Page 66 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“You’ll be escorted from now on,” he adds. “To and from sessions. No exceptions.”

Translation: no more late-night detours. No more hiding in the quiet spaces between rules.

I nod, feigning compliance. But somewhere inside me, the woman—not the doctor—starts plotting a way around it.

By the time I reach the therapy room later that morning, I’ve wrapped myself in professionalism like armor. He’s waiting, as always, by the window. When he turns, his expression is stone, save for the flicker in his eyes that settles unerringly on me.

“Dr. Agapova,” he greets, cool and controlled.

“Mr. Gagarin.” I match his tone, knowing the guard at the door is watching everything.

The door shuts. Only then does he step closer.

“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice low.

“Yes.” And I mean it, even if my pulse still jumps when he looks at me like that.

“They’ve tightened security,” I add. “No more midnight strolls.”

His smile is barely there, but the meaning is clear.Challenges exist to be overcome.

We talk. Technically. He recounts details of his childhood, his father’s brand of power. I respond like the therapist I’m supposed to be, but the space between us is threaded with everything unspoken. Every breath, every glance, every brush of connection that lingers longer than it should.

When our hour ends, I should walk away and pretend my lips aren’t still tingling from the memory of his kiss. Instead, I hear myself saying, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About feeling safe.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

“I want you to teach me.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “Self-defense. How to protect myself.”

His eyes darken with understanding, but also amusement. “Is that what you want, Dr. Agapova? Or is it a thinly veiled excuse to feel my hands on you?”

Heat floods my cheeks, but I hold his gaze. “Both.”

“Very amenable, Doctor.” His tone wraps around the words like silk, and I get a glimpse of a playful man that is buried under all that control.

The guard escorts me away. I feel Yakov’s gaze pressed against the back of my neck.

Over the next few days, we settle into a new routine. Morning therapy, then training in the gym. The guards hover, but they keep their distance, content to let Yakov work off his tension in something that looks like rehabilitation.

If they notice the heat simmering beneath the surface, they don’t say a word.

The next afternoon, I arrive at the small gym wearing athletic leggings and a fitted tank top. Nothing revealing, but Yakov’s eyes track every line of my body when I walk in, making me hyperaware of how the fabric clings to my curves.

“Ready?” he asks, voice deceptively casual.

“Ready.”

He circles me slowly, predatorily. “First lesson, awareness. Most people telegraph their intentions. Watch.” He moves behind me, close enough that I can feel his body heat. “Someone approaches from behind. How do you know?”

“I…hear them?”

“What else?” His breath brushes my ear, sending tingles down my spine.

“Feel them. The air moves. The temperature changes.”

“Good.” His hand hovers just above my shoulder, not touching but present. “Your body knows danger before your mind does. Trust it.”

The guard in the corner looks bored, scrolling his phone. Perfect.