving around myself. The professional boundaries I once thought unbreakable now seem like arbitrary lines in the sand, easily swept away by my fascination with him.

Aas I try to focus on my morning paperwork, his words echo in my mind, a siren song I can’t silence.

My eyes drift to the small red light in the corner vent, where the light should be. The camera I had disabled yesterday remains offline, and the maintenance request form I forged still buying me privacy. Three hundred dollars to the security tech ensured no questions would be asked. Everyone in this damn place seems corrupt or corruptible. It’s underfunded and understaffed. Considering the type of inmates incarcerated here, it’s a liability.

Martinez had seemed almost amused when I handed him the envelope yesterday.

The guards talk—I know they do. They’ll notice the pattern: longer sessions, disabled cameras, and my insistence on privacy with one particular inmate, but money keeps their suspicions from becoming reports.

The clock on my wall ticks by agonizingly slow. Two o’clock. Axel. My stomach twists into knots every time I think about our next session.

“And how does that make you feel, Marcus?” I ask my current patient, but my mind drifts to the letter in my pocket.

Marcus rambles about his childhood trauma. I nod, jot down notes, and say the right things at the right moments. But I’m not fully present. My training kicks in automatically—validate feelings, reflect emotions, and maintain eye contact.

Eleanor stopped by this morning to tell me Axel would be a more regular patient. ““Tensions are rising again between him and other inmates, so it’s best to keep tabs on his mental and emotional state,” she’d said. “At least for the time being.” Her words would have filled me with dread the first few weeks I was here. But that was before I crossed lines. Instead, my pulse had quickened with anticipation.

“Doctor?” Marcus’s voice snaps me back. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” My cheeks tingle with warmth. I’m failing these people who need my help. My morning patients deserve better than a distracted practitioner counting the minutes until her next session with a diagnosed psychopath.

I try harder with my eleven o’clock appointment. Jeremy is making real progress with his anger management. I force myself to focus on his body language and choice of words.

But when he mentions feeling out of control, my mind flashes to Axel’s letter and detailed descriptions of taking control of me.

Lunch break arrives. I barely touch the salad I brought from home, reviewing patient notes that blur before my eyes. One more session before... No. This isn’t just professional curiosity anymore. What I’m planning with Martinez—it’s a necessary step. The official channels are too restrictive to truly understand someone like Axel. Sometimes, ethical boundaries need flexibility when you’re dealing with exceptional cases. The money I’ll pay him is just... expediting the research process. Dedicated psychologists would do the same if they were serious about breakthrough insights.

But as my one o’clock patient settles into the chair across me, I’m already counting the minutes. Sixty more to go. Then I’ll see him again. Uninterrupted. I thank my one o’clock patient and close my notebook, watching the clock tick toward two. Right on schedule, I hear Martinez’s distinctive knock—two quick taps, a pause, then a third. Our signal that he’s brought Axel and the hallway is clear.

I smooth my skirt, taking a deep breath as the door opens. Two guards escort Axel in. The chains around his wrists catch the fluorescent light.

His presence instantly fills the room, that magnetic energy that draws and repels. He sprawls in the chair across from me, legs spread wide as they chain him to the chair, a predatory smile playing at his lips. Heat floods my body, settling low in my abdomen as I watch him—the confident posture, the dangerous glint in his eyes, the way he claims the space as his own.

“All set, Dr. Matthews,” Martinez announces, giving me a wink.

“Thank you,” I manage, avoiding his gaze. My thighs press together involuntarily, seeking pressure against the ache building between them. Being in the same room with Axel again sends electricity crackling across my skin. It makes my pulse race with a delicious cocktail of fear and desire.

As the door closes behind the guards, Axel’s smile widens. “Dr. Matthews.” His voice wraps around my name like a caress. “You’re looking particularly lovely today.”

