Chapter 18 #2
Blue: I'm sorry, Dr. Mercer. I guess I'm really upset and not sure how to handle everything we discussed. I'm scared I'll do more tonight. I don't feel in control.
My pulse kicks hard, then settles into a steady, deliberate rhythm. The city's noise fades, replaced by a single, narrowing focus.
This is no longer about boundaries.
It's about risk.
My fingers move without hesitation.
Me: Are you alone?
Blue: Yes.
My breath slows, and the static under my skin stays steady. I should check her into a hospital since she's harming herself, but my fingers swipe the screen.
It rings once, and Blue breathes, "I'm sorry."
"Where are you?" I ask.
"Home."
"What room?" I prod, unlock my car, and pull out of the lot.
Her voice shakes. "My bedroom."
"Okay. Where are the knives and pins?"
She hesitates, then faintly sniffles.
"Blue, I'm on my way, but I need you to talk to me. Tell me where they are," I direct and grip the wheel harder, accelerating across the intersection.
She takes a deep inhale and slowly exhales, then answers, "Next to me."
I turn on my blinker and order, "Good. Now leave them there and go into your kitchen."
"Why?"
"Please do what I say," I reply, needing her to get away from anything that can injure her.
"Okay."
I wait a few seconds, then ask, "Are you in the kitchen?"
"Yes."
"Great. You're doing great. Now fill a glass of water and take it to the couch."
A soft, hollow rush bleeds through the phone, distant and echoing, then stops.
"Okay. I'm taking it to the couch now," she says, her tone strained.
I pass two cars and praise, "That's good. Are you hot or cold?"
"A little chilly."
"Put the blanket over you and sip your water. I'm a few blocks away," I inform her, then move into the right lane.
Her meek voice creates a pain in my chest. "I'm sorry. I-I really tried to stop myself."
"It's okay. Try to sip some more water. I'm turning on your street now. Can you tell your security to let me up?"
"The code is 10-28. Th-thanks for coming, Dr. Mercer."
There's no street parking, so I ask, "Is there guest parking in your garage?"
"Use my extra spot. It's 586, on the fifth level," she instructs.
I guide the car around the ramp until number five appears, then find the row with 586. I drive to the spot, pull in, and turn off the car. "I'm coming in now," I state, find the door, and punch in 10-28, and the hairs on my neck rise.
The door unlocks. I yank it open and blurt out, "How long have you had that code?"
A quick, unsteady breath drags moisture back into her nose. She chirps, "You noticed?"
"Noticed what?" I carefully ask, stepping inside and moving down the hallway.
"That I changed my security code to your birthday."
A sick twist of approval fills me. I try to shake it off, but can't. My voice comes out gruff. "Yes."
She adds, "I can't wait for your birthday. I already know what I'm getting you."
"Blue—"
"Don't give me your therapist/patient speech. Please. Not now," she begs.
I stay silent, cursing myself for getting into this situation with her. It's my fault. I crossed the line and kissed her.
She continues, "Are you inside yet?"
I step in front of her unit and answer, "Yes. Outside your door."
It whips open.
She keeps the phone to her ear, and a tiny smile appears, illuminating her wet cheeks, red eyes, and clumped lashes. She shyly greets, "Hi."
We stare at each other across the threshold. I don't move, afraid of what might happen if I go any further. My training is supposed to override instinct. I'm meant to reassess, redirect, call for backup, and choose distance over proximity when caring for my patient.
She's more than a patient.
She can't be.
My chest tightens.
"Hi," she says again, softer this time, like the word costs her something.
My hand lifts, then stalls in the air between us. I lower it slowly. "May I come in?" I ask, praying I sound professional.
"Of course you can. You're allowed to come here whenever you want. Even if I'm not here. Just come in and wait for me, and you'll make my day." She beams, and steps back.
My heart pounds harder as I process what she just said.
It's wrong.
I'm here to help her, then go home.
I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. Citrus and soap fill the air. The living room is magazine-ready, with multicolored blue pillows aligned, a thick, hardback fashion book on the coffee table, and a jar candle lit next to it.
She slides in front of me, and her black oversized sweater falls over her bare shoulder. The hem brushes the top of her thighs, skimming her bare legs.
"Blue, are you okay?" I firmly question. My gaze drifts to the black material hiding her pin marks, then I study her face.
