Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Red
The condo is too quiet after what I did. It presses inward, collapsing space instead of opening it, amplifying thoughts I've spent years training myself to intercept before they take shape.
It's the opposite of what sprawls beyond my floor-to-ceiling glass. Chicago's all-steel ribs, veins of light, and constant motion glare against the contrast of my normal, peaceful home.
I pour another finger of Scotch. It's expensive enough that it should be savored slowly, yet I don't sip it with appreciation. I drink it for the burn, to give my body something concrete to register, and to let it interrupt the static humming beneath my skin.
My thought circles endlessly, like a blade carving a groove into bone. I told her I'd chosen wrong because it was the only thing sharp enough to end the session and stop what was unfolding in my office before it crossed a line I wouldn't be able to redraw afterward.
I almost crossed it for her.
I almost crossed it for myself.
I press my thumb against the rim of the glass, watching condensation gather and slide.
My grip tightens, and the memory won't stay buried.
It's the same problem I've always had. My thoughts wait patiently, for moments like this when quiet, isolation, and alcohol allow them to surface, then attack me until I feel unable to deal appropriately with them.
Everything hits fast. Blue's under my desk, her mouth's on my cock, and her eyes...
"Fuck," I mutter, and take another swallow that stings, but it doesn't burn the image of her looking up at me like she already owned something I hadn't admitted I'd given her. She dared me to say no and watched carefully to see if I could.
I failed.
I set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound snaps through the room. I turn away from the city and stare at my phone, which sits face down on the counter. Then I glance at the clock.
It's been an hour since my phone chirped. I've not looked at her message, showing restraint, control, and professional distance.
It's been long enough.
It hasn't.
I stand, hold myself back from sprinting into the kitchen, and flip the phone over.
Blue: My parents will be at our next session.
I go perfectly still, and it's like every instinct in me slams into reinforced glass. There's a sharp pull low in my gut, heat crawling up my spine, and my legs prime to move even as my mind clamps down hard.
What rattles me isn't the text itself. It's the precision and timing of it. She didn't ask, apologize, or reach for reassurance. She asserted presence. And beneath the irritation and the familiar surge of control snapping back into place, something darker and far more dangerous settles inside me.
She's not spiraling.
She's playing.
The part of me I've spent years disciplining feels awake, alert, and deeply, disturbingly interested in whatever game Blue has planned.
I scrub my hand over my face and curse, "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
The words settle cold and precise in my chest. I huff out a breath that isn't quite a laugh.
Of course she would do this. Of course she'd escalate by disguising it as compliance and drag witnesses into the room. She's shifting the power dynamic and forcing me into a position where terminating treatment looks punitive instead of necessary.
She's forcing me to stay.
I take another drink, slower this time, letting it coat my tongue and throat. The heat spreads, dulling nothing, sharpening everything. She's studied me and learned where I hesitate. She thinks she knows what I won't do if there are eyes on me besides hers.
A loud chirp blares out of my phone. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I slowly glance down.
Blue: I left you a present in your office. You should get a better lock.
My pulse skyrockets. I finish my Scotch, grab the bottle, and move down the hall, stepping into the spare bedroom that I use as my home office. I don't turn on the lights. The glow of the city is enough to illuminate the room, and the locked drawer beneath the desk catches the light.
I stop in front of it, pull my set of keys out of my pocket, and unlock it. The drawer slides out smoothly, revealing an oversized blue envelope.
My pulse kicks once, hard enough that I feel it in my wrists, and I welcome it instead of tamping it down. The anticipation sharpens my focus, stripping away hesitation until there's only forward motion left.
I unclasp the back of the envelope and pull out a thick stack of printed 8x10 photos.
The first one is Blue, laughing on a sidewalk, head tipped back, beaming with not a care in the world. I study it, not seeing any resemblance to the woman who's often distraught.
I thumb through the photos slowly, my chest thumping harder with each image.
Blue looks over her shoulder, as if she senses she's being watched and likes it.
Then she's inside a restaurant, in a dress that makes my hands itch with the memory of fabric clinging to skin I've never touched the way I want to.
