Page 35 of Dean's Delinquent

No. Punishments more likely. And even as that thought passes through my mind, lustful shivers wrack my body, driving me back down onto the couch. Again, I plant my face against my palms while I wish this would all go away.

“Fine. Continue,” I murmur from between my fingers.

“I believe it is your turn to speak. I already asked my question.”

“Of course I’d rather talk about the dean,” I snap out, spearing him with the most respectful glare I can manage. “Anything but that god-forsaken skull.”

“Maybe one day we’ll be able to explore why mortality is so frightening for you. Please, go on.”

“Ugh. Where do I even begin?” Even in my own head, it feels so messed up, so convoluted.

“I suppose where everyone starts. At the beginning.”

Leaning back, I give the most unladylike snort. “It was a cool crisp morning nearly nineteen years ago. Father stood there proud. Mother, nearly knocked out with drugs, gives one final push. A slap on the ass later, and I took my first breath.”

“Amusing.” His expression, however, shows no sign of humor. “Does that mean you wish to discuss how you will never meet up with your parent’s expectations for you?”

“Now wait a minute. You can’t possibly know anything. You’re not in our inner circle. I would have remembered you.”

“Still a bit snobbish, are we? It doesn’t take someone as intelligent as me to note the disappointment wafting from them as they observed you at your table. Is that perhaps why you seek to torment the dean? You crave his ire to feel an absolution you never get from your parents?”

The silence pounds in my ears and drifts along my skin like invisible cobwebs. “What is it you want me to say?” I finally sob. “That I like being at the mercy of the dean? That the pain he causes is somehow arousing? That I’m not in danger of harming myself, but in danger of begging him to harm me?”

“I see.” Again with that fucking notebook.

“I knew it. I’m a freak.”

“I never said that.” For once, his murmured intonations seem a touch comforting. “I saw you looking at my cage when I came in. What does it make you feel?”

My mouth drops open and closes a few times as I try to process what he means. “I- I don’t-“

“Don’t think. What comes to your mind? Spit it out. There are no wrong answers.”

“Trapped, claustrophobic, scared, tiny. I could go on, but it’s more of a mental sensation rather than words.”

“Good,” he praises. “Very good. I have several clients, one in particular, that is far more scared to be outside the cage than instead of in it.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear there was a hint of admiration and tenderness in his tone. But that’s just absurd. Pretty sure this man couldn’t even define tenderness if the damned dictionary was opened up to the word and highlighted in bold.

“For her,” he continues. “It’s a place of safety and security. It doesn’t make her wrong for needing to hide away any more than it makes you wrong for feeling terrified to be in there. Different people need different things. Some need to be in charge, to hurt others, to cause them pain to feel alive. For others, for you, I suspect, it’s the opposite.”

“But it’s insanity.”

“Is it?” He counters, flipping the page in his notebook. “Now, I don’t expect I’ll see you again unless it’s mandated by Dean Anderson, so I will leave you with some food for thought. At your leisure, search some of these terms and see what might resonate with you. If you wish to have further discussions, you’re free to make an appointment. If not, I’m sure you can figure it out. You’re a smart girl.”

My lips twist as I take the slip of paper from him and stand. “I wasn’t expecting a compliment from you.”

“I don’t shy away from giving praise where praise is due. But I’m also not going to inflate an already exaggerated ego. Don’t worry about payment. Dean Anderson already has it covered. Your parents need not know you’ve failed them again by seeking out help.”

“Now listen here-“

He slides in closer until he’s nearly inappropriately close to me. Just one more step, and he would invade my closely-guarded bubble. Thankfully, nothing coming off of him reads as lustful or intending to harm. Not like Dean Anderson. Not like the heat that comes off of him when he’s scolding me.

“You do not tell me what to do. It’s high time you start to learn that you’re not the one in charge here. That is, unless you’re the type that gets off on ordering others about. Tell me, Miss Hartwell, is that who you are? Or do you desire to be told what to do?”

My mind blanks as I stare at him. It’s so eerily similar to what Dean Anderson told me. I’m not the one in charge here. It should drive me from this office screaming to the heavens that no one can tell me what to do. Unfortunately, I know that’s not the case.

“Just as I thought,” he eventually sighs, his tone far more smug than I like.

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