He studies my framed degrees on the wall, then the narrow leather couch, and finally me. He deadpans, "Nice setup. Quiet. Is it soundproofed like your client office?"
My chest tightens. He shouldn't know anything about my work, but he knows way more than I imagined. My voice stays even. "That's a strange question."
"That you have soundproof walls?" he pushes.
"Privacy matters in my line of work."
"Does it?" One dark brow lifts. "Or is it convenient for other things?"
I don't flinch. "If you've got something to say, Mikhail, say it. The women are waiting."
He nods once, as if granting permission. Then he steps closer, enough to make the air feel thinner. "You're fucking your patient."
The words ripple across the room.
I step closer, trying to show him I'm not intimidated, even though I understand what he's capable of, and remind him, "She's not my patient and never was one. You erased her time with me, remember?"
A short, humorless laugh escapes him. "So that's why she has appointments with you during office hours?"
He's been watching me.
I cross my arms. "Not sure what you're talking about. And I can assure you there are no files in my office." I grin.
His eyes turn to slits. "You were supposed to have a clean break."
"I never claimed to be perfect."
He tilts his head. "No. You just claim to be the only one who can fix her."
It's the questions I've asked myself a thousand times, replaying Blue's voice in my head about fixing her. But I fight the twist in my gut and keep my face blank. "Blue fixes herself. I try not to get in the way."
He moves again, circling to the side of the desk so we're no longer facing each other square. It's classic positioning to apply pressure without physical touch. I don't turn to follow him, so he thinks he has the advantage.
Mikhail warns, "You know what her father would do if he found out. You know what her uncle would do. And you still stay in her life, then parade her in front of me in a dress like she's yours to show off."
My words come out low, possessive, before I can temper them. "She is mine. And she chose the dress. She chose this dinner tonight. But more importantly, she chose me." My heart beats harder.
Mikhail stops behind my chair. His presence is like heat rolling off asphalt. "Choice is a luxury she's never really had. You know that better than anyone. You've read every page of her file. Every scar. You've listened to her cry about how much she hates the noise in her head. And you still put your dick in her."
My hands flex at my sides. I threaten through gritted teeth, "Careful."
"Or what?" His tone stays conversational. "You'll hit me? In your own home? With two women thirty feet away who will hear every sound?"
"I don't need to hit you to end this conversation."
His sharp smile appears. "No. You don't. But you also don't have the leverage you think you do."
I step closer. "Blue's file is personal. It's not to be spoken of, but why don't we talk about other important facts?"
"Like?"
"Does Demi's father know about you two?"
He freezes.
I hold his gaze and state, "I assume if he did, you'd be answering questions in a basement somewhere."
Mikhail shrugs. "Maybe. Or maybe he's letting me handle it. Quietly. Discreetly. The way powerful men handle problems that might embarrass the family name."
