Page 6 of Innocent Bratva Virgin

I liked to create as soothing an environment as possible in my smaller office, and ambiance had a lot to do with that. I knew the science was a bit wishy-washy, but what did it hurt to make the room feel comfortable?

With my agenda pulled up on my computer screen, I reached into the slim top drawer of my desk and pulled out the electric lighter. First, I lit the small votive on my desk, and then I got up to light the larger, three-wick candle on the bookshelf in the back.

The soothing lavender and tea scent slowly began to fill the room, and I turned on the salt lamps and desk lamp before walking back over to my desk.

I had two-floor lamps that provided enough light to see and move around comfortably. They transformed the room from clinical to relaxed, and I’d replaced the old plastic-encased light on the ceiling with something more stylish.

I’d also excluded those terrible motivational posters and the five abstract paintings that all clinics seemed to have. Instead, I’d hung pictures I’d taken myself of the local scenery—flowers, trees, the lakeshore on a sunny day.

I didn’t want my office to feel like you were at some urgent care or something. I expected my patients to form a bond with me and open up here. I couldn’t foster that kind of trust by sticking to the generic, unfeeling approach.

“Emory,” the intercom on my phone called out, “your appointment is here.”

With a final look around the room to be sure I was happy with it—pillows on the couch, a blanket if someone felt soinclined, my chair at the ready with my notepad and pen—I went to my desk. I used the intercom to let Antoinette know I was heading down to meet Mr. Ustinov.

I felt much more comfortable in my skin, and there was even a little bounce to my steps as I walked back to the reception desk. Getting laid had undoubtedly put me in a good mood, but I also felt ready.

I’d seen a number of patients already. Sure, there had been a supervisory counselor in the room with me, and we’d discussed the appointment afterward, but I knew what I was doing. I’d done this before, and it would be like any other appointment.

Assess, empathize, and aim to assist. You got this.

As I reached the end of the hall, I saw Mr. Ustinov standing near the reception desk. He was quite tall, and his leather jacket and black slacks were an interesting choice.

“Huh, it reminds me of—”

Then he turned around, and I nearly fell right on my face.

Shock washed over Mr. Ustinov’s features, mirroring my own. I’d know that face anywhere, even if it had been longer than the two hours and change since I’d last seen him.

“Nikolai?” My voice was hushed, and the tall man crossed the room toward me.

Nearly stumbling backward, I reeled as he pulled up to a stop in front of me, his brows pinching together in a stern glare. He pointed at me, a low growl of sorts rumbling up out of his chest.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered. “How did you figure out where I worked?”

“Oh, great. Yeah, here she is. Thank you for waiting, Mr. Ustinov. You’ll be in good hands with Ms. Thompson.”

Antoinette’s cheery voice wasnotmeeting the tension of the room, but then I finally pieced it together.

Oh shit.

Offering a professional smile, I gestured for Nikolai to follow me down the hall a bit. I wasn’t about to have this conversation in front of the receptionist. We needed more privacy than that. When we were out of earshot, I stopped and turned around, letting the shock play on my features as I met his eyes again.

“You’re Mr. Ustinov?” Nikolai nodded, his glare still holding firm. “You’re….you’remy patient. Oh, God.”

Waves of understanding rushed over me, and for the first time in my life, I felt like a complete idiot. How could I not have realized that Nikolai was avoiding speaking? It wasn’t the band or some cute move he was trying to pull. He was mute.

Because Mr. Ustinov—my fucking patient—was here to see me about his traumatic mutism.Fucking hell.

I gripped the bridge of my nose, squeezing it as I tried to take deep breaths. When I looked up at Mr. Ustinov again, I saw that he was typing something on his phone.

“You said your name was Nikolai. Your appointment said ‘Vlad.’ What is that about?”

Waiting for him to finish his message, I attempted to block out the nausea that was crawling up the back of my throat. This was wildly unprofessional, and I had not given the first impression that I would have liked.Should I just cancel? I’m supposed to mention that we have a prior relationship andhave him find a new provider. Christ. That’s exactly what I need to do. I’ll just—

And then a phone screen was shoved in my face.

“Ugh, all right. Hold on.”

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