I should have shut it down. Should have reminded him, firmly and finally, that this was a professional relationship and nothing more. That whatever he thought he felt was a product of the therapeutic process, not a genuine connection.
But I couldn't say the words. Because they would have been a lie, and we both would have known it.
"What you're experiencing is real," I said carefully. "The connection, the sense of being seen—that's real. But it's also bounded. It exists within these walls, within these sessions. It's not the same as a relationship in the outside world."
"Why not?"
"Because I know things about you that you've never told anyone else. That creates an illusion of intimacy that isn't—"
"Isn't what? Real?" He shook his head. "You know what I think? I think it's more real than anything else in my life. I think you're the first person who's actually seen me in years. And I think that scares you as much as it scares me."
I didn't have a response. For a long moment, we just looked at each other, the air between us thick with everything we weren't saying.
Then the door crashed open.
I was on my feet before I knew I was moving, my chair toppling behind me. Rodion moved faster—he was already between me and the door, his body a shield, his hand reaching for something at his back.
Four men. Dark coats. Hard faces. And accents that turned my blood to ice.
"Keira O'Shea." The one in front smiled, a cold thing that didn't touch his eyes. "Your uncle's been looking for you. Time to come home."
The name hit me like a physical blow. The name I'd buried. The name I'd run from. The name that wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
"You've got the wrong person," I managed. "My name is Walsh. Keira Walsh."
"Sure it is." He took a step forward, and I saw the gun at his hip. "Cormac's got big plans for you. The Petrovics are eager to meet their new bride. Branko's been waiting a long time for a proper wife."
Bride. Petrovics. Branko.
The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. I'd left that world behind. I'd built something new, something clean, something that had nothing to do with arranged marriages and crime families and men who treated women like currency.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Wasn't asking."
And then Rodion moved.
I'd thought he was a businessman. A man with money and secrets, yes, but still just a patient. A civilian.
The gun appeared in his hand like it had always been there. Two shots. Two men down before the others could react. The third rushed him—Rodion broke his arm with a single brutal motion, took his weapon, shot the fourth.
It was over in seconds. Four bodies on my office floor. Blood on the carpet. Blood on the walls. Blood everywhere.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't process what I'd just seen. This man—this patient who'd sat in my chair and talked about his mother—had just killed four people with the efficiency of someone who'd done it many times before.
He turned to me, and his face was nothing like the man I'd known. Cold. Hard. Dangerous.
"We need to go. Now. More will be coming."
"Who—" My voice cracked. "Who are you?"
"Someone who just saved your life." He grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the door. "Move."
"I'm not going anywhere with—"
"Your name is Keira O'Shea. Those men were Irish mob. They want to marry you off to the Petrovics." His grip tightened. "So you can come with me, or you can wait here for the next group and become Mrs. Branko Petrovic. Your choice."
I looked at the bodies. At the blood. At the gun in his hand.