She opens her mouth, then shuts it. She bites on her shaking lip and tilts her head. Her eyes fill with more tears. She blinks hard, then looks away. "I-I'm sorry, Dr. Mercer. I really did try."
I take a breath and ground myself in procedure. "Can you show me where you're hurt?"
She slowly meets my stare. Humiliation, shame, and darkness fill her expression. She steps closer and asks, "Do you want something to drink?"
"I want to make sure you're alright."
"Are you mad at me?"
I shake my head. "Mad? No. I'm concerned and want to make sure you're safe."
"I'm safe now that you're here." She blinks a few times, and a tear falls. She swipes at it and says, "Thank you."
I step closer and put my hand on her cheek. "Blue, can I see what you did?"
She takes a shaky breath. "It's okay. I didn't use the knife."
"I still want to see it. Can I? Please?" I plead, forcing myself not to rip her shirt up so I can assess the damage.
She hesitates, but finally asks, "Can you sit on the couch at least?"
I agree, "Sure. Whatever makes you comfortable."
She grabs my hand, leads me to the couch, and points to the middle cushion, ordering, "Please sit, Dr. Mercer."
Nerves erupt in my belly. I take a seat and wait for her to sit next to me.
She steps between my legs and holds the hem of her sweater. "Are you sure you need to see this? It's an ugly part of me right now."
My pulse thuds between my ears. A sharp awareness tightens low in my abdomen, and an unwelcome heat coils through me. My fingers flex on my thighs, as my instinct collides with the restraint that doesn't seem to be strong enough.
Every nerve feels tuned in to her. The whisper of fabric in her hands, the faint tremor in her stance, the way her eyes carry so much emotion I haven't seen before, all pull me into a trance.
I tell myself to stay still and professional, even as my body strains forward with a protective urgency that feels dangerously close to want.
A low rumble hits my chest when I speak.
"You could never be ugly, Bluebird. Now show me. "
Her eyes widen.
Fuck. Why did I say that out loud?
Tense silence erupts between us.
I reach for her hand, begging, "Please."
She releases an emotion-filled breath and nods, slowly lifting the hem of her sweater.
She stops right below her ribs, showcasing a pair of baby-girl-pink lace panties, bare legs pale against the couch cushion, and the soft curve of her stomach marked with scattered pinprick blooms. Tiny red dots stand out starkly against her smooth skin, both delicate and unsettling all at once.
Some are darker, some fresher, and they make a constellation of red that tightens my chest in a way I don't have language for.
It's not gore or chaos. It's control and intent.
The sight hits me harder than I expect. I lean forward before I realize I'm moving, and slide my hands over her hips, brushing my thumbs over a few marks.
She inhales sharply, her stomach shaking.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to touch—"
She puts her hands on mine and forces them back onto her skin. "Yes, you did. And it's okay. Don't pull away from me, Red. Not now. I don't need your distance. I need you here. Touching me...just like this."
Warmth radiates up into my hand, with too much awareness rushing from her stomach and palms. I fight my demons, anchored to her, unable to pull away.
She closes the remaining space so her belly is an inch from my face. A sweet scent, unmistakably her perfume but mixed with what has to be her pussy, intoxicates me like Satan himself. I mutter, "Jesus Christ, Blue." I slowly look up.
Her breath hitches sharply before she forces it back down. Her eyes flutter closed for half a second, then open again, wide and glossy, fixed on me.
I should pull away, but I can't. I'm locked into her spell, too aware she's half naked and so damn beautiful even when she's suffering. To deflect, I ask, "Still cold?" even though she's radiating heat into me.
She shakes her head. "No."
I force myself to look at her wounds, inquiring, "Does your stomach hurt?"
Another shake. "No. Not anymore."
My jaw tightens. I try to move my hands and get a few inches before she repins them to her body, repositioning part of my hand over the barely-there lace panties.
I swallow hard. My eyes drift between her thighs, and I inhale deeper to take in her scent.
The air between us crackles, charged in a way that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with restraint I can't seem to locate.
"Are you proud of me for not using the knife?" she asks.
I slide my hands down her outer thighs and create space between us, sitting as far back as I can and releasing her, then snap back into therapist mode. "Yes. But I don't want you harming yourself with pins either."
