Page 52 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“Fuck,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to reach out. Trace the length of that scar down his spine. Feel the heat where sweatbeads and slips along his ribs. I want to know if that controlled violence would dissolve under my hands or turn on me.

Desire hits me hard. No warning. No build. Just want, low and sudden and stupid.

I shouldn’t be here. I grip the doorframe, panting—actually panting—like I’ve run miles instead of walked twenty feet. Every nerve ending sparks like frayed wire in the rain.

He stops. Not slowly. Not gradually. Juststills. Listens.

“Enjoying the view, Dr. Agapova?”

His voice is low, smooth, and laced with amusement. Heat blooms at the back of my neck, rushes up to my cheeks, but I don’t step back or look away.

“You’re still doing it,” I say before I can stop myself.

He stills. “Doing what?”

“Rewriting the rules. The way you move, it’s not recovery. It’s reconstruction.”

He turns slowly, and I’m not prepared. Not for the full impact of him up close, chest heaving, skin glistening, those tattoos I want to trace with my tongue.

He advances, and I should back away, but I’m frozen in place.

“We agreed?—”

“We agreed to many things.” He’s close enough now that drops of sweat from his chest could fall on me. “That was before you told me you were aching for me. Before you came with my name on your lips.”

My knees buckle. He catches my elbow, and the touch burns through my sleeve.

“Steady,” he murmurs, but his voice is strained. I can see his erection through his workout pants, and my mouth waters. We’re both hanging by a thread.

“I need—” I start, but don’t know how to finish. Need you? Need this to stop? Need you inside me before I lose my mind?

“I know what you need.” His hand slides up my arm. “Same thing I need. And I’ll find a way.”

It’s a promise. A threat. An inevitability.

“The guards?—”

“Think you’re here for therapy.” His thumb strokes the inside of my elbow, and I bite back a moan. “Shall we discuss coping mechanisms, Doctor? Because I have several in mind.”

My pulse jumps. The air between us crackles, too thick, too charged. Not just chemistry. Risk. The kind that changes everything if you take one step too far.

“We have our next session tomorrow,” I manage, retreating a single step, but it feels like losing ground. “We can address coping strategies then.”

He smiles. A subtle, devastating shift of his mouth that hits low in my stomach.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says.

And it’s not flirtation. It’s not even seduction. It’s certainty. Like a man who knows exactly what he wants and already knows it’s his.

I turn and walk away with my spine straight and my jaw locked tight, but I feel him watching every inch of me. Not with hunger. With curiosity. Like he’s memorizing me the same way I’ve tried not to memorize him.

I wonder if he thinks about other women. What lovers there were before. The thought makes me want to scream. Or scratch someone’s eyes out. Preferably any woman who’s ever looked at him the way I do.

Back in my room, I slam the door and lean against it, breath shallow.

This isn’t just an ethical breach. This is a collapse.