Chapter 5 #2
"And how did Brax change that?"
I open my mouth, then shut it. My throat burns. My vision blurs at the edges. I stare at my hands, then offer, "I've always known him. But one day, I felt like he saw me. He didn't expect perfect or anything really. He just looked at me like no one else ever had."
Red stares at me, without judgment, which hits me. It messes with my emotions again.
I whisper, "Do you think I'm crazy because when I want something, I go after it and don't stop until I get it?"
Red's eyes soften, almost into grief. "No. You aren't crazy. Obsession appeals to you because you've been striving to win your entire life."
"Ivanovs win. They don't lose," I state proudly.
"At what cost?" he asks.
I don't answer, unsure how anything but winning is an option.
"Blue, what other ways do you hurt yourself?"
The room tilts slightly.
I've told him too much.
"Blue?"
"I don't hurt myself.
"Don't lie to me. I need context. What did you do before you pushed that knife into your hip?" he encourages.
I take a minute, then confess, "It started with scratching, not with knives, with my own nails.
I would drag them over the inside of my forearms until the skin turned red, then raw.
I told myself I was fidgeting. Then I started using safety pins.
I'd make tiny pricks until beads of blood popped up and I could cover them with bracelets.
Each one was a moment where my brain zipped back into my body. "
"What were you thinking about when you did that?" Red shifts closer.
I laugh under my breath, short and bitter. "The first time, I was thinking about how unfair my dad was. He caught me kissing a boy behind my mom's office and lost it."
"What do you mean he lost it?"
I shrug. "I don't know. He talked with him, and after that, Christian wouldn't even look at me."
His expression shifts, but it's not aimed at me. It shoots somewhere behind me, toward ghosts and parents. It's not the lust I expected to see tonight. It's protective fury.
He drops another question that's more like a statement. "So after you lost Christian, you decided you weren't going to lose Brax?"
I inhale sharply.
"Is that how you felt, Blue?" he quietly asks.
I nod, then tease, "Look at you figuring me out. You're going to ruin me for other men, Dr. Mercer."
He gives me a look I can't decipher. The corners of his mouth twitch like he is holding on to a thousand unsaid things. Then he exhales. "We need structure."
My spine straightens. I groan. "And we were having so much fun tonight."
His voice turns stern. "I want to help you, Blue. I think I can, but no more LinkedIn messages. No more manipulating my staff or harming yourself to shock me. If any of that continues, I will not be able to treat you. I will have to refer you to another therapist."
I stay quiet.
His eyes betray him. His gaze slips, just a fraction. It moves to my throat where my pulse jumps. Then it darts to my knees, and the place on my skirt that hid what I had already shown him once.
It might be the hottest thing I've ever seen.
His boundaries are foreplay.
"I like it when you tell me what to do," I say quietly.
His head jerks. "This is not a game."
"What if it's both? What if structure turns you on as much as it frightens me?"
"That is not what is happening," he insists.
I tilt my head. Heat rolls through my stomach. I soften my tone. "What did you feel when you touched my thigh?"
He pauses mid-breath.
I push, "Tell me."
"Do I need to get another therapist for you?" he threatens.
"That is an interesting way to dodge the question," I retort. Triumph and something dangerously close to tenderness flood me at the same time. I sit back a fraction, giving him space he didn't earn but so desperately needs.
Then I add, "I don't want another therapist. I want you."
His jaw twitches. He stays silent.
"So you'll help me?" I ask, afraid he might send me to someone else. I add, "I agree to your boundaries."
"You do?" he cautiously asks.
Of course not.
I nod, shooting him my most innocent expression. "Promise. I... I want to get better."
He releases a breath, rocks back onto his heels, then pushes to stand. "This session is over."
He doesn't go to the door, but instead, stands in front of the window. He stares at the street far below. His shoulders tighten, the line of his back is rigid beneath his dress shirt.
I watch him for a long moment, then rise slowly. My legs shake, but I move anyway. I cross the room, each step measured, stopping with a sliver of space between us.
I don't touch him. "You said earlier you want to keep me safe. You also said you want to keep yourself safe. Maybe we could admit neither of us knows how to do that around each other yet."
