Page 26 of Imprisoned

“I could lose my license.” But even as I say it, I know it’s a weak protest. The real fear isn’t losing my career—it’s losing myself to the dark desires he stirs in me.

“You could gain so much more.” His voice drops lower. “Stop fighting it. We both know where this ends.”

My hands shake as I grip the arms of my chair. The right thing to do is so clear and so simple: End the session, report his behavior, destroy the tape, Hope Martinez doesn’t talk, and request a transfer to different patients.

Instead, I sit here, caught between duty and desire, watching the clock tick down the minutes of our session while my resolve crumbles like sand.

I clear my throat, summoning every ounce of professional authority I can muster. “We have two options here, Mr. Morrison. We can either sit in silence for the remainder of this session, or you can answer my questions about your childhood experiences. Your choice.”

My voice comes out steadier than I expected, given how my heart pounds against my ribs. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away despite the heat crawling up my neck.

Axel studies me for a long moment, his green eyes searching my face. The silence stretches between us, thick with tension. Just when I think he’ll continue pushing, his posture shifts.

“Very well.” He settles back in his chair, chains clinking. “Ask your questions.”

Relief floods me, though I immediately question why I feel relieved. I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to be alone with him—bribed Martinez, disabled the surveillance, stolen recordings to listen to in the darkness of my bedroom. I’ve crossed line after line, each transgression easier than the last.

Yet some small part of me still clings to the illusion that I’m in control and could walk away if I wanted to. This contradiction keeps me in delicious tension—wanting him desperately while pretending I don’t.

“Let’s return to what you mentioned about your father. You said he would come home drunk most nights?”

“Every night.” Axel’s voice loses its seductive edge, turning flat and cold. “He’d stumble in around midnight, reeking of cheap whiskey and cigarettes.”

I pick up my pen, grateful to have something to focus on besides those piercing eyes. “And how old were you when this started?”

“Young. Maybe five or six.” He shrugs, the gesture at odds with the darkness clouding his features. “Hard to remember exactly. It all blurs together after a while.”

I lean forward, noting the shift in Axel’s demeanor. His usual confident posture tightens, and his muscles coil like a spring ready to snap. “The police reports mention your father was violent.”

His jaw clenches. The chains rattle as his hands curl into fists.

“I don’t talk about that.”

“It might help to?—”

“I said no.” His eyes flash, and for a moment, I glimpse something brutal beneath the mask he wears. He jerks against the restraints, making me flinch. A harsh laugh escapes him. “What, scared of me now, little pixie?”

I force myself to stay calm despite my racing pulse. “Not scared. Concerned. Your reaction suggests significant trauma.”

“Trauma?” He spits the word like poison. “You want to know about trauma? Try watching your mother bleed on the kitchen floor while that bastard—” He cuts himself off, chest heaving.

The room feels too small, too close. Sweat beads on his forehead as his eyes dart around, seeing something beyond these walls. His breathing turns ragged.

“They’re not real,” he mutters, shaking his head. “They’re not fucking real.”

“What’s not real, Axel?”

“The shadows.” His voice shifts, younger somehow. “They move when he’s angry. Dance on the walls like—” He jerks violently, chains clanking. “No. We’re done here.”

The mask slams back into place, but I’ve seen beneath it, seen the broken child still trapped in those memories. The hardened killer transforms back into my dangerous patient, but the glimpse of vulnerability lingers in the air between us.

“Same time next time, doctor.” His tone is controlled again, but his hands still shake slightly. “Unless you’d prefer to continue our... other discussion?”

“No.” I shake my head, surprised by the firmness in my tone. “Our relationship is strictly professional. I won’t discuss anything beyond that.”

His eyes glitter with amusement. “For now.”

I press the intercom button. “Guards, please escort Mr. Morrison back to his cell.”

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