Page 14 of Imprisoned

They don't mention how alluring his bright green eyes are. The way his voice drops to a velvet rumble when he says my name—not "Dr. Matthews," but "Willow," like he's tasting each syllable. The evaluations don't capture how the prison uniform stretches across his shoulders or how the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when he catches me looking.

I toss the phone aside and press my palms against my eyes. This istextbook. He's playing me, and I'm responding exactly as he wants. I've studied this. I've warned patients about this exact pattern. And yet...

The truth twists inside me, uncomfortable and persistent. I'm drawn to Axel not despite what he is but because of it. His darkness calls to something deep within me—something I've spent years denying, suppressing, and pretending doesn't exist.

While my friends fantasized about romantic movie moments in college, my dreams were always... different. I channeled thoseimpulses into my studies, telling myself I was purely interested in the criminal mind from an academic perspective.

But Axel sees through that. He recognized it the moment he walked in—the shadow self I've hidden from everyone.

I'm not sure I can maintain boundaries with him, not when he embodies everything I've secretly craved—the danger, the taboo, the thrill of standing at the edge of an abyss. It feels like an impossibility when he's so unnervingly gorgeous, so precisely calibrated to my most depraved fantasies, especially when a part of me wants to fall head-long into that abyss.

7

AXEL

The chains around my wrists clink with each step. The guards flank me like they always do—two meatheads who think their badges make them invincible. Idiots.

My mind drifts back to Dr. Matthews. She is so beautiful. Willow is trying desperately to hide her reactions to my constant descriptive dialogue about everything I want to do to her, but I sense that after four weeks of sessions, she’s being worn down.

“Move it, Morrison.” The guard shoves my shoulder.

I flash him my sweetest smile. “Careful there, Jenkins. Wouldn’t want to bruise the merchandise before my session with the good doctor.”

Her scent still lingers in my memory—orange blossom and cherry. Sweet. Clean. Pure. For now. The thought of corrupting that purity makes my blood sing.

Twenty-two hours locked away, but these two hours with her make it worth every second. I’ve had my share of prison shrinks. They’re all the same. Clinical. Detached. But Willow? She’s got her own demons she wrestles. Even if she won’t admit it yet—I see it.

We reach the office door. Jenkins pats me down, rough and thorough.

“She’s different,” I say, just to watch him squirm. “Special.”

“Shut your mouth.” He yanks the chains.

Every time we have a session, it’s the same. Willow approaches me with her usual bullshit psychoanalysis questions, and I tell her in graphic detail what I want to do to her. Willow has the same obvious tells—crossing and uncrossing her legs when she’s aroused. Staring at my lips or tattoos when she thinks I’m not aware, and sometimes, I’ve even caught her licking her lips in response to particularly dirty scenarios I cook up for her.

The door opens. My pulse quickens from anticipation. Time to peel back another layer of Dr. Matthews’ carefully constructed walls. Time to watch her pretend she’s not attracted to the monster in chains.

Once I’m secured in my seat, restrained before her, she sits across from me. She’s poised over her notebook like a shield. Her blonde hair catches the fluorescent light, creating a halo effect that makes me want to laugh at the irony.

“How have you been since our last session, Mr. Morrison?”

Willow tries so hard to ignore the electricity crackling between us. I lean back, causing the plastic chair to creak under my weight.

“Back to formalities? After everything I share with you each time we have a session?” I click my tongue. “That hurts, Doc. At least call me Axel.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—a nervous tell.

“I’d like to focus on your progress. Have you been practicing the coping mechanisms we discussed?”

“Coping mechanisms? Do you mean like what you did after our last session? Alone?”

Her cheeks flush that delicious shade of pink. It was a good guess. She clears her throat, scribbling something in her notebook.

“Mr. Morrison, if you’re not willing to engage productively?—”

“Oh, I’m willing to engage, but let’s not pretend you’re only interested in my mental health. We both know better.”

She straightens. “Your deflection through inappropriate comments suggests resistance to therapeutic progress.”

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