He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them, gaze still on the world outside. "You're not a puzzle I'm here to solve for my own curiosity. I'm not a character in your fantasy. This isn't a mutual experiment."
I offer, "Then let me say this without any game.
I'm trying to understand what normal attraction looks like.
" The words scrape their way out from a strange, raw place.
I continue, "I grew up surrounded by seduction and strategy.
Nothing was simple. Every dress was chosen to send a message.
Every smile carried five different meanings.
Every man I met saw 'Ivanov' before he saw me.
Brax is the only one I ever wanted who claimed to not want me, but that was a challenge I knew I'd win. "
His eyes turn to slits. His words slap me in the face. "You aren't winning him. His wife won him."
My pulse slams between my ears. I count the three tiny lines near his eyes, and admit, "I don't know how to want someone in a way that isn't war.
But I want someone who sees all of me, not just the performance.
And I want to figure out how to be wanted for all of me, not just the parts a man accepts as perfect. "
His eyes lock into mine, as if seeing me fully for the first time. He offers, "You deserve to be wanted for all of you."
My stomach drops. For a second, I can't breathe. I whisper, "Do not say things like that. You don't know what that sentence does in my head."
He swallows. I catch the tiny tremor in his throat, the one he tries so hard to hide. He reprimands, "That sentence is not about me. It is about you. It is about basic human dignity."
My heart throws itself against my ribs.
He looks down, toward my legs, then back up quickly. "Please don't cut yourself anymore."
"Okay."
"Promise me?"
I nod. "All right. I promise. No cutting."
Relief fills his expression. Then he hesitates.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
He takes several calculated breaths.
"Red?" I ask.
"Dr. Mercer," he reminds me.
I clear my throat. "Sorry. Dr. Mercer."
An internal war occurs, then he states, "I'm going to give you my number. It's only to be used in an emergency. If you feel like cutting yourself, call me before you put the knife in your hand. Understand?"
He's giving me his cell phone?
"Yes."
"Blue, I'm not joking. It's only to be used in the case of an emergency."
"I understand," I affirm.
"Don't make me regret this," he warns.
"You won't," I assure him, giddy inside.
He goes to his desk, scribbles on the back of his business card, and holds it toward me.
I reach for it, but he moves it higher.
"When do you use this?"
"Emergency only," I answer.
He hesitates another moment, but finally lowers the card.
I snap it out of his hand and put it in my purse before he can change his mind. Then I tease, "It's not a fake number, is it?"
He laughs, and my flutters take off. He shakes his head. "No. It's mine."
"Phew. Wouldn't want to call the wrong person and tell them I'm about to cut myself," I joke.
"Blue, that's not funny," he scolds, his face falling.
"Lighten up. It's a joke."
He doesn't say anything, moves toward the door, and opens it.
I walk toward him, purse strap digging into my shoulder, heart almost as loud as my heels once they hit the hallway. At the threshold, I pause.
He arches his eyebrows.
I ask, "If I weren't your patient, would you buy me a drink at a bar?"
A muscle jumps in his throat. His eyes flash something raw and unguarded for one single, perfect beat.
Silence wraps around us, heavy as an oath.
I smile, small and sharp. "Thought so." I walk out before he demands his cell phone number back.
By the time I reach the elevator, my hands shake so badly I have to hit the button twice. The doors close, boxing me into mirrored metal and humming cables.
I stare at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright, and my lips parted slightly like I just stepped away from a kiss instead of from a man who spent more time telling me what he will not do than anything else.
I press my palm against my thigh through the skirt, right over the covered cut. The skin is tender, and it throbs, syncing with my heartbeat.
Every breath he took unspools behind my eyes. The elevator opens, and a laugh slips out of me, low and breathless.
"I will not be good next time," I say into the empty lift. "You and I both know that."
The words hang over me with sweet relief.
Today, he wanted me.
He can hide behind ethics and structure and every rule in his thick, pristine policies, but I saw it in his eyes, his throat, and his hands.
Dr. Red Mercer is no longer a man my parents think can save me from what disappoints them.
He's the man who'll bleed for me before this is over.