Page 50 of Forbidden Bratva Virgin

That night…his texts. He’d called me Hazel. I was disappointed. Maybe a small part of me wished he’d call me by my name, and if he did, I might have just abandoned all my reservations and thrown myself into his arms because, deep down, I wanted to relive that one reckless night with him again.

Miron’s eyes held mine, but there was no warmth. It was blue and cold, like the frozen seas in the Arctic. We sat close enough, and yet he seemed so far away now. His entire demeanor was the complete opposite of the nice things Amelia had to say about his progress charts in her office.

Taking my iPad from my bag, I held my breath before proceeding. “How was your weekend?”

“Do me a favor, will you? Let’s skip the unnecessary bullshit and go right into the reason I’m seated on this fucking couch because I know you really don’t care, and I don’t appreciate my time being wasted.”

I jerked like I’d experienced a bad case of whiplash and struggled to keep my jaw from dropping. He sounded like anything but the man who’d groaned into my hair and held me close to his chest as if his life depended on it. This one, staring at me with contempt, was not the one I’d daydreamed about for the past two weeks.

Amelia’s advice rang out in my head:Never get too mixed up in the client’s personal business; always keep things professional.

We were within the four walls of my office, so here, I was the boss.

“Fine.” I looked away, determined to keep my eyes on the glowing screen till ten-thirty. “We will be monitoring your progress so far, and I will do that by asking you a couple of questions you have to answer honestly. Is that okay?”

“The questions, Miss Sinclair.”

My fingers curled around the device, and I clenched my jaw. “How have you been managing your emotions since our last session?”

“Which? The last two sessions you intentionally ditched under the guise of being sick? Or the private session we had at my penthouse?” he answered casually, though the undertones of aggression couldn’t be any louder.

The memories came rushing back like the floodgates had been opened, and I gritted my teeth. “Mr. Yezhov….”

“If it’s the former, let me see…I’ve been managing just fine. I do more breathing exercises, some physical bag-punching routines, and I soap my cock at night. Everything’s under control. Nothing is unsettled.”

I resisted the urge to look up and continued with the questions. “Can you describe a recent situation where you felt angry or irritated? How did you respond?”

“Skip.”

I inhaled slowly, still keeping my cool. “Mr. Yezhov, you can’t skip questions. Each one has a purpose: to monitor your progress since the commencement of your sessions. So, can you please describe a recent situation where you felt angry or irritated? How did you respond?”

“Miss Sinclair,” he said slowly, his brows creasing and the frown on his face etching deeper. “I don’t fucking care about the purpose of the question. Whether it’s a cause for the greater good or not, I say we’re skipping it.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to argue with him and insist on the question being answered, but I guided myself against it. He had given no hints, but my instincts said I was the recent cause of his irritation and anger. And I wasn’t ready for the chaos that could possibly accompany such an admission.

“Fine. Next question. Can you think of a recent situation where you felt like you were about to lose your control? If you can think of that, how did you handle it?”

A sudden hush fell between us, and it lasted for more than a minute. When I thought it would drag on for much longer, I raised my head. Only to find his eyes already on me.

“I wasn’t about to lose it; I lost it,” he said quietly, with his gaze still hardened. “And I didn’thandleit; I fucked her. And it turned out to be one of the best fucking nights of my life, though I can’t say the same for her.”

The walls I’d labored so hard to build from the commencement of today’s session crumbled to dust between our feet. I didn’t have to press; I just knew he was talking about that night, and it was necessary for me to keep things professional. We still had more than half an hour to go with the session, and I was obligated to record his answers to the questions for the reports.

“Okay.” I adjusted in my seat, ignoring the burning sensation behind my ears. “We’ll address your lack of control later. Let’s move on to the next question.”

“Why?”

I almost bit my tongue. “Why should we move on to the next question? I’m sorry, I’m not following. You were the one who requested that we move right on to the questions.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Hazel. I’m tired of this stupid charade of formalities. Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me. Why have you taken it upon yourself to be so cold and detached?” For a moment, the shutters went up, and I saw the slow warmth melting through the Arctic. Roaring blue seas surfaced with waves of it crashing against the seashore.

If I turned a blind eye to the man’s question, I knew what was going to happen next; Miron wasn’t a patient man. He would stand up from the couch, walk over to Amelia’s office, and demand that another therapist handle his case. She wouldn’t refuse him because all our actions had to be in the client’s best interest, and then I would never see him again.

I set the iPad aside, crossing one leg over the other to convince myself that I hadn’t completely lost control and there was a sliver still left. Breathing exercises were becoming my specialty. “Mr. Yez—”

“Fuck it, Hazel! It’s me, Miron!”

My shoulders quaked under the effect of his voice echoing off the walls. This was the first time he’d shouted at me, the first time I knew what it truly felt like to have a blazing dagger rammed through one’s beating heart. It hurt more than anything else.

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