12. Dmitri
Dmitri
Dr. Orlov’s knock interrupts my coffee, dragging me from thoughts of Katya that I shouldn’t be having this early in the morning.
“I brought someone,” he announces as I open the door, then gestures to the woman beside him. “This is Dr. Anya Sokolova, the trauma therapist Viktor Petrov recommended for your wife. She specializes in severe memory-loss cases.”
The woman extending her hand is probably mid-thirties, with auburn hair pulled back in a professional bun and intelligent brown eyes that I suspect miss nothing.
Viktor’s referrals are usually solid. He’s plugged into Moscow’s hospitals and back alleys both, and he knows who can keep their mouth shut. If he says she’s good, that means something.
She’s wearing a charcoal suit that screams competence, but something about her posture doesn’t quite scream doctor .
“Mr. Kozlov.” She greets me with a firm handshake. “Thank you for agreeing to this consultation.”
I hadn’t agreed to anything, but Orlov is already stepping inside like the decision has been made. “I thought professional counseling might help Katya process her condition more effectively.”
Katya emerges from the bedroom wearing jeans and a tight-fitting blouse. Her blue eyes sweep over the doctors, and her eyebrows draw together.
“Katya, this is Dr. Sokolova,” Orlov explains. “She’s here to discuss some therapeutic options that might help with your memory issues.”
“Another doctor,” she mutters, dropping onto the couch. “How many of you people are there?”
Sokolova pulls out a leather portfolio and responds, “As many as necessary. Your husband is… thorough.” The pause has teeth.
The way she says “husband” carries just enough emphasis to make Katya cock her head.
“What kind of therapy are we discussing?” she asks.
“We’ll start simple. Grounding. Exposure. Small triggers in a controlled setting. Your kind of memory loss doesn’t heal on its own.”
“And you’ve worked with similar cases?”
“Many. Government employees, military personnel, and civilians caught in violent situations.”
Government employees. The specificity catches Katya’s attention.
“What kind of government employees?” she asks.
Sokolova’s pen pauses over her notebook. “Diplomatic personnel, administrative staff, anyone whose work might expose them to dangerous situations overseas.”
Smooth recovery, but not smooth enough.
“Tell me about your physical responses,” Sokolova continues, focusing on Katya. “Any muscle memory that seems inconsistent with your background?”
Another oddly specific question. I watch Katya trace her index finger over her tattoo while she considers her answer.
“Sometimes, I react to situations in ways that surprise me. Like I know how to defend myself even though I shouldn’t.”
“Any flashbacks? Dreams about weapons. Combat.”
“Yes. Almost every night.”
“And Doctor Orlov has mentioned these dreams feel familiar rather than frightening?”
“Both. They’re terrifying because they feel so real, but familiar in a way that makes no sense.”
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “The subconscious often runs drills your conscious mind doesn’t understand. It’s not unusual for trauma victims to dream in patterns that feel like training.”
“So, my dreams might actually be memories?”
“It’s possible. You were involved in a violent incident, Mrs. Kozlov. Though distinguishing between genuine memories and trauma-induced fantasies requires careful analysis.”
I don’t like where this conversation is heading. Too many questions about violence, and too much focus on Katya’s physical responses.
“What kind of treatment are you recommending?” I interrupt.
“A session every couple of days, to start. Gradual exposure to triggers that might unlock suppressed memories.” Sokolova closes her notebook.
“And which triggers do you recommend for my wife?”
“That will depend on what emerges during our sessions.”
Katya stands and walks to the window. “What if I don’t want to remember? What if my life now is better than whatever came before?”
“That’s a decision only you can make,” Sokolova replies. “But suppressed memories have a way of surfacing whether or not we want them to. Controlled recovery is usually preferable to spontaneous breakthrough.”
The warning is clear enough. Either let her help Katya remember in a controlled environment, or risk having everything explode without warning.
“I’d like to schedule our first formal session for next week,” Sokolova announces as she gathers her materials.
After the doctors leave, Katya remains by the window with her shoulders tense and her fingers working overtime on that damn tattoo.
“How do you feel about the therapy suggestion?” I ask.
“Like I’m being dissected by people who know more about me than I know about myself.”
“Dr. Sokolova seemed knowledgeable.”
“Seemed like she was probing for specifics and calling it treatment. Did you notice how many of her questions focused on violence and government work?”
I had, but I’m surprised she picked it up, too. “Trauma therapists probably see a lot of unusual cases.”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe she knows exactly what kind of trauma I’ve experienced, and she’s testing to see how much I remember.”
“You think she knows about your past?”
“I think everyone knows more about my past than you’re telling me.” Katya crosses the room to stand in front of me. “Including you.”
“Whatever surfaces doesn’t matter. You’ve always been mine, kotyonok. And nothing you remember will change that.”
We’ve reached another crossroads. It’s either continue the deception or reveal another carefully measured piece of truth.
Either way, she’ll believe what I tell her because I won’t let her believe anything else.
“What I know about your past is that it involved dangerous people who wanted to hurt you. And I’m the only thing standing between you and them.”
“But you suspect more than you’re saying.”
When I don’t answer, Katya saunters closer, swishing her hips as she does. When she presses her body against mine, I suck in a breath. She’s switched tactics. Katya thinks that if she seduces me, it’ll make me more open.
Fuck me, it just might work.
“The things Dr. Sokolova said about memory recovery. What if remembering changes everything between us?”
