Chapter 4 #2
I stay frozen, except to demand, "I want to know why you assume a man who's never shown interest in you is the one for you."
She twirls more hair and opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
"Answer me," I say.
She shrugs, slow and languid. "You want me to unpack the fantasy."
My cock aches. I clarify, "Clinically. Yes."
"All right." She adjusts in the chair, and the skirt shifts again. The slit opens farther this time, exposing the inner curve of her thigh.
She rubs her thumb over her thigh and says, "I've saved myself for him.
He's the one. Some things you know in your heart to be real.
And sometimes it takes others time to realize the truth.
So I'll give Brax some grace. I know he'll make my first time so erotic, just like every time after.
And I don't think I'm selfish for wanting a man to take care of me until I'm so wet it's running down my legs, am I?
" She arches her eyebrows and pouts, displaying her dimple. Then she glances at my pants.
She's a virgin?
Fuck. Why did I go down this road?
My erection's harder than a rock. I blurt out, "You're a virgin, or is that a lie?"
"I've loved Brax since I was sixteen. Do you think I would have cheated on him?" she asks, eyes wide.
"You can't cheat on someone who isn't yours," I state.
She uncrosses her legs, widens them, and recrosses them. "I know he's been with other women, but I'll forgive him. And when I do, he'll realize all he's been missing out on."
She's delusional.
She's a virgin.
Fuck.
My mouth waters, and my eyes drop to her legs. A faint shadow lies higher, near where fabric nearly covers skin. My brain registers shape and color before my professional filter kicks back in.
Bruising.
Dried blood.
I drag my gaze back up.
She watches me with quiet triumph, though she pretends ignorance. "Don't you think a man wants a woman who's waited and hasn't been passed around?"
My chest rises and falls faster.
Focus, asshole!
She leans forward, drags her fingertips over her chest, and murmurs, "Wouldn't you want a woman who you can break in how you want?"
"You have a pattern. You're attempting to drag me into the same dynamic you created with Brax. That will not happen here," I warn, but it doesn't come out as strongly as I had hoped.
Her lips twitch. "You already participate. You saw the photo. You thought about how you compare to him. You thought about me, wishing I'd stalk you and take your picture."
The inch of accuracy of that last sentence irritates me more than her smug expression. I maintain eye contact. "Blue, I want to be very clear. You are projecting your fantasies onto me. You do not know what I think inside or outside of this office."
"Then tell me," she counters immediately. "Do you think about me?"
Silence wraps around us again. A car horn bleats faintly several stories below, the only sound cutting into the thick air between us.
I answer the way ethics demand. "I think about my patients between sessions when it serves their treatment. That includes you. It does not cross into territory that is inappropriate."
Her lips part as if the idea of me being inappropriate sets off an entirely different fantasy. "Do you talk about me to your shrink?"
I point to her bare skin. "What is going on with your thigh?"
She innocently glances down, then drags a finger over the cut, wincing slightly.
"Don't do that," I warn.
"Do what?" she says, pushing harder.
I lunge into the seat next to her and grab her hand. "Don't."
She gasps, her mouth open, hot breath too close to mine.
My nerves rattle higher. I glance at the half-covered mark and soften my tone. "Show me your injury."
"Why?"
"I need to see it," I say, but even in my mind it doesn't sound professional.
Her mouth twists. She moves my hand to her thigh and pushes the soft material up to her waist, displaying crotchless red panties.
"Fuck," I mutter and realize I said it out loud.
"It's here," she says, smirking, and slides my finger from the top of her inner thigh to the bruise.
Time stops. I stare at my finger, over her exposed creamy skin, darkened with purple and sickly yellow. Under it is a thin line. It's angry red, scabbed at one end, and runs horizontally.
A sound leaves my chest before I can stop it. "Blue."
Her gaze stays on mine, pretending she doesn't understand. "Yes?"
"Did you do this?"
She slides her hand over my fingers. Her eyes widen, the picture of innocence. "What?"
"The bruise and the cut," I clarify, forcing each word to come out calmly.
She glances down like she has just now discovered it. "Oh."
My irritation spikes. "Do not insult my intelligence."
Her attention snaps back up. For the first time since she walked in, her performance cracks. Something more raw flashes through her expression. It's anger, shame, and triumph, all braided together.
"You saw it. Good," she says, voice quieter.
"Good?" My tone sharpens. "Help me understand what about that injury qualifies as good to you."
Her throat moves. "It means you noticed."
Blood pounds in my ears. "You wanted me to notice."
"Yes."
"Notice what?" I ask.
Her lashes sweep down, then up. Silence answers before she does.
"Blue, tell me," I press, more firmly.
