Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Blue
Red's lashes lower. His gaze darts all over my body and lands on my thighs, where my skirt now lies mostly in place because he insisted. Muscles jump in his jaw. His chest rises in a sharper, shorter breath, and for one glorious heartbeat, the professional mask slips.
There it is.
Heat sprints through my veins, greedy and bright.
My words did that to him.
The indecent picture in his head is the one I put there.
He rips his stare off me and flinches back like my chair caught fire. His hands leave the armrests. His shoulders jerk. In one rough move, he shoves to his feet, and the chair rolls a few inches behind him.
He towers over me, body rigid, jaw locked hard enough to crack enamel. He shifts half a step to the side, as if casually adjusting position, but the move does absolutely nothing to hide the thick ridge straining against his zipper.
My pulse stutters.
"It is completely unacceptable for you to talk to me like that," he scolds, his voice rougher than before, less controlled, with his vowels dragging through gravel.
The reprimand should land like a splash of cold water. Instead, something inside my chest sharpens and lights up. I remind him quietly, "You asked."
"You're projecting your fantasy about Brax on me," he accuses again.
"You're the one in front of me, not him," I argue.
His nostrils flare. "We are not doing this."
I smirk, "That phrase is becoming very repetitive, Doctor. You keep announcing what we're not doing while your body sends a different memo." I glance at the thick wood in his pants.
Color rises along his throat. It's a slow, gorgeous flush that climbs toward his jaw. For a second, I think he might order me to leave or call security to have me physically removed.
Instead, he drags in another breath, steadies his shoulders, and wraps new walls around himself. His spine straightens. His expression cools. When he looks at me again, the look has shifted from man to clinician, from cornered to remote. He says, "Enough. We're going to redirect."
"You can redirect your thoughts all you want. Mine are quite comfortable where they are." I drag my eyes back to his cock.
Jesus, it's big.
His voice turns more measured. "Tell me what happens after you leave here. When you go home and the intensity drops."
"It doesn't drop. I'm always ready and willing," I answer, beaming up at him.
"I can't help you if you're going to be like this. I guess our session is over," he states and turns toward the door. He opens it.
"Wait!"
He arches his eyebrows.
Not ready to leave, I cave, "Shut the door. I'll answer your questions."
He obeys, sits across from me, and lets the silence stretch for a beat. A tiny flicker near his left eye appears. His fingers flex awkwardly before he jams them into his pockets. Every micro-reaction is a data point, and I'm done pretending I don't know how far under his skin I've crawled.
I could keep baiting him with my body. That part is easy. All I have to do is flash more thigh and spread them wide open again. I could pout and arch and let my imagination pour through my mouth until his control fractures.
It is almost too easy. And Ivanovs need challenges. So I switch tactics. I inhale slowly, letting my shoulders soften, and my gaze slide away from his crotch toward the window.
"Tell me what it's like when the intensity drops," he repeats.
I reorder the weapons in my arsenal, sliding seduction behind honesty. I admit, "When I go home, it gets worse."
He gently pushes, "How does it get worse, Blue?"
I sigh, confessing, "When I leave, it is just me. And the empty messages and photos."
"Empty messages from Brax?"
I nod, and a new sting hits me.
"And by photos, you mean of him?"
"Him. Her. Both of them. The one I have of him and me together from a Christmas party years ago," I state.
Red peers closer. "When you cut your arm last week, was it the first time?"
For once, the word doesn't sound like a scolding, just a point on a map. I let the dark truth rise. It scrapes my throat on the way out. "No."
His eyebrows draw together. "When was the first time?"
My palms go damp, and my heart pounds. I rise, tug the left side of my skirt up, and point at the ugly, faded scar on my hip above the red lace. "This is the first one."
He takes calculated breaths, then asks, "When did it happen?"
I shrug. "Seventeen, I think."
"And what provoked you to do it?"
I drop my skirt and slink into the armchair. Tiny prickles of hurt sting my cheeks.
Red offers, "Whatever you say is between us. And I'm not judging you. I just want to know."
My nerves oscillate. I take a deep breath and expose my secret. "I caught my father threatening Brax that if he ever touched me, he'd kill him."
"Did Brax make a pass at you?" Red asks.
I laugh. "I wish. No. My Dad found out I was in love with Brax and thought he was too old for me."
"So you cut yourself because you were mad at your father?"