I grip my pen tighter, momentarily caught between exhilaration and doubt. I paid Martinez well, ensuring complete privacy for the next hour. No cameras, no monitoring, no interruptions. A dangerous gamble that could cost me my career, my freedom, and possibly my life. Looking at Axel now, with that hungry gleam in his eyes, I can’t bring myself to regret it.

I straighten my posture, settling into the professional role that’s becoming more performance than reality. Time to at least pretend this is a legitimate therapy session, for both our sakes.

“Let’s continue our discussion from the last session, Axel,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady despite the anticipation coursing through me.

He leans forward. “Did you get my letter? I put a lot of thought into it.” His green eyes bore into mine, searching for any flicker of recognition.

“What letter?” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “I haven’t received any correspondence from you.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I maintain this charade. I paid for this private time and orchestrated this entire meeting, yet here I am, still playing these games with him. Part of me wants to drop the pretense, to admit I’ve read his letter a dozen times, traced my fingers over his handwriting. Another part—the survival instinct I haven’t completely abandoned—warns me to keep some semblance of professional distance, to not reveal how completely he’s consumed my thoughts.

The tension between what I want to do and what I should do creates an exquisite ache. Even now, with no one watching, I can’t fully surrender to what we both know is happening between us.

His smile widens fractionally. “No? That’s... interesting.” He settles back, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “Maybe it got lost in the mail. I’ll have to try again.”

How he says it—so casual yet loaded with meaning—sends a shiver down my spine. I can see the wheels turning behind those calculating eyes. He knows I’m lying. He’s probably counting my tells right now—the slight tremor in my hands, the way I won’t quite meet his gaze.

His eyes flick to the ceiling corner where the camera should be recording. “No little red light today. Technical difficulties? Security here is... surprisingly accommodating.”

My throat tightens at being found out. All this is happening, really happening, but I feel unprepared for the very thing I have arranged things for. I resort to professionalism, having no idea how to handle a man like him. “Tell me about your week,” I say, desperate to redirect the conversation, to buy myself time. But Axel keeps smiling that knowing smile like we share a delicious secret.

“Oh, Dr. Matthews,” he purrs. “We both know that’s not what you want to discuss.”

“Let’s stay focused on your treatment, Axel.” I square my shoulders and meet his gaze directly. “If you continue with inappropriate comments or try to steer our sessions in that direction, I’ll have no choice but to end them early. Just like last time.”

The words come out automatically, a protective shield of professionalism I’m still clinging to despite everything. Inside, I’m a riot of contradictions—craving him while terrified of fully surrendering to it, wanting to throw caution to the wind while desperately needing some semblance of control.

I’ve crossed so many lines already, paid off guards, and fantasized endlessly about him. Yet something in me still hesitates at the final threshold. Is it fear of what happens when I completely abandon my professional identity? Or deeper still, fear that I’ll never find my way back to who I was once I give in completely?

I hold onto protocol like a lifeline while I gather my courage, knowing it’s only a matter of time before I let go.

His smile doesn’t waver. “For someone so determined to maintain boundaries, you’re going to extraordinary lengths to create opportunities to break them.”

The room suddenly feels too small, my decisions too risky, too real. “That’s exactly the kind of comment I’m talking about. This is a professional relationship. If you can’t respect those boundaries?—”

“Professional.” He tastes the word like fine wine. “Is that what you tell yourself when you touch yourself, listening to the words in our session tapes? The one where I described exactly what I’d do to you if these chains were gone?”

His eyes darken as he leans forward slightly. “I know you’ve read it, Willow. I can see it in your eyes—the way they dilate when you remember the part about pressing you against the wall, my hand around your throat while I?—”

“Final warning, Mr. Morrison.” My hand moves toward the panic button on my desk.

“Alright, alright.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, chains clinking. “I wouldn’t want to cut our time short. Not when we have so much to discuss.” His tone shifts to something more clinical, but his eyes still dance with dark amusement. “Shall we talk about my childhood trauma? That’s what you therapists love, isn’t it? Digging into the past?”

