Page 18 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

“Was it?” I turn to face her, studying the careful way she holds herself. “You’re wearing red lipstick. That’s new.”

“I’m not here to discuss my appearance.”

“Aren’t you?” I move closer, each step deliberate. “You changed your hair. Your dress. You’re wearing perfume.” I pause just out of reach. “Who were you getting ready for, Dr. Agapova?”

Color blooms across her throat, betraying her. “Please sit down so we can begin the session.”

“I’m comfortable here.” I lean against the armrest of my chair, forcing her to look up at me. “Tell me about boundaries, Doctor. In your training, did they cover what to do when you‘re no longer able to concentrate on your patient’s words because you’re thinking about his hands?”

“Yakov—”

“When you catch yourself wondering what it would feel like if he touched you properly?”

Her breath catches. “This is inappropriate.”

“Is it? Or is it the first honest conversation we’ve had?” I move around the table slowly, watching her track my movement. “You want to discuss my healing? Then let’s discuss yours.”

“I’m not the patient.”

“No?” I stop beside her chair, close enough that she’d have to crane her neck to meet my eyes if she dared. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

She glances down, realizes I’m right, and quickly clasps them together.

Too late.

“You’re trying to manipulate the session again,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

“I’m trying to understand my therapist.” I lean down, bracing one hand on the arm of her chair. “You made a choice to come back after you let me taste you. You could have requested a transfer. Cited professional concerns. But you didn’t.”

“Because I believe I can help you.”

“By pretending nothing happened?” My voice drops, intimate. “By ignoring the way you pressed against me? The way you said my name? The texts you sent me?”

“Stop.” But she doesn’t move away.

“You keep trying to pretend it didn’t happen. But your body remembers.” I gesture to the rapid rise and fall of her chest. “You’re breathless. Your pulse is jumping in your throat. And you still haven’t looked at me.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“No.” I reach out, fingers barely grazing her chin, tilting her face up. “Now you’re looking at me.”

The contact is electric. I watch her pupils dilate, see the way her lips part slightly. She’s fighting it, but losing.

“Tell me what you see,” I murmur, thumb brushing across her jawline.

“Someone who’s pushing boundaries. Someone resisting therapy.”

“Try again.”

The silence stretches. Her eyes search my face, and I notice the exact moment her careful control starts to fracture.

“Someone dangerous,” she whispers.

“And?”

“Someone who makes me forget why I became a therapist in the first place.”

The admission breaks the restraint between us. Before she can take it back, I lean closer, my other hand coming to rest on the back of her chair.

“Which is?”

“To help people heal. Not to—” She stops herself.

“Not to what?”

“Not to want things I shouldn’t want.”

“And what is it that you want, Mila?”

The question hangs between us. She could deflect. Could hide behind protocol. Could pretend her chest isn’t rising and falling like she’s been running.

Instead, she does something that surprises us both.

She stands abruptly, closing the distance between us and rising on her toes until her mouth is a breath away from mine.

“I want you to stop making me choose between being your doctor and being a woman,” she whispers against my lips.

“Then don’t choose.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.” I slide one hand to the small of her back, feeling her arch into the touch. “For one hour. In this room.”

She glances toward the corner where the camera sits, its red light steady.

“They’re watching. The guards?—”

“Are seeing a therapy session from two weeks ago. Sixty minutes of productive conversation.” My smile is sharp, predatory.

Her eyes widen. “You tampered with the surveillance?”

“I prefer ‘optimized our privacy.’ The beauty of institutional security systems—so predictable, so easily circumvented.” I brush a strand of hair from her face. “No eyes on us today, Dr. Agapova. Just you and me.”

A sharp intake of breath. “And after?”

“After, we figure it out. The real feed resumes whenever I trigger it, or automatically in fifty-two minutes. Plenty of time for us to…both get what we need.” I check my watch. “Unless you’d prefer to discuss my childhood trauma instead?”

She looks at the camera again, then back at me. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Since the first time you walked into this room.”

She looks up at me, eyes dark with want and uncertainty. “This is insane.”

“Probably.” I lower my head, my lips brushing hers in a feather-light touch. “Do it anyway.”

I sweep my tongue along the seam of her lips until she parts them and allows me entry.

The kiss quickly turns desperate, hungry, like she’s been starving for days, and I’m sustenance.

I back her against the wall, hands framing her face, and she goes willingly.

The soft sound she makes when I deepen the kiss nearly undoes me.

My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her closer, and she melts against me. Every rational thought disappears except this—her warmth, her taste, the way she fits perfectly in my arms.

But then reality crashes back.

“No.” She pushes at my chest, breathing hard. “We can’t. I can’t.”

I don’t let go immediately. The feel of her in my arms is the first thing that’s felt real in years.

“Mila—”

“This is exactly why I can’t be your therapist.” She’s gathering herself, but I can see the cracks in her composure. “This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.”

“Don’t.”

But she’s already moving toward the door, her professional mask sliding back into place even though her hands are trembling.

“Dr. Agapova,” I try, falling back on formality.

She pauses at the door but doesn’t turn around. “This session is over.”

“Is it? Or are we just getting started?”

I see her shoulders tense and the way she grips the door handle like an anchor.

“This can’t happen again,” she says quietly as she opens the door and walks away, leaving me alone, her taste on my lips and the knowledge that she wants me as desperately as I want her.

That thought stays long after she’s gone, threading through my mind with unwanted clarity. I’ve known my purpose for years. Revenge was simple. Clean. Sharp.

Now I want things I shouldn’t. A quiet voice in the dark. A hand that reaches without trembling. A woman who sees the monster—and doesn’t flinch.

That kind of want is a threat I never prepared for.