Inappropriate images flood my head. I swallow hard, then order, "Cover yourself up."
Her brows lift. "Is that an order, Dr. Mercer?"
"Yes."
She studies my face with open curiosity, then lowers her skirt, a shallow breath escaping past her lips.
Relief hits me, but my pulse is still through the roof.
"Better?" she asks.
"No. That wasn't appropriate."
Playfulness floods her expression. "Appropriate is overrated."
I cross my arms and find my voice. "Blue, when you cut your thigh, did you want to die?"
She scoffs. "No."
"Did any part of you hope you would cause severe harm?"
She shakes her head. "No. It is a shallow cut. Deep enough to bleed, not enough to threaten my life. Don't act like a fool."
"You researched that," I infer.
"No. I'm an Ivanov," she claims.
I contain a curse. "So this was premeditated. Planned. Executed with care."
Her lips part. "You make it sound like a crime."
"It is self-harm. Which?—"
"It's not illegal," she interjects.
"It's a sign that something in you is screaming for help and or screaming for control. Sometimes both," I rattle off.
She deadpans as if bored, "I already told you. It grounded me. And it turned you toward me in a way nothing else would."
I should move away from her, end this session, and refer her to another therapist. But I walk further into her trap. "What did you imagine would happen when I noticed? Walk me through it."
Her gaze drops briefly to my hands, then lifts again. "I imagined your eyes would finally go where you try to stop them from going. I imagined your breath would catch, the way it just did. I imagined you would say my name with more gravity, then see how wet I am and have the balls to take action."
CHAPTER FIVE
Blue
Red's lashes lower. His gaze darts all over my body and lands on my thighs, where my skirt now lies mostly in place because he insisted. Muscles jump in his jaw. His chest rises in a sharper, shorter breath, and for one glorious heartbeat, the professional mask slips.
There it is.
Heat sprints through my veins, greedy and bright.
My words did that to him.
The indecent picture in his head is the one I put there.
He rips his stare off me and flinches back like my chair caught fire. His hands leave the armrests. His shoulders jerk. In one rough move, he shoves to his feet, and the chair rolls a few inches behind him.
