Page 12 of Imprisoned

And I let him play me. Worse—I took that manipulation home with me, let it poison my thoughts until I...

Bile rises in my throat. I grip the sink, trying to steady myself. I’m supposed to be helping rehabilitate him, not fantasizing about him fucking me.

What kind of psychologist am I?

I should be dialing Eleanor’s number right now to ask to be taken off his case. The idea makes my jaw clench at the mere thought of explaining why. A treacherous part of me rebels at never seeing him again.

“You’re better than this,” I tell my reflection. But the woman staring back at me looks unconvinced, her lips still swollen from biting them during self-induced pleasure.

I sink to the bathroom floor, hugging my knees to my chest. How am I supposed to face him tomorrow, knowing what I just did? Knowing that I’m as twisted as he is under my professional exterior?

The morning comes too quickly.I stand before the prison entrance, my hand unsteady as I present my ID badge. I’ve rehearsed what I’ll say and how I’ll act—professional, detached, and clinical. I’ve built walls around last night’s shameful indulgence, compartmentalizing it away from today’s session.

“Good morning, Dr. Matthews.” Officer Thompson nods as he buzzes me through.

I manage a tight smile, wondering if my guilt is visible. The corridor to my office stretches endlessly, each step bringing me closer to the inevitable confrontation—not just with Axel but with my own darkening desires.

When Martinez brings him in, I keep my eyes fixed on my notepad, avoiding that piercing green gaze for as long as possible. The chains clink as Axel settles into the chair across from me.

“Dr. Matthews.” His voice slides over my name like a caress. “You look... different today.”

I finally look up, my professional mask firmly in place. “Let’s focus on your progress, Mr. Morrison.”

A knowing smile plays on his lips. “Progress? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

My cheeks burn, but I force myself to maintain eye contact. “We discussed your childhood trauma in our last session. I’d like to continue exploring that avenue.”

“Would you?” He leans forward, chains rattling. “Or would you rather explore what you did last night? After our session?”

My pen freezes mid-note. How could he possibly know? It’s impossible. He’s guessing, fishing for a reaction.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

His smile widens. “Your pulse just jumped. Right here.” He gestures to his own throat. “And you’re gripping that pen like it might save you from drowning.”

I deliberately loosen my fingers, placing the pen down with exaggerated care. “Mr. Morrison, these attempts to derail our sessions with inappropriate comments aren’t productive.”

“Aren’t they?” He settles back, studying me with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. “I think they’re very productive. They’re showing us both what you really want.”

“What I want is irrelevant,” I counter, desperate to regain control of the session. “We’re here to address your psychological needs.”

“My needs?” He laughs, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “Oh, little doctor, I think our needs might be more aligned than you’re willing to admit.”

The session continues like this—me attempting to maintain professional distance, him systematically dismantling my defenses with knowing looks. By the time Martinez returns to collect him, I’m exhausted from the effort of resistance.

“Same time tomorrow?” Axel asks as they lead him away, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my skin flush.

I nod stiffly, unable to trust my voice.

The pattern repeats in the sessions that follow. Each time, I arrive determined to maintain boundaries. Each time, he chips away at my resolve with frightening precision. And each night, I relive his words, expressions, and thinly veiled promises of what could happen if I just... let go.

6

WILLOW

Four weeks into my position at Mountain View, I still wake drenched in sweat, Axel Morrison's eyes haunting my dreams. This has to stop. I'm a professional. He's a patient. A diagnosed psychopath. The most dangerous kind of predator.

I flip through my doctorate ethics textbook, the familiar passages now seeming inadequate:

---