Her chest rises and falls faster.
"There isn't a wide range of options. It's either an accident or deliberate self-harm. Which one is it?" I demand.
She lifts her chin, some stubborn part of her finally meeting me without theatrics. "Both."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only one I have," she snaps. "I cut my thigh, then pressed the bruise to make it worse.
I knew what it would look like by Friday.
A mix of old and new. It was so I had something for you to confront.
Even if you tried to avert your eyes, the way you do with everything else, you'd have to see me. "
I rip my hand off her thigh. "This is not how you get my attention."
"It's not?" she asks, eyebrows arched.
"No."
"Excuse me for wanting your undivided attention, and not shared with half a dozen other patients who talk about their boring lives and their boring marriages and their boring parents. I wanted you to think about me all weekend and not forget about me when you went home," she spouts.
My insides battle. I shake my head. "You cut yourself, Blue. That is not a seduction tactic. That is an act of self-harm."
"It grounded me," she insists. "I needed something real. Pain anchors in a different way than fantasy."
"Pain anchors you to what?" I say too loudly. No patient has ever done something like this to get my attention. It's not okay.
"To my body," she snaps, irritation leaking into the edges of her composure.
"To this moment. To something that is mine.
Brax is gone. My mom isn't taking me seriously at work right now because of him.
Every plan I had is buried under his marriage and his obsession with that woman.
So this cut is mine. This bruise is mine. You seeing it and touching it is mine."
The words slam into me with more weight than the flirtation that came before them. I lean forward, elbows on my knees now, hands hanging between them. "You put yourself at risk to get my attention."
She rolls her eyes and corrects, "I put my thigh at risk. You act like I sliced my wrists open in your waiting room."
I scrub my face, then pin my gaze on her. "Do you hear yourself? Listen to what you just minimized. You don't weaponize your body for attention."
A small laugh comes out of her.
"You think this is funny?" I lecture.
She glares at me. "Weaponize. As if I am dangerous."
"You are," I reply without hesitation.
The space between us crackles.
"To whom. To myself or to you?" she fires.
"Both," I admit.
The truth hangs there, heavier than before.
She swallows. The smug gleam recedes, replaced by a flicker of something more honest. "So I am not imagining it. You are affected by me."
"No clinician is immune to human reactions. What matters is what we do with them," I reply, sitting up straighter.
Her voice comes out hushed. "And what are you doing with yours, Dr. Mercer? Right now. What are you doing with whatever is happening in your chest while you stare at my thigh and list my sins?"
I sit back again, forcing distance. "I'm keeping both of us safe."
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. "Safe is a matter of opinion."
"In this room, safety is defined by ethics and by your well-being. Not by your desire for intensity," I declare, but it feels false. I'm treading on a thin line, and any moment I'm going to break it.
"Look what you've done," she accuses, then shifts and widens her legs.
I glance down, and a damp spot sits on the chair between her thighs. Her pink pussy lips glisten next to the thin strip of red lace.
"Blue," I warn, my voice hoarse. I barely pull my gaze back up.
She leans closer, her eyes wider. "What can I do for you, Dr. Mercer?"
Inappropriate images flood my head. I swallow hard, then order, "Cover yourself up."
Her brows lift. "Is that an order, Dr. Mercer?"
"Yes."
She studies my face with open curiosity, then lowers her skirt, a shallow breath escaping past her lips.
Relief hits me, but my pulse is still through the roof.
"Better?" she asks.
"No. That wasn't appropriate."
Playfulness floods her expression. "Appropriate is overrated."
I cross my arms and find my voice. "Blue, when you cut your thigh, did you want to die?"
She scoffs. "No."
"Did any part of you hope you would cause severe harm?"
She shakes her head. "No. It is a shallow cut. Deep enough to bleed, not enough to threaten my life. Don't act like a fool."
"You researched that," I infer.
"No. I'm an Ivanov," she claims.
I contain a curse. "So this was premeditated. Planned. Executed with care."
Her lips part. "You make it sound like a crime."
"It is self-harm. Which—"
"It's not illegal," she interjects.
"It's a sign that something in you is screaming for help and or screaming for control. Sometimes both," I rattle off.
She deadpans as if bored, "I already told you. It grounded me. And it turned you toward me in a way nothing else would."
I should move away from her, end this session, and refer her to another therapist. But I walk further into her trap. "What did you imagine would happen when I noticed? Walk me through it."
Her gaze drops briefly to my hands, then lifts again. "I imagined your eyes would finally go where you try to stop them from going. I imagined your breath would catch, the way it just did. I imagined you would say my name with more gravity, then see how wet I am and have the balls to take action."