Fuck. I want her.
The revelation isn't new or sudden, but I'm too educated on desire and obsession to lie to myself.
I flip through the stack, slowly taking each photo in, as Blue slowly wears less and less until she's in nothing but the white lingerie she claims she made for me.
My mouth waters, and I stare at the lace, clinging to her breasts, barely covering her pussy.
I sink into my chair, putting the photos across my desk, with the four of her in the white lingerie directly in front of me, memorizing the curve of her ass and waist until they're engraved in my mind.
I pick up the fifth, drink three large gulps directly from the bottle, and drag a finger on a photo over Blue's pussy.
"Fuck, Bluebird. I hate you for this," I mumble, but it's a lie.
Our relationship has evolved and sharpened.
It's grown teeth, and I shouldn't want any part of it.
But the burn in my gut isn't from Scotch.
It's from the monster inside me who doesn't want any part of the man I'm fighting to be with Blue.
The demon wants my patient, in the white lingerie she made for me, and in positions I have no business engaging in with her.
I tap my phone's screen and reread her text.
Blue: My parents will be at our next session.
The longer I stare at her message, the more twisted my thoughts turn.
I shouldn't want her parents in that room. Not after what happened today. Not after she snuck into my house, planted photos in my locked drawer, and instead of being angry, I'm salivating at the mouth.
The images form anyway, vivid and uninvited, of Blue seated between her parents, posture rigid, eyes flicking to me not for reassurance but alignment and permission. Then there's me holding the structure.
Holding her without touching her.
The thought tightens something low and dangerous in my gut. It's control, not over her but over the environment and narrative, what is and isn't allowed to exist between us.
My jaw locks. I put the photos back into the envelope, slide the drawer shut, and lock it with a decisive click. But the images are already burned behind my eyes. They don't need access to paper to exist.
I return to the kitchen with the Scotch, pour four fingers in my tumbler, and lift it, my reflection warping through amber liquid.
I tell myself this is the last one. It's just another lie. I step in front of the window, staring down at the street, at the slow crawl of headlights and shadows, and the question arrives uninvited.
Is she down there watching me?
Does she know I've seen her photos?
A new realization settles quietly, without panic or resistance. For the first time, I don't recoil when I should. I don't even tense. Something in me eases instead, aligning like a mechanism clicking into place.
The thought of her eyes on me doesn't feel like exposure. It feels like confirmation and acknowledgment.
And right now, I don't want privacy. I want to be seen, calibrated against her attention. Hell, even measured by it.
"Where are you, my little Bluebird?"
My gaze darts across the street. The Scotch barely burns my throat. A new understanding takes root.
It's not a fear of being observed that's been haunting me tonight. It's the absence of it.
A chirp tears me out of my trance. Adrenaline spikes, and I tear myself away from the window and grab my phone.
Blue: Which one is your favorite?
My pulse pounds between my ears. I step in front of the window again, eagerly looking, but I don't see her anywhere.
Another chirp erupts.
I glance at my screen.
Blue: Look in your nightstand.
My heart beats so hard that my vision sharpens.
Heat curls low in my abdomen as if something long-starved just caught the scent of blood.
The thought of her watching me—really watching—doesn't tighten my restraint.
It loosens it, strips something feral free, and I have to brace my hand against the window to keep from smiling at how badly I want it.
She knows exactly what she's doing.
She always has.
That's the part of her that both fascinates and terrifies me. She's precise. She adapts. She moves pieces without appearing to touch the board.
Blue isn't spiraling. She's positioning. And if I'm brutally honest, I don't want to stop her. I should put on my professional hat and try my damnedest. But I can't. And the truth sinks into me, taking hold with new life.
I want to see how far Blue will take this with me.
Not with Brax or any other man.
With me.
The thought lands and stays, heavy and undeniable. I drain the glass, set it down, and stare out at the city again. The lights blink, indifferent, endless.
Another chirp rings out.
Blue: Go on. Look in your nightstand, Dr. Mercer.
She's watching me.