"It's not permanent," she argues, and runs her fingertips near her belly button.
A low throb grows more forceful in my balls. I state, "That doesn't mean it's okay. And this tells me you're overwhelmed. That's on me. I didn't realize we went too deep today."
She tilts her head and furrows her forehead. "This isn't on you. I did this. You just did your job."
"I must have pushed you too hard."
She shakes her head, then straddles me before I know what's happening. My lungs seize, and she blinks hard, her eyes filling with fresh tears. In a tiny voice, she manages, "I don't want to do it again."
"I know you don't." Unable to stop, I reach up and tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear.
"Do I repulse you? Now that you saw the marks?" she vulnerably asks.
I struggle to find the right thing to say.
"I do. It's okay. I understand," she claims, as if I just broke her heart.
I slide my hand into her hair, locking my palm around her head and firmly declaring, "No, Bluebird. You're as tempting as always."
Her lips twitch. "Tempting?"
"You know you are," I deadpan.
She drags her finger over my Adam's apple. "Why do you have to fight it, then?"
An incoherent sound rumbles in my throat. My cock throbs against my pants and her pussy.
She shakes her head. "I didn't mean to do this tonight. I promise you, Red. I didn't. But there's more to me. I'm not just a fucked-up girl. There's so much more, and she's worthy of you. I promise you she is."
I caress the back of her head with my thumb. "I never said you weren't worthy."
"Then why fight us?" she asks.
I close my eyes, trying to calm my skyrocketing pulse. "You know why."
She leans into my ear. Her breath wreaks more havoc on my body. She whispers, "You're human, Red. You have needs just like other men. And you want me to fulfill them. I know you do. So stop fighting it. Stop fighting us." Her tongue hits my lobe, and a shot of tingles runs down my spine.
I groan, secure my other hand on her ass, then mutter, "Fuck," when I realize she's in a thong. Instead of pulling away, I caress her cheeks and stare at her.
Her eyes lower to my lips. She distractedly asserts, "I need you, Dr. Mercer. You're the only one who can help me. Please. Don't try to send me to another therapist, and don't tell yourself you can't have me. You can."
"Blue—"
She cuts me off by pressing her lips to mine and sliding her tongue into my mouth. Her hands fly to my head, and she lifts her ass, leaning her face over mine and taking total control of our kisses.
I don't fight her. I dive into it, letting her lead, unable to break the trance she's put me in.
She flicks her tongue, grinds her hips over me, and runs her thumb under my lobe.
Adrenaline pounds through me with force. I kiss her back, sliding my hand under her shirt and over her braless back.
She trembles in my mouth, whimpering.
I drag my hand to the front of her, caressing the underside of her breast, then playing with her nipple until it's rock-hard.
"Red," she whispers.
Jesus. What am I doing?
I push her back.
"What's wrong?" she asks, breathing hard.
I struggle to find my own, and close my eyes for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts while keeping a firm hold on her so she doesn't kiss me again.
"Am I wrong and you don't like me?" she murmurs in a hurt tone.
I meet her gaze. "You know it's not about liking you."
She tilts her head, her eyes tearful again.
"Shit. Come here." I tug her over my lap and hold her against me so she's not straddling me anymore.
Her body continues to shudder.
I stroke the side of her head and state, "You hurt yourself tonight. I came here to make sure you're safe."
"I am as long as you're here," she mumbles.
"Look at me," I softly order.
Her sad, confused, scared expression meets mine.
It sends a dangerous warmth through my chest. I keep my voice low and steady. "We're going to slow things down. You're safe right now. I'm here."
"Slow it down? So you're not ending it?" she asks.
Warning bells ring loudly in my head. I know what the proper response is and what I have to do. The only solution is to transfer her to another therapist and tell her I've been a horrible man and to stop fantasizing. There can never be anything real between us.
I don't do either.
Instead, I kiss the top of her head and reply, "I'm going to make sure you're safe tonight. If I didn't focus on that, I would never forgive myself. Can you understand that, Bluebird?"
Her breath evens out, inch by inch, like she's syncing to the cadence of my words. The chemistry between us hums under the surface, undeniable, unspoken, something I refuse to name.
Slowly, she looks up at me. "Okay, Red. We'll do it your way tonight."