“Yes, let’s focus on that. In our last session, you mentioned your father?—”

“You don’t really want to talk about my father.” Axel cuts me off mid-sentence. “Two months of dancing around this, Dr. Matthews. And now you’ve had the camera disabled. Your resistance is weakening with each session. I can see it in your eyes.”

My mouth goes dry. I shift in my chair, trying to focus on being professional. “Mr. Morrison, we’re here to discuss your?—”

“I bet you climbed into bed.” His voice drops lower. “Pressed play on that recording. Did you touch yourself while listening to my voice?”

“Stop.” The word comes out breathier than I intended. I clear my throat. “This is completely inappropriate.”

“But you like ‘inappropriate.’ Your cheeks are flushed.” He smirks sinfully at me. “Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing’s faster. You can lie with your words, but your reactions to me tell the truth.”

I shift in my chair, hating how my body responds instinctively. Of course a man like him would see right through me? I try to focus on my notes, but the letters swim before my eyes.

“Let’s return to discussing your childhood experiences?—”

“You came hard, didn’t you?” His words slice and cut through the haze in my mind. “Thinking about everything I said I’d do to you. Imagining my hands on you instead of yours.”

“That’s enough.” I stand up, hands trembling. “This session is?—”

“Sit down, little pixie.” His tone carries such authority that I find myself sinking back into my chair before I can stop myself. “You’re not going anywhere. We both know you don’t want to.”

He’s right. God help me, he’s right. I should call the guards, end this session, report his behavior—report myself. Instead, I’m frozen in place, my body betraying me with every rapid heartbeat, every shallow breath.

“Now,” he continues, satisfaction dripping from every word, “shall we talk about what else you’ve been imagining?”

I stare at Axel across my desk, my heart hammering against my ribs. Everything I’ve worked for—years of study, dedication, and career-building—balanced against this primal need he awakens in me.

“I can’t.” My voice cracks. “This isn’t—we can’t… This was a mistake.”

“Can’t what?” His green eyes pin me in place. “Can’t admit what you want? What you need?”

I close my eyes, trying to center myself.

Remember your training.

Remember your ethics courses.

Remember everything that brought you here. It’s not too late to end this now.

“I took an oath.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “To help people, to maintain professional boundaries, to?—”

“To deny yourself?” Axel’s chains rattle as he shifts forward. “To pretend you’re not aching for me right now?”

My thighs clench. The letter in my jacket pocket feels like it’s burning through the fabric, branding my skin. I should have reported it. Should have burned it this morning after I saw it. I should have done anything except read it repeatedly in between sessions until the pages were creased from my trembling fingers.

“My career.” It comes out quieter than intended. “Everything I’ve built.”

“Your career?” He laughs, low and dark. “Or your carefully constructed facade? Tell me, when was the last time you felt fully alive before meeting me?”

The truth hits hard. I’ve spent my whole life being good, doing the right thing, following the rules. And now, facing this man who breaks every rule and embodies everything I should reject, I feel more alive than ever.

“I could lose my license.” But even as I say it, I know it’s a weak protest. The real fear isn’t losing my career—it’s losing myself to the dark desires he stirs in me.

“You could gain so much more.” His voice drops lower. “Stop fighting it. We both know where this ends.”

My hands shake as I grip the arms of my chair. The right thing to do is so clear and so simple: End the session, report his behavior, destroy the tape, Hope Martinez doesn’t talk, and request a transfer to different patients.

Instead, I sit here, caught between duty and desire, watching the clock tick down the minutes of our session while my resolve crumbles like sand.

I clear my throat, summoning every ounce of professional authority I can muster. “We have two options here, Mr. Morrison. We can either sit in silence for the remainder of this session, or you can answer my questions about your childhood experiences. Your choice.”

My voice comes out steadier than I expected, given how my heart pounds against my ribs. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away despite the heat crawling up my neck.

Axel studies me for a long moment, his green eyes searching my face. The silence stretches between us, thick with tension. Just when I think he’ll continue pushing, his posture shifts.

