Page 53 of Purchased

“Because the number of shifters who are also therapists and who will agree to live in a remote chateau in France is close to one. So close to one that it is one.”

“I don’t want to talk to some shifter man.”

“We’re both going to talk to him. Separately, and together.”

“Have you ever seen the TV showHannibal?”

“Yes. Why?”

“That guy was a therapist. He ate people.”

“Beatrix,youeat people.”

She laughs, then rolls her eyes. “Okay, sort of, but also no. I don’t eat them. It’s just wolves can mostly kill by biting. I’m stuck with biting adjacent killing techniques. I only eat people when I have to.”

That statement could do with some unpacking, for starters. I hope our therapist is up to the task.

* * *

Beatrix

I knew he would punish me for murdering the man in the village and almost getting us both killed. I thought he’d spank me, fuck me, breed me, the usual. I never suspected he’d go this far and make me actually talk to somebody about my feelings. This is cruel and unusual punishment.

“I really don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“I know, that’s why you need the therapy. He won’t report to me. You can tell him anything. It will be a place for you to come to terms with what has happened to you, and maybe you’ll feel less like murdering every man you meet.”

“I don’t want to murdereveryman I meet. Besides, won’t I just murder him?”

Armand snorts. “It would be interesting to see you try.”

“You think I can’t kill your little therapist? The pack is scared of me, Armand. They know what I’m like. They defer to me.”

“You’re right. They do. I don’t think you’ll intimidate this wolf.”

I put my book down and stand up. “We’ll see about that.”

Armand is smirking as he leads me to an office on the same floor as the other important rooms. His office is down the hall, but not so close he’ll be able to hear.

“You’re really not going to listen in on this? Bug the session?”

“No, Beatrix. Our problem is a lack of trust. That’s not going to be solved by invading your privacy. Whatever you say to Mr. Volkov stays with him.”

He taps on the door.

“Come in!” The words issue from behind the door. They sound a little deep and a little gruff, but I’m not afraid.

“Go on,” he says. “I’ll be in my office afterward if you want to talk.”

“Talking is about the last thing I want to do,” I say, pushing the door open and flicking it shut behind me.

“You’re Mr. Volkov?”

I meet my therapist with my neck craned back because he’s standing near the door, apparently on his way over to open it, and he’s very fucking tall.

“I’m Mr. Volkov.”

Mr. Volkov is six and a half feet of muscle and tattoos. He has heavyset dark brows, bright blue piercing eyes, and a massive jaw. He has to be forty something, he’s gnarled, he’s worn, and he’s scarred. He does not look like a therapist. He looks like an executioner. He has an accent, too. Not quite Russian, but somewhat Russian. I’m not good at picking accents.

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