“Then we’ll deal with whatever emerges.”
“I need to feel something real tonight. Something that isn’t built on questions I can’t answer.”
Her mouth meets mine with a desperate hunger, and I slam her back against the wall. This kiss isn’t gentle; it’s claiming. The need to mark and be marked.
Katya fists my shirt, dragging me closer. Her tongue demands mine. I take control, stealing her breath until she whimpers into my mouth.
“Here,” she gasps at my throat. “Now.”
The desperation in her voice makes me want to lose my mind. I spin her around and hold her against the wall, my body pressed to her back so she feels just how much I want her.
“Is this what you need?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
I shove her hair aside and bite down on her neck, licking and sucking until she’s trembling. My hands own every curve while she grinds back against me, reckless and wild.
She gasps. “You’re going to leave marks.”
“Good. I want everyone to see that you’re mine.”
I spin her and crush her mouth with mine, yanking her blouse up. Warm skin floods my palms, and my control hangs by a thread. She tears the shirt over her head and goes straight for my shirt with trembling fingers.
“I need you naked,” she breathes against my throat.
“Patience, kotyonok.”
Her jeans fight me, denim clinging stubbornly to her hips. I rip them down with her panties in one motion. “These are in my way,” I growl.
She laughs, breathless. “Then lose them.”
They join her shirt on the floor, leaving her gloriously naked except for a black bra that makes my mouth water and my cock throb.
I drag my lips down her throat while she fumbles with my belt. “I could get used to this taste,” I murmur against her skin.
“More,” she demands.
The moment she frees me, her hand wraps around my cock, squeezing just enough to make me groan.
“Careful, kotyonok,” I rasp. “You keep touching me like that, and I’ll fuck you senseless against this wall.”
She strokes me tighter, testing, and a hiss of pleasure escapes my lips. “See what you do to me? You barely lay a hand on me, and I’m ready to tear this place apart.”
She strokes me slowly, exploratively, and I worship her breasts through the black lace. When I push the fabric aside to take one rosy nipple into my mouth, she bows against the wall.
“More,” she gasps.
I rip her bra off and toss it aside, then slide my hand between her thighs. She’s already dripping for me, her slick coating my fingers as I stroke her pussy. The heat pouring off her makes my cock jerk in her grip. When she gasps and spreads wider, I don’t hesitate.
I circle her clit slowly at first, just enough to make her squirm. “Tell me what you need, kotyonok.”
“Your fingers. Inside me. Please.”
Her hips grind against my hand, desperate. I drag it out, teasing her with light touches until she’s whimpering and clawing at my shoulders. Then, I shove two fingers deep inside her, groaning when she clamps down around me.
“Like this?”
“Yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”
I finger her hard, pumping deep while my thumb grinds her clit. She bucks against my hand, but I won’t let her come until I decide.
“You’re so fucking tight around my fingers,” I growl.
“I’m close… I’m gonna…”
“Come for me now, kotyonok.”
She breaks apart with a scream, clenching around me so hard it steals the air from my chest. Her body convulses against mine, wet and trembling as I hold her through the quake.
“Dmitri!” she screams my name.
“Beautiful,” I breathe. “Absolutely perfect.”
She opens dazed eyes and fixes me with a look of pure hunger that makes my cock pulse with desperate need. “I want you inside me. Now.”
“Are you sure you’re ready for me?”
“God, yes… I need you inside me now.”
I haul her up, pinning her to the wall as her legs lock around my waist. My cock finds her entrance, and I drive into her in one brutal stroke. We both moan at the shock.
“You feel incredible,” I groan.
“Fuck… you’re so deep.”
I give her a moment to accommodate me, holding still despite every instinct screaming at me to move. When I start moving, each thrust is deep and relentless, making her cry out.
“Is this what you wanted?”
“Harder. I need more.”
I slam into her with enough force to make her eyes roll back and ask, “Like this?”
“Yes, exactly like that. Don’t stop.”
Every thrust shoves her higher up the wall, and I grip her thighs tightly to keep her there while I take her.
Her breasts bounce with each movement, driving me insane. I clamp my mouth over a nipple, biting and sucking while I fuck her hard. The mix of pain and pleasure makes her gasp.
“I love watching you fall apart for me,” I growl against her ear.
“I’m close… I can’t hold it,” she gasps.
“Come for me now, kotyonok. Let me feel you break on my cock.”
I pound into her harder, faster, chasing the fire that’s building at the base of my spine.
Her moans climb higher, raw and desperate, her body tightening around me as she reaches the edge. I slam into her just right, over and over, until she screams.
“I’m coming… oh God, I’m coming!”
“That’s it. Let go for me.”
She shatters with a scream, and the way she convulses around me drags me over with her, my vision going white as my release tears free.
“Katya,” I groan, spilling deep inside her.
We stay locked together, gasping, with sweat slicking our skin. Katya drops her head on my shoulder, and I feel her pulse hammering against my lips as I kiss her throat.
When I finally lower her, her legs won’t hold her. She clings to my shoulders, trembling, and it makes my cock twitch all over again.
“That was…” she whispers.
“Incredible,” I finish for her.
Her eyes search mine. “Are you okay?”
“Better than okay. You’re fucking perfect.”
I hold her close, still buried in the heat of her body, and the truth hits me like a bullet: I’ve orchestrated my downfall.
Alexandra Volkova will be my ruin. And the worst part is, I don’t give a damn.