Page 51 of Her Wicked Knights (Their Hallowed Queen #3)

Part of me knows I shouldn't. We've already crossed a line, albeit accidentally, and this seems like a breach of ethics on both his part and mine. And yet, he took one look at me and sank to an uncomfortable truth, something I haven't been able to explain to my past doctors and counselors.

I was lucky. Whatever happened in that haunted house, it could have been worse.

I don't know the extent of what happened to Audrey after I last saw her, but I know that she was unclothed, and her body was shredded.

I know that I thought I was next, that they were going to hurt me and kill me the same way they killed her.

I know that after going my whole life without so much as kissing anyone other than Jake and that random guy at the bar Audrey took me to, I hooked up with Mark and then was left tied up, exposed for some random stranger to happen upon me and call the police.

It's weird how I feel. I'm grateful that it wasn't worse, but I also feel like it should have been worse.

I shouldn't have survived; it makes no sense.

"I'm Logan." Doctor Whittier says. "I find that getting to know my patients on a personal level is more effective. If we approach this like friends, it helps you feel more at ease."

I'd say that's also a breach of protocol, but we're well past that, and I'm desperate, so I nod and follow his invitation, crossing to the couch awkwardly. "I'm Marley."

"Hi, Marley," he smiles, following me to sit in the chair opposite the couch. "What can I help you with?"

I don't know how to answer that honestly, so I laugh. "Maybe nothing. No one's been able to help me yet."

"Therapists are like lovers," Dr. Whittier says so coolly that I wonder if he's forgotten I just walked in on him with a lover. "You have to find the right fit."

"And you think you could be?" I laugh again. "I'm... fucked up. I'm not sure anyone can help me."

"I think we'll be a great fit, Marley. I'd be happy to help you, but there's one thing I need from you first."

I brace myself, sure that this is the part where he tells me his hourly rate. But it could be worse. What if he doesn't need cash? What if he wants me to pay in other ways... like getting on my knees and giving him an encore of the performance his secretary gave?

Though my stomach twists at the idea, and it feels like someone turned off the AC, I can't deny the way I clench inside at that thought.

And that? That's part of why I'm here. Because my thoughts are so fucking weird, it feels like they're not my own.

Why does the thought of sexual coercion make me want him to cross the same line I was just so worried about overstepping?

"What is it?" I breathe, too anxious to speak any louder for fear of what his answer will be.

He answers easily, a small little smile on his face that doesn't hint at the next word to come out of his mouth. "Submission."

So, I had him pegged all along.

This man wants me to pay for therapy by... what? letting him fuck me? Letting him tie me up and use me? I don't know much about BDSM, but I know that I'm not a submissive... I'm not into all that.

"I fear we're not the match you think we are, Doctor." I swallow the shame creeping up my throat.

He stares at me for a moment, like he's trying to decide whether he agrees. And then his mouth falls open to an O and he dips his head to try and contain his laughter.

"Apologies, Marley. I think you misunderstood."

I wait for him to stop laughing and face me. When he does, his eyes are glittering, enchanting.

"Perhaps that was the wrong word. I didn't mean to imply that our relationship would transcend anything beyond an oral fellowship."

When I narrow my eyes on him, he laughs again. "Fuck, Marley."

I don't think your therapist is supposed to say fuck, but I also haven't had any of them tell em to call them by their first name, either.

"You've got me in knots, and I can't speak right.

" logan shakes his head. "Neither of those were meant to come across that way.

I just mean, if you want to work together, I can help you.

But I need you to be honest... open... vulnerable.

It's a hard thing to be, particularly when you've come to me based on a negative experience that's shaped you.

But it's the only way this will work. Can you do that for me? "

Honest. Open. Vulnerable.

It makes sense. Therapy would be a waste of both of our time if I wasn't willing to do the work. Others have told me as much, but when the work involves taking whatever pill they gave me and dealing with the fallout alone, it's hard to do.

But something about Logan assures me his approach is different.

Something about Logan is familiar, and I take that as a sign that it's meant to be.

"I can do that." I nod.