I shake my head. "Brax told my dad he wasn't attracted to little girls and would never touch me."
Red leans closer. "So you cut yourself because you felt rejected?"
"No. I knew Brax only told my dad that to get him off his back.
Our love is too deep for my father to destroy it.
I intended to cut myself with a B. You know, for Brax.
But the knife slipped. The more I tried to fix it, the worse it got.
So I failed at that mission," I say with annoyance in my tone.
"And how does it make you feel when you look in the mirror and see it?" Red digs.
"I don't think about it."
"Sure you do."
"No. I don't."
Red gets up and opens a closet door. There's a mirror on the back of it. He demands, "Come here, Blue."
I rise and stand next to him.
"Look at the scar on your hip and tell me how it makes you feel," he orders.
I meet his gaze in our reflections. "Why?"
"Because I want to know."
"Why?"
"It's important."
"Doesn't seem important," I argue.
"It is. Trust me. Now, please look and tell me," he repeats.
A deep breath flies out of me. I slowly pull my skirt up, stare at the scar, and say nothing.
"Put your fingers over it. Tell me what you feel," Red directs.
I graze my fingertips over the knotted skin, then confirm, "It's gross."
"Is that how it makes you feel?" Red pushes.
I wait a few minutes, continuing to caress the scar, then lock eyes with him. "No. It's a battle wound. Love is worth every little scar you get."
His eyes widen. "Even if the love is only one-sided?"
His question stings.
"It's not one-sided," I remind him. I drop my skirt and return to my seat.
He shuts the closet door and sits against the top of his desk. "Do you sleep through the night?"
"Sometimes."
"What about the times you can't sleep? What's stopping you from getting rest?" he inquires.
I absentmindedly admit, "I replay the same scenes over and over until my stomach knots so tight I can't sleep."
"How long have you gone without sleep?"
"Real sleep?" I clarify.
"Yes."
I count in my head and give up halfway. "Long enough that my days blur together."
"Are you eating?"
I shrug. "Enough to keep the machine running. Not enough to enjoy anything."
He steps closer, still standing, but the shift brings him into my space more fully. His body heat hums with energy under his shirt. I try not to stare at the way his chest moves as he breathes. He prods, "Have you lost weight?"
I smirk faintly. "If I say yes, will you tell me to put a number in my food-tracking app?"
"I'll tell you that severe restriction alters brain function. That, combined with the lack of sleep, worsens obsession and magnifies intrusive thoughts. It makes everything you're describing louder," he claims.
I beam, "So I should eat a sandwich and stop cutting myself. Excellent treatment plan, Dr. Mercer."
His mouth tightens. "You know that isn't what I'm saying."
I stay quiet.
He takes another step closer, then drops to one knee beside my chair.
The move punches the breath out of my lungs.
He doesn't touch me. He plants his hands on his own thighs, fingers spread wide.
The crease of his trousers pulls tight over his quads.
The shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint line at the corner of his mouth, the darker bracket between his brows get my pulse going again.
He states, "I want to understand what's happening before you cut yourself. Not just the part where you pick up the blade. The part right before, where your chest tightens and your head starts to spiral."
My stomach flips.
"You feel it at night, even when you don't cut yourself, too. Don't you?"
How does he know?
Vulnerability and manipulation braid easily, and I let my own voice thin.
The tremor that's been hovering finally threads through.
I say out loud what I never have before.
"When the lights are off, and he doesn't reply to my texts, I stare at his photos.
Then I see her. I want to kill her. I want to do it in front of him, so he knows that I'm the one who's saved him. "
Red doesn't flinch. "What else?"
My voice quivers. "There's a long, quiet corridor in my head where nothing happens unless I make it happen. I do not know what to do there. I do not know who I am in that space."
He swallows, and his Adam's apple bobs. "Is it fair to say you don't know who you are without your obsession? Without someone to pour yourself into?"
I consider his question and emotions catch in my chest. My eyes water, throwing me for surprise. I look away, trying to stop tears.
He turns my chin toward him, murmuring, "Who were you before Brax?"
The question hits like a trick step on a staircase. A tear slips.
He slides his thumb over it, encouraging, "It's okay. Tell me."
My insides quiver harder. I manage to get out, "I was the daughter who won. I had perfect grades, posture, and manners. I killed it in sports and after-school activities. I was the one who could make my mother laugh and my father proud. But it all felt fake."