Page 47 of Capricorn

“Grief can change a person’s perspective. Perhaps the loss forced him to reassess how he treated his son?”

I gape at him, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“Simply playing Devil’s Advocate. Grief can change people, as you’re well aware.”

“That man is incapable of change. The show he put on might’ve been his best performance yet.”

“You believe he was being dishonest?”

“I believe he’s evil.” I ease back against the cushions. “Like a lot of the men pulling the strings here.”

At my backhanded insult, Dr. Price doesn’t even twitch. Ever the man of composure, he jots something down, his pen scribbling hushed judgment across the page.

“How are your days?” he asks, flipping to a new page. “What do they look like?”

I let out a soft, joyless laugh. “A lot of nothing. I stare at the ceiling, watch the ocean, count the snowflakes. Sometimes I eat.”

“Sometimes?” His silver-grey eyes narrow, the point of his pen tapping a restless beat against the notebook.

“Most of the time,” I say, not sure if it’s more truth or lie.

“And your nights?”

“I sleep.”

“And before that?” A faint twitch pulls at his mouth, too restrained to be a smile. “Have you tried my control method?”

Last night blazes through my mind in vivid color, and warmth blooms on my cheeks. Oliver stood in my doorway, same as all the other nights.

No sound or shift.

Just him, holding tight to his infuriating status quo.

And me, swallowing down my moans.

Desperate to contain the inferno, I’d shoved the blanket aside before taking my nipples between my fingers, pinching hard to tame the heat. But the second I touched myself there…

Oliver moved.

With a bite of his lower lip, he took a purposeful step into the room, leaned against the wall, and I’d wondered…

Would this be the night he finally did something?

After what felt like a full minute of silent warfare, he adjusted the bulge in his pants, crossed his arms over his sleep shirt, and settled in like a man prepared to wait forever.

Dr. Price clears his throat, dragging me back to the sterile present, but it’s too late.

He already has a good idea of what I’m thinking.

“Have you orgasmed yet?” he asks, too casual, as if we’re discussing the completion of a project.

“I’d rather not talk about that.”

“Why not? Masturbation is a natural and healthy part of life.”

“It’s also private.”

“I’ll take a simple yes or no, then.”

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