"Promise?" He teases, a smirk on his face that has his dimple popping out of one cheek.

"Yes." I nod. "I'll be honest and open and vulnerable."

Submissive.

He's a powerful man; it won't be hard to give him control while I'm in his office. In fact, that almost sounds like a wonderful reprieve, to not have to be in control all the time. If being honest and vulnerable is the price to pay for lightening the load, I'll pay it gladly.

"It won't always be pretty." He warns, and I nod, because I know that. The truth isn't always pretty.

"Okay." He nods, too. "Then let's start now."

I expect him to prompt me to tell him about my childhood, my relationship with my father and how my mother made me feel. I expect him to ask me about my siblings or friends or hobbies. Instead, he throws me right into the fire.

"Tell me about the worst moment of your life."

Logan may not have meant that he needed me to be submissive in the sexual sense, but that's where it led. Who knew that being honest, open, and vulnerable would spark a connection that neither of us could stifle?

It was a few months before we started to cross the line more than we already had that first day. But once we crossed it, there was no going back. We've been crossing it in crazier ways ever since, but this is a new low for me.

My heart is beating out of my chest, and I think I may pass out, but I don't dare move. I don't want to fail, don't want to disappoint him, don't want to lose the opportunity he's given me.

By exploring a physical connection, the two of us have come up with a strange sort of therapy.

It's one he says he hasn't used on other patients, but it's one that works.

It's like taking drugs... I do the thing, and then for a little while, my body seems to have reset and calmed down.

And then as it starts to fade, I simply have to take another hit to keep it working.

It's led to a toxic dependency, and I am capable of admitting that.

I don't love Logan- he's cocky and arrogant, he thinks he's the smartest person in the room at all times, and he's got a superiority complex that would make it hard for anyone other than his mother to love him.

And yet, there's a chemistry between us that's powerful, carnal, and raw. It's also mutually beneficial.

So as ridiculous as I feel, standing in his office in a pair of heels that are locked to my ankles, and nothing else... unless you count the tie he used to bind my wrists together behind my back.

I'm not sure how long I've been standing here, waiting for him to come back from his meeting with some pharmaceutical rep.

This is what Logan referred to as exposure therapy.

We've worked up to it in small doses to try and overcome my fear of being bound, with him tying me up just long enough to get a glass of whiskey from the tray in the corner, to go place a lunch order, to use the restroom.

We're establishing trust, he explained. It's a little silly, given that I trust him.

I wouldn't trust some random man in a Halloween costume tying me up again.

But I can't deny the rush of euphoria that comes after all the anxiety, the fear of being caught, of him leaving me, of him taking things too far.

When he comes back to me, it's like the world makes sense again.

He's a drug, and I'm not ashamed of using him.

Every time I hear someone on the other side of the door, my heart seizes, panicked that Lorna will open the door and spot me standing there, waiting for him like this.

Or worse, some random patient looking for Logan.

After all, that's how we met... who's to say someone won't come looking for him and instead find me here. .. vulnerable?

My calves are screaming from being forced onto the balls of my feet for so long, but I don't dare try to sit.

Without having my arms, there's no way I'd be able to get back up without breaking an ankle.

No, I wait, I endure, and I feel. I focus on the physical because it pushes all the mental out of my head and lets me escape the past, the ghosts of my old life, the family I've lost, the friends who have probably already forgotten about me.

With each stunt Logan pulls, he shapes me into someone new, someone braver and bolder, someone stronger than the girl who I left behind in that small town.

And with each session, I forget why I couldn't breathe when I left.

My stomach twists when the door opens, and I train my eyes on the ground, praying it's him, praying that I'm not about to be humiliated any more than I already am.

"Fuck, puppet," Logan groans, flipping the lock behind him. "You look like temptation."

I'm not sure what's tempting about it. There's nothing left to the imagination.

We've gotten to know each other intimately in the months we've been doing this; he's been in every part of me, seen every part of me, put me into strange outfits and predicaments and then fucked me like he couldn't get enough.

I don't say anything, don't look up, waiting for him to approach me.