“Explain,” Lucian orders.
“He had a panic attack. A severe one. I’d like to check on him, but I don’t have his home address or number.”
I cross my fingers that he won’t tell me to mind my business and stay in my lane.
“I would usually say no,” Lucian sighs. “But the change in him these last few weeks… it’s been remarkable, Charlotte. He’s been focused. Efficient. He’s doing the work we ask and nothing more. No extra bodies. I didn’t think he would benefit this much.”
My brows furrow. I honestly had no idea how he was doing outside the office, but I never would have guessed this much improvement—not until at least a few more sessions.
I don’t tell Lucian that Valerio probably isn’t going on killing sprees because he’s busy stalking me.
“I’ll send you the location and his number,” Lucian continues. “But Charlotte? If he’s in one of his moods… don’t try to be a hero. Just leave.”
The line goes dead. Ten seconds later, a pin drops on my map.
I move to the bedroom, pulling a drawer open. Black lace. It’s thin, expensive, and completely inappropriate for a house call. I hate myself as I slide it on.
I throw on a heavy coat and boots, grab my keys, and pull out into the night. The city lights blur into long white streaks. I’m driving toward a man who might kill me for showing up uninvited, and all I can think about is the way his bare hand felt against mine.
I’m sick.
When I arrive, I stand awkwardly in the lobby, shifting my weight on my feet.
“Doctor Charlotte for Valerio Morelli,” I tell the concierge.
He taps a screen, the blue light washing over his face. What if he says no? What if he’s pissed at me for showing up?
After a year of silence, the man nods toward the elevators. “Penthouse. He’s waiting for you.”
The ride up is silent. My stomach drops as the numbers climb. When the doors slide open, I take in the huge, luxurious apartment. It feels empty. Nothing like a home.
Valerio is standing by a black stone bar. He’s wearing grey sweatpants. That’s it.
I’ve spent weeks analyzing him in three-piece suits. He’s lean, his muscles corded and hard, biceps heavy. And his hands are bare. I’ve never seen both of his hands without gloves. They’re large.
He doesn’t greet me or even look surprised.
“Whiskey?” he asks.
“Yes.”
I take the glass he offers. My fingers brush his for a fraction of a second, and the air in the room feels like it’s being sucked out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I sit on the far end of the sofa.
“I came to check on you. After the session… I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m okay,” he grunts. He’s staring at the city, his bare hand rasping against the dark stubble of his jaw.
“I’m sorry for pushing you.”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t you. It’s not you that pushed me too far, Charlotte. It’s my stupid urge to see a sliver of your cunt that did.”
I nearly choke at the crudeness of his words. The whiskey sears my throat.
“Why do you think your urges suddenly rose up?” I ask. Professionalism is a joke when I’m wearing lace underwire and staring at a killer’s bare chest.
He shrugs. “The noise stopped. You’re the only thing that’s been loud enough to drown out the rest.”
A question burns in my throat. It’s not my place to ask. It’s nothing but pure jealousy. I don’t care. “Am I the only one youfeel those urges toward?”
