Page 54 of Purchased

“I’m in the wrong room,” I say.

I turn to leave, but as I go through the door, I find myself face to face with Armand, who gently, but firmly nudges me back in and shuts the door behind me again.

“Apparently I’m not free to leave.”

Mr. Volkov says nothing. He just lumbers across the room and seats himself, making the chair he’s sitting in seem small.

I look around the room. We’re on the ground floor. That’s handy. I go to the window—the chateau has lovely old windows that have leadlight tracing across them in a sort of grid and are more than large enough to open and step out of. I do this, only to find that Armand has moved around the house in time to snap at my feet as they exit the window. He’s in his wolf form for the snapping part, but he slips back into his human form to lecture me. I do like the sight of my mate standing naked in the garden looking stern. Maybe I can convince him to take me upstairs and not force me to do this whole ridiculous charade.

“You’re staying in there for the hour,” he says. “Stop trying to run away.”

I huff and sigh, and put my leg back in.

“There’s no point, this psycho doesn’t say anything anyway. I think you got a dud,” I say.

“Back inside. Do therapy.”

I go back inside and lean up against the wall, as far from the so-called therapist as possible, staying at right angles to him so I can keep him in my peripheral vision.

He just sits there.

Time ticks by.

He sits there.

Until I lose my mind and start hammering him with questions.

“What is the point of you? Why are you here? You want to cash a check for occupying a chair? You think you’re scary because you’re covered in tattoos? I’m not scared of you.”

He moves his eyes to me. Nothing else. Just his eyes. I notice again that they’re blue. Solid, boring, generic blue.

“Fuck, you are the worst therapist anybody has ever heard of. Worse than Hannibal. At this point I wouldn’t care if you tried to turn me intocreme fraîche, it would be more interesting than this.”

His brow moves a fraction. He makes a note.

“It’s fancy sour cream,” I say. “I learned that here. What did you write down?”

He doesn’t answer.

Oh, this is fucking hilarious. We’re both playing the not talking game.

I know how to deal with it. I sit down too, may as well be comfortable. I choose the chaise by the window because it’s the seat furthest from the man, and the light coming in from behind me will help silhouette me against the window. He won’t be able to see my expression as well.

I settle in for an hour of silence. I figure we’ve burned five, maybe ten minutes already. And judging by the way other girls used to talk about therapists, I know the hour session is only fifty minutes. So I reckon there’ll be forty-five minutes of silence to contend with. Easy.

The stretch of time keeps extending out. He just sits there like he doesn’t care. I look at the clock on the wall, which I suddenly realize is there. It’s been three minutes. God, this is going to take forever.

I start singing to myself to pass the time.

“This is the song that does not end, oh it goes on and on my friend. Some people started singing it not knowing what it was, but I will go on singing it forever just because this is the song that does not end…”

I trail off after a few rounds of that.

“You’re not going to talk? You’re not going to say anything?” I ask the question in salty tones. He’s really starting to annoy me.

“How does it feel when people won’t talk to you?”

“I don’t care. But when I’m locked in a room with them, not great. You’re kind of an asshole. A huge asshole. And you’re a terrible therapist.”

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