"Make yourself at home, John. Wherever you feel comfortable is fine."
I caught the look he gave his secretary before I instinctively chose the chair that would put my back to the wall, breathing normally through the pain as I sat down. A strategic position, one that allowed me to keep an eye on the entire room. Probably not necessary in this situation, but a habit that was hard to break, especially when I was in an unfamiliar place.
I watched as he retrieved his notebook, pen, and a tape recorder from his desk. The sight of the recorder made me pause, a flicker of unease in my chest. I didn't like the idea of my words being documented, of there being a record of my being here, fake name or not.
I hoped this guy would live up to the money I was paying him for this appointment and fucking fix me. I'd been made into what I am because it kept Luca alive. It keptmealive. Nothing distracted me. Nothing made me lose my focus.
Until Luna.
I had to let her go, to purge myself of this obsession before it consumed me. Before it destroyed everything I knew. And if this damn psychiatrist couldn't help me, well...
I would deal with that problem if and when it happened.
"How are you today?" he asked.
"I'm fine. Thank you."
"Do you mind if I record our session? It's only for my own use inside of this office. Have you been made aware of the doctor-patient confidentiality clause?" He set the recorder on the table.
"Yes." His secretary had shown it to me when I'd arrived for the appointment. But also, I was familiar with this particular psychiatrist, knew that he was discreet and professional and could be bought. He'd appeared in court more than once for members of the family. And if I wanted his help, I would have to trust him. To a point, at least.
I leaned back in the chair, crossing my ankle over my knee and lacing my fingers together on my lap. A deceptively casual pose, but one that I knew from previous experiences would help put him at ease.
He pressed the record button. "So, what brings you in to see me today?"
"I met a woman," I told him. It was a simple statement, but one that carried a weight I didn't know how to fully convey.
I watched as the psychiatrist's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his voice laced with incredulity. "You met...awoman?"
I could see the wheels turning in his head. He had to be wondering why the man sitting before him would seek his help for something as trivial as a crush. But he didn't understand. This wasn't some schoolyard infatuation. This was something far more insidious, something that threatened to unravel everything I was.
"Yes," I said simply, my voice flat and emotionless.
He cleared his throat and jotted down some notes, but I could tell he was still trying to wrap his head around the situation. "And where did you meet this girl?"
"She's a woman, not a girl," I corrected him, a flicker of annoyance in my tone. "And actually, I've known her for a while now."
"And thiswomanis the only reason you came to see me?"
I paused for a moment, considering his question. Was she the only reason? No, not entirely. But she was the catalyst, the one who had forced me to confront the cracks in my armor, the weaknesses I'd never allowed myself to acknowledge. "Yes," I said finally.
"Why is that?"
I hesitated again, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. I didn't normally talk about myself like this, and it wasn't easy for me to admit weakness, to acknowledge that something was wrong. But if I wanted his help, I would have to be honest. "Because ever since I met her, it's fucked me up in the head," I said bluntly. "And I want you to tell me how to make it stop so I can go back to the way I was before."
He leaned forward, his pen hovering over his notepad. "What do you mean, 'the way you were before?'" he asked. "Why would you want to do that? People change a little when they fall in love, John. It's completely normal."
I sighed with impatience. He didn't get it. This wasn't simply love. This was…more.
I glanced down at the Sony voice recorder on the table, watching the word "rec" flash on the small screen as I tried to think of a way to communicate to him what was at stake without giving away too much.
"You have doctor-patient confidentiality, John," he reminded me. "Nothing you say here will ever be shared outside of the two of us. Not even if they put me on the stand."
My phone vibrated in my pocket and, without thinking, I reached inside my jacket to get it, wincing at the unexpected stab of pain it caused.
The doctor's eyes followed my movements, widening slightly when the straps of my shoulder holster peeked out.
Silencing the call without looking to see who was trying to get in touch with me, I met his eyes and slid it back into my pocket. "I'm not normal. And I'm not in love. I locked her in a fucking cage."
