Page 24 of Imprisoned

Eleanor stopped by this morning to tell me Axel would be a more regular patient. ““Tensions are rising again between him and other inmates, so it’s best to keep tabs on his mental and emotional state,” she’d said. “At least for the time being.” Her words would have filled me with dread the first few weeks I was here. But that was before I crossed lines. Instead, my pulse had quickened with anticipation.

“Doctor?” Marcus’s voice snaps me back. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” My cheeks tingle with warmth. I’m failing these people who need my help. My morning patients deserve better than a distracted practitioner counting the minutes until her next session with a diagnosed psychopath.

I try harder with my eleven o’clock appointment. Jeremy is making real progress with his anger management. I force myself to focus on his body language and choice of words.

But when he mentions feeling out of control, my mind flashes to Axel’s letter and detailed descriptions of taking control of me.

Lunch break arrives. I barely touch the salad I brought from home, reviewing patient notes that blur before my eyes. One more session before... No. This isn’t just professional curiosity anymore. What I’m planning with Martinez—it’s a necessary step. The official channels are too restrictive to truly understand someone like Axel. Sometimes, ethical boundariesneed flexibility when you’re dealing with exceptional cases. The money I’ll pay him is just... expediting the research process. Dedicated psychologists would do the same if they were serious about breakthrough insights.

But as my one o’clock patient settles into the chair across me, I’m already counting the minutes. Sixty more to go. Then I’ll see him again. Uninterrupted. I thank my one o’clock patient and close my notebook, watching the clock tick toward two. Right on schedule, I hear Martinez’s distinctive knock—two quick taps, a pause, then a third. Our signal that he’s brought Axel and the hallway is clear.

I smooth my skirt, taking a deep breath as the door opens. Two guards escort Axel in. The chains around his wrists catch the fluorescent light.

His presence instantly fills the room, that magnetic energy that draws and repels. He sprawls in the chair across from me, legs spread wide as they chain him to the chair, a predatory smile playing at his lips. Heat floods my body, settling low in my abdomen as I watch him—the confident posture, the dangerous glint in his eyes, the way he claims the space as his own.

“All set, Dr. Matthews,” Martinez announces, giving me a wink.

“Thank you,” I manage, avoiding his gaze. My thighs press together involuntarily, seeking pressure against the ache building between them. Being in the same room with Axel again sends electricity crackling across my skin. It makes my pulse race with a delicious cocktail of fear and desire.

As the door closes behind the guards, Axel’s smile widens. “Dr. Matthews.” His voice wraps around my name like a caress. “You’re looking particularly lovely today.”

I grip my pen tighter, momentarily caught between exhilaration and doubt. I paid Martinez well, ensuring complete privacy for the next hour. No cameras, no monitoring, nointerruptions. A dangerous gamble that could cost me my career, my freedom, and possibly my life. Looking at Axel now, with that hungry gleam in his eyes, I can’t bring myself to regret it.

I straighten my posture, settling into the professional role that’s becoming more performance than reality. Time to at least pretend this is a legitimate therapy session, for both our sakes.

“Let’s continue our discussion from the last session, Axel,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady despite the anticipation coursing through me.

He leans forward. “Did you get my letter? I put a lot of thought into it.” His green eyes bore into mine, searching for any flicker of recognition.

“What letter?” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “I haven’t received any correspondence from you.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I maintain this charade. I paid for this private time and orchestrated this entire meeting, yet here I am, still playing these games with him. Part of me wants to drop the pretense, to admit I’ve read his letter a dozen times, traced my fingers over his handwriting. Another part—the survival instinct I haven’t completely abandoned—warns me to keep some semblance of professional distance, to not reveal how completely he’s consumed my thoughts.

The tension between what I want to do and what I should do creates an exquisite ache. Even now, with no one watching, I can’t fully surrender to what we both know is happening between us.

His smile widens fractionally. “No? That’s... interesting.” He settles back, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “Maybe it got lost in the mail. I’ll have to try again.”

How he says it—so casual yet loaded with meaning—sends a shiver down my spine. I can see the wheels turning behind those calculating eyes. He knows I’m lying. He’s probably counting mytells right now—the slight tremor in my hands, the way I won’t quite meet his gaze.

His eyes flick to the ceiling corner where the camera should be recording. “No little red light today. Technical difficulties? Security here is... surprisingly accommodating.”

My throat tightens at being found out. All this is happening, really happening, but I feel unprepared for the very thing I have arranged things for. I resort to professionalism, having no idea how to handle a man like him. “Tell me about your week,” I say, desperate to redirect the conversation, to buy myself time. But Axel keeps smiling that knowing smile like we share a delicious secret.

“Oh, Dr. Matthews,” he purrs. “We both know that’s not what you want to discuss.”

“Let’s stay focused on your treatment, Axel.” I square my shoulders and meet his gaze directly. “If you continue with inappropriate comments or try to steer our sessions in that direction, I’ll have no choice but to end them early. Just like last time.”

The words come out automatically, a protective shield of professionalism I’m still clinging to despite everything. Inside, I’m a riot of contradictions—craving him while terrified of fully surrendering to it, wanting to throw caution to the wind while desperately needing some semblance of control.

I’ve crossed so many lines already, paid off guards, and fantasized endlessly about him. Yet something in me still hesitates at the final threshold. Is it fear of what happens when I completely abandon my professional identity? Or deeper still, fear that I’ll never find my way back to who I was once I give in completely?

I hold onto protocol like a lifeline while I gather my courage, knowing it’s only a matter of time before I let go.

His smile doesn’t waver. “For someone so determined to maintain boundaries, you’re going to extraordinary lengths to create opportunities to break them.”

The room suddenly feels too small, my decisions too risky, too real. “That’s exactly the kind of comment I’m talking about. This is a professional relationship. If you can’t respect those boundaries?—”

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