Page 7 of Innocent Bratva Virgin

I took it, reading over what Nikolai or Vlad or whoever he was wrote down.

“Is this a joke? Did Ivan put you up to this? Are you even a real psychologist? Did you know last night?”

Frowning, I handed him the phone back. “No, no, yes, and no. My name is Emory Thompson, a clinical psychologist certified by the licensing boards in the state of Illinois who works with mental health patients and delivers treatment. I had no idea who you were last night. And I still want to know what was up with the ‘Nikolai’ thing.”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head until, eventually, Mr. Ustinov typed up another response.

“It’s my middle name. I was trying to avoid having the mute conversation. It doesn’t usually go over well with ‘dates.’ It wasn’t like I knew I’d be seeing you again. I didn’t think we’d hook up. That just sort of happened. Naturally.”

I could understand what Vlad was saying because that was his name. I didn’t mention my job as a psychologist to most first dates because it always puts people on edge like I am going to study every little thing about them. And yeah, turning off that part of my brain was difficult.

It was more difficult when the other person wouldn’t let you forget it.

No. You’re fine. You can handle this. Vlad needs my help. I’m supposed to be his counselor. But…Okay, we’ll juststep inside to figure this out. I’ll determine what he needs and someone else can see him in the future.

“All right, all right.” I nodded, holding up my hand and then wiping it through the air like I was erasing everything that had happened between us. “This was a really weird way to start our interaction, but I’m here to help you. I may not be able to do that now, but I can help to find someone who can. Would you please just step into my office so that I can get a baseline on your needs? I’ll be able to find a new counselor for you that way. Okay?”

Chapter 4 - Vlad

Everything inside me was screaming to run in the other fucking direction and never look back. I didn’t want to be getting fucking counseling, to begin with. Now that my shrink happened to be the first woman I’d slept with in years, I was really thinking it was a sign from the Gods just to call this entire thing quits.

I was perfectly okay with communicating the way I currently do. I had my phone on me for ‘talking’ to other people, and little was expected from me in terms of conversation. I liked it that way and wasn’t interested in “opening up and getting comfortable with speaking again.”

No, thank you. I’m good.

I mean, I was the quiet, stoic one. It had its advantages, especially when I was the sneaky one of the three of us. The Unholy Ghost could get in and out of anywhere without being heard or seen. It was my thing, and I enjoyed it.

But then I looked into Emory’s eyes.

Dammit. Why? Why does she have to look at me like that? I’m going to punch Ivan in the dick when I get home.

Because she was just so damn optimistic. She was looking at me like she actually cared, and the deep wells of her gorgeous brown eyes were enough to fall into and never manage to crawl back up to the surface.

I sighed heavily, hanging my head as I raked my hand through the shaggier hair on the top of my head. When I looked back up at her again, I gestured past Emory down the hall.

She relaxed into herself, her spine losing that rigid alignment. “Thank you. If you’ll follow me.”

Emory was still in professional mode, and I had a feeling it was going to be particularly thick during our little chat. I was no newbie when it came to reading people, and Emory was using her years of training to distance herself from me in an effort to keep that awkwardness between us to a minimum.

Good fucking luck, cutie. I’ve seen you naked, and I’m not likely to forget that anytime soon.

Still, I followed her down the long hallway to her office, and when we arrived, I was a bit surprised by Emory’s setup. Apparently, she took that whole set-the-stage thing to heart because the entire room read more like a massage parlor or spa than a shrink’s office.

“Have a seat. Now, I just want to understand what you’re seeking counseling for. In terms of communication, would you like to use your phone, or would you like a pen and paper?”

Emory turned around to face me, gesturing toward the couch. I sat down, pulling out my phone from my pocket. I gave the thing a little wave, indicating that I’d be sticking with the phone, and then started typing when Emory sat down in the chair across from me.

I had to look fucking ridiculous sitting on this damn sofa, too. I was clad in my typical black leather jacket and Doc Martin boots, which was just a tiny bit of a contrast to the light green fabric of the couch and the soft grays and blues of the numerous pillows and blankets draped over the thing.

Looking up from her own notepad, Emory smiled, waiting for me to finish my message. I’d turned on the TalkBack feature this morning in preparation for coming here, so when I finished typing, I double-tapped the text, and my phone read it out loud in a generic man’s voice.

“You don’t want to see my handwriting. You’d be fucked.”

I chuckled. It was the first I’d heard the thing curse, and hearing a robot say fuck was always entertaining.

Emory cleared her throat, clearly trying not to laugh at it. “Oh, well, that’s handy. And trust me, my parents are doctors. I’m very familiar with terrible penmanship.”

She waited for me again, and the voice read off my following message. “I remember you saying something about that.”

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