“Very well.” He settles back in his chair, chains clinking. “Ask your questions.”

Relief floods me, though I immediately question why I feel relieved. I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to be alone with him—bribed Martinez, disabled the surveillance, stolen recordings to listen to in the darkness of my bedroom. I’ve crossed line after line, each transgression easier than the last.

Yet some small part of me still clings to the illusion that I’m in control and could walk away if I wanted to. This contradiction keeps me in delicious tension—wanting him desperately while pretending I don’t.

“Let’s return to what you mentioned about your father. You said he would come home drunk most nights?”

“Every night.” Axel’s voice loses its seductive edge, turning flat and cold. “He’d stumble in around midnight, reeking of cheap whiskey and cigarettes.”

I pick up my pen, grateful to have something to focus on besides those piercing eyes. “And how old were you when this started?”

“Young. Maybe five or six.” He shrugs, the gesture at odds with the darkness clouding his features. “Hard to remember exactly. It all blurs together after a while.”

I lean forward, noting the shift in Axel’s demeanor. His usual confident posture tightens, and his muscles coil like a spring ready to snap. “The police reports mention your father was violent.”

His jaw clenches. The chains rattle as his hands curl into fists.

“I don’t talk about that.”

“It might help to?—”

“I said no.” His eyes flash, and for a moment, I glimpse something brutal beneath the mask he wears. He jerks against the restraints, making me flinch. A harsh laugh escapes him. “What, scared of me now, little pixie?”

I force myself to stay calm despite my racing pulse. “Not scared. Concerned. Your reaction suggests significant trauma.”

“Trauma?” He spits the word like poison. “You want to know about trauma? Try watching your mother bleed on the kitchen floor while that bastard—” He cuts himself off, chest heaving.

The room feels too small, too close. Sweat beads on his forehead as his eyes dart around, seeing something beyond these walls. His breathing turns ragged.

“They’re not real,” he mutters, shaking his head. “They’re not fucking real.”

“What’s not real, Axel?”

“The shadows.” His voice shifts, younger somehow. “They move when he’s angry. Dance on the walls like—” He jerks violently, chains clanking. “No. We’re done here.”

The mask slams back into place, but I’ve seen beneath it, seen the broken child still trapped in those memories. The hardened killer transforms back into my dangerous patient, but the glimpse of vulnerability lingers in the air between us.

“Same time next time, doctor.” His tone is controlled again, but his hands still shake slightly. “Unless you’d prefer to continue our... other discussion?”

“No.” I shake my head, surprised by the firmness in my tone. “Our relationship is strictly professional. I won’t discuss anything beyond that.”

His eyes glitter with amusement. “For now.”

I press the intercom button. “Guards, please escort Mr. Morrison back to his cell.”

The door opens, and Martinez and another guard enter. Axel rises smoothly as they unlock his chains from the chair, that knowing smirk still playing on his lips.

I glance at the clock—barely forty-five minutes into what should have been a two-hour session. Another failure. We made zero progress with his childhood trauma, and I let him derail the conversation multiple times.

Any other fantasies I might have had… well, failure there, too.

He pauses at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. “Sweet dreams, doctor.”

Heat floods my body as the guards lead him away. I sink deeper into my chair, running my fingers through the soft ends of my hair. The session notes in front of me are sparse—just a few scribbled observations about his defensive reactions to questions about his father.

Eleanor will be disappointed. She trusted me with this high-risk patient, and I couldn’t even maintain basic control of our sessions. But how can I explain that every time I try to dig deeper into his past, he turns the tables and burrows under my skin instead?

I gather my papers, ignoring how my feelings are scattered between control and letting go. I have two more sessions with him this week, and the thought sends equal waves of dread and anticipation through me.

Focus on the work, I tell myself. Focus on helping him process his trauma. Forget about everything I arranged for… privacy. But even as I try to center myself in my professional role, his words echo.

For now.

I wonder if he realizes just how right he is.