Page 2 of Watched and Bred By the Bratva
We both nod.
“That sounds healthy,” the doctor says. “But it still doesn’t explain why you’re not doing this the traditional way. Some men would gladly give you a baby—and walk away.”
Me.
But I’m not walking away. Hell no.
“Is this driven by something else?”
Zara leans forward, her gaze sharp with a rare fierceness. “I’m just not built that way.”
Dr. Overton’s shoulders tense. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have sex,” Zara says. “I’ve never had sex.”
My entire body locks. She can’t mean that. Not someone so beautiful, so sharp, so sensual—even pouring coffee behind a counter. How the hell has she gone untouched?
“That’s unusual, but still perfectly normal,” the doctor says. “You’re very young. Don’t be fooled by statistics about teenagers—there are plenty of women who are still virgins at your age.”
“You don’t get it,” Zara cuts in. “They’re waiting for Mr. Right. I’m not. I don’t have sex because I don’t feel things. Boys have tried to touch me, tried to kiss me… nothing.”
The doctor’s brow lifts. “Nothing?”
Zara shakes her head. “Nothing. I’ve always been ice. I’ve never felt fire.”
The doctor studies her. “Usually, that’s tied to some kind of trauma.”
Zara’s lip pulls between her teeth again. She draws in a breath, releases it slowly. “When I was thirteen, my mother had a boyfriend… he was interested in me.” Her eyes dart away, then back. “One night, we were alone in the apartment, and he tried to force himself on me. I fought him off. The neighbors came running when I screamed. My mother had him arrested, but we dropped the case because I didn’t want to see him again. She got me counseling. I don’t have nightmares or PTSD. I just have no interest in a man putting his hands on me sexually. That’s my story.”
“I’m very sorry that happened to you,” the doctor says. “I’m glad you’ve made progress. But the last step in fixing that broken puzzle is to open yourself up to other men—”
Me.
“—or women, if that’s your preference,” the doctor continues.
Nope. Not them either.
“Understandably, a lot of women are gun-shy after an experience like yours. But sex can be wonderful, beautiful—something you might enjoy one day. Has there never been even one man to pique your interest?”
Zara’s hands fumble in her lap, but she looks up, voice dropping to a whisper. “Lately… there is a man. He comes into my coffee shop. When he looks at me, the ice I’ve always felt—it’s not there. I feel… heat. I’ve never felt that before. Maybe it’s because he’s quiet, stoic. And I know what you’re thinking—that I’m one of those women only attracted to unavailable or cold men—but when he looks at me, there’s a fire in his eyes. A fire I only see when he looks at me. I can’t help wondering sometimes… if he feels it too. But he’s very appropriate. Orders coffee black, works on his laptop, answers a few calls, then leaves.”
“Have you tried flirting with him a bit?” Dr. Overton asks.
My fingers clamp around the arms of my chair so hard I’m surprised they don’t splinter. Who is this motherfucker? Because he’s a dead man.
Then her lips shape my name. “Flirt with Nikolai? No. You’d have to know him. He’s not the kind of guy you flirt with. I have no experience, but even I know that. And—oh my God—the humiliation if he wasn’t interested? He doesn’t appear interested.”
Me. She means me. And it’s my name pouring from that mouth.
I’m a puddle. Water seeping into the leather beneath me.
She said my name.
She sealed her fate.
The rest of the interview blurs. My focus pins on her mouth, her eyes, the curve of her shoulders when she leans forward to listen.
At the end, she asks the question that snaps me back. “Did I… pass?”
