Page 38 of Forbidden Bratva Virgin

“Thank you.”

We swayed, moved our feet in rhythm, and twirled.

It was the first time I’d seen him since I ran out of his car like a bandit in tears after confessing to being a virgin. The ground might have as well opened to swallow me up because the shame was real.

“You skipped your session this week. What happened?”

His shoulder moved. “I knew I’d see you here,” came his flat response, and my ears were suddenly perked.

Did he? Was there the smallest possibility that Miron was looking out for me tonight? If yes, why did the thought make me giddy?

I kept my eyes pinned on the black vest beneath his jacket. “No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” A flicker of a smile passed his mouth. “But you’re here now. You can ask me all the questions you want.”

“What are you saying?” For the first time that evening, a genuine chuckle left my lips. “We can’t have a session at my boss’s birthday celebration party. That will be unprofessional.”

“Who set the rules?”

“The profession.”

“So, you need the four walls of an office before you help your client?”

I smiled up at him, though his eyes were elsewhere. “I thought you didn’t need helping? Is someone having a different perspective on therapy?”

What was I thinking, teasing him when he was obviously going to ward off my attempts and ignore me? The smile melted off my face.

“Miron, you can’t skip the next session. Or the one after that. We’re aware of what would happen if the reports don’t reflect participation.” During the briefing, Amelia made sure to emphasize all the things that could go wrong if he didn’t follow the court order.

“I don’t respond well to external cautions, and I am not good with taking orders, Miss Sinclair.”

“It wasn’t an order but a fact.” Then, it occurred to me that I’d made a passive observation. Not once since our encounter had Miron said my name. He was only being formal, as he should have been. But I had somehow convinced myself that we’d moved past the formalities.

“Will you ever call me by my name?”

“I will. When the time is right.”

“What does that mean?”

He looked over my shoulder, and the shutters were back down, though they’d never really been up. “So, the boy in the suit. That was Nathan. Your boyfriend?”

Somehow, while Miron and I twirled under the golden lights and bickered back and forth, I managed to forget that my boyfriend accompanied me to the party. I felt awful.

“Yes—wait,” I’d started to respond and paused. “He’s not a boy.”

“He looks like one.”

“And what do you look like?”

Thick eyebrows rose on his forehead, his lips curving just high enough to form a suggestive grin. “You really want me to answer that?”

He didn’t have to; the answer was clear as day. He looked like a man and felt like one, the entire solid length and breadth of him pressed up against me. He had lean, muscular arms, sturdy hands, and a powerful build. I secretly wondered about his exercise routine and diet plan.

Miron didn’t look as young as Nathan, but every time I got close to him, it was harder to remember the seventeen-year gap between us. The reason?

Funny, but we clicked.

Not initially, at first. But in an odd way, even with all the tantrums and steam blowing out of proportion, I started to realize we did. His presence came with the power to rile me up and calm me down. He was the venom and the antidote. The plague and the cure.

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