My thighs pressed together again. Still didn't help.
"Miss Cross." He spoke like I was a patient he'd never met. "Please, have a seat."
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. The one where bratva associates usually sat to receive instructions or deliver reports. Tonight, apparently, it was the examination room.
I sat. The sundress rode up my thighs slightly, and I resisted the urge to tug it down. Nothing underneath meant every shift of fabric was a reminder.
Kostya opened the folder with clinical efficiency. The reading glasses made him look older. Smarter. Like he actually knew what he was doing instead of playing pretend in his own office.
"I understand you're here for a comprehensive examination," he said, eyes on the folder. "Let's begin with some basic history."
His pen was poised. His face was neutral. He was really committing to this.
Something warm unfurled in my stomach. Not just arousal—though there was plenty of that—but affection. Gratitude. This ridiculous, dangerous man had listened to my whispered confession and built this whole scenario because he wanted to give me what I'd been too embarrassed to ask for properly.
"Full name?" he asked.
"Maya Angeline Cross."
"Date of birth?"
I gave it. He wrote it down. His handwriting was careful, deliberate—not the chicken scratch I'd seen on bratva documents.
"Allergies?"
"Penicillin. Shellfish."
More writing. The pen scratched against paper in the quiet room. Somewhere in the compound, I could hear the distant sound of someone moving around—probably security doing rounds—but in here, it was just us. Just the scratch of pen on paper and my too-loud breathing.
"Medical history? Prior surgeries?"
"Tonsillectomy, age eight. Appendectomy, age fourteen." I paused. "And I'm a physician myself, so I should mention—"
"That won't be relevant to this examination." He didn't look up. "I'll be conducting my own assessment. Your professional background doesn't change the protocols."
God. His voice was so fucking steady. So clinical. Like this was actually happening, like he was actually a doctor and I was actually a patient and nothing unusual was occurring at all.
Heat crept up my neck.
"Sexual activity," he said, still in that same neutral tone. "Frequency?"
I blinked. "I—what?"
"Sexual activity." He looked up then, eyes meeting mine over the rim of those glasses. Grey eyes, the color of winter storms, completely unreadable. "How frequently are you engaging in sexual intercourse?"
My face was on fire. "Um. Regularly?"
"Please be specific. The chart requires accurate data."
The chart. Right. The folder full of nothing that he was pretending was medical documentation.
"Daily," I managed. "Sometimes more."
He wrote it down. His expression didn't change.
"Partners?"
"One."
