Page 13 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
“Running away?” I murmur. The words are dry but laced with darkness. Want.
“Not running.” She stands up and straightens, facing me. She’s brave, I give her that. “Setting boundaries. Something I imagine you respect.” Then she steps around me and walks to the door.
“Before you go,” I call to her. “One question.”
I follow to the door, reaching past her to rest my hand on the doorknob, my arm brushing hers. She could move. She doesn’t.
“Why this case?” I ask, my other hand coming up to hover near her face, close enough that she can feel the air around me enveloping her. “You didn’t take it just for the professional challenge.”
She pauses.
“Maybe I believe people can change, Mr. Gagarin,” she says. “Even the ones who think they can’t.”
She turns to leave, but I place my hand flat against the door, holding it shut. Not threatening. Not quite. But definitely crossing a line.
“You didn’t answer my question.” I feel her sharp intake of breath. “Why this case? Why me?”
She turns slowly, back against the door, trapped between wood and me. Her whole body is attuned to mine, swaying slightly forward even as her hands press flat against the door behind her. Her breathing goes ragged, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that has nothing to do with fear. I can see her pulse hammering at the base of her throat, quick as a trapped bird.
“Maybe,” she starts, and her voice has dropped to barely above a whisper. “I have a weakness for lost causes.”
“Or dangerous men?”
Something flickers in her eyes—desire, fear, recognition. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips; nervous habit or invitation, I’m not sure she knows herself. But her body knows. It’s in the way she stays put despite the open space I’ve given her. The way her eyes keep dropping to my mouth before snapping back up. “Is there a difference?”
I let her see my smile, the real one, not the calculated versions I wear like masks. “You’re about to find out.”
I step back, letting her escape. She doesn’t run, but her exit lacks composure. I watch her go, noting the slight tremor in her hands as she turns the door handle. The way she pauses at the threshold, not looking back but wanting to. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her body fights itself.
Not yet, Doctor. But soon.
Next time, I’ll push. See how close I can get before that professional armor crumbles like everything else.
Because Dr. Mila Agapova isn’t here to fix me.
She’s here because some part of her, the part she hides behind degrees and boundaries, wants to break just as badly as I do.
4
TRANSFERENCE
MILA
The rain has stopped by the time I step outside, but the air is thick with the scent of wet earth and pine—a weight that settles over my shoulders like the aftershock of something I can’t quite name.
I breathe in deeply, grounding myself.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
It’s a technique I’ve taught dozens of patients over the years. Now I use it on myself.
My hand trembles as I unlock the car. I ignore it.
I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin where he touched my hand, my shoulder, tucked that strand of hair behind my ear. My body remembers even as my mind tries to forget. Every nerve ending he awakened still hums, hypersensitive beneath my clothes.
