Page 10

Chapter Nine

ASHER

E ver since that night at Blake’s house, things have felt... different.

Not the way they should’ve. Not like progress.

He treats me differently now. Softer. Like I’m made of paper, like I’ll fold in his hands if he looks at me wrong. I don’t know exactly what shifted, but I know I hate it. I hate the way his voice gets low and careful when he speaks to me. I hate the measured pauses in his questions, like he’s talking to someone half his age. I hate the pity behind his eyes. Like he’s watching a wounded animal instead of a man.

I’ve been doing everything I can to provoke him.

I flirt. I argue. I push boundaries I know I shouldn’t. I try to remind him that I’m still me. Still sharp. Still the same mouthy brat he met that first day in his office.

But no matter what I do, he never rises to it. He doesn’t snap. Doesn’t lose his temper. Doesn’t take the bait. And for some reason, that burns more than anything.

I hate it.

And I think, finally, that I’ve reached the end of it.

"How have you been doing, Asher?" His voice is smooth and steady, that rich tone I used to crave now reduced to background noise.

"Fine," I say, maybe too quickly. My voice is tight, the edge obvious. But he doesn’t comment on it. He just nods and writes something in his damn notepad.

That stings more than it should.

When the session finally ends, he offers me one of those small, patient smiles, tight at the corners like he’s sorry for something he won’t say out loud. His eyes are soft. Too soft.

It cracks my pride in half.

I’m not a child. I don’t want to be treated like one. And whatever pity he’s been holding back since the party, he can take it and shove it somewhere dark and unspeakable.

I won’t tolerate it.

So, naturally, I make a decision. Not a good one. Not even a smart one. But a necessary one.

I decide to break into his house.

It’s not like I’m planning to do anything. I’m not going to steal or vandalize. I just want to see it. I want to understand him, find something real, something that proves he’s not this pristine, unshakable therapist he pretends to be.

Maybe I’ll find something weird in his house. Maybe a hidden drawer. A sketchy receipt. A closet full of secrets. I don’t know.

But what I do know is that I want him to treat me seriously. I want to knock him off his pedestal. I want to feel like we’re on even footing, instead of this strange one-way dynamic where he’s always three steps ahead and I’m left trying to claw my way up.

And maybe, if I’m honest with myself, I want to be caught.

When I get to his house, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

I peer through the windows. Nothing.

I check the back door. Locked.

Figures.

But unlucky for Blake, I know how to pick locks. I learned the old-fashioned way. I’m not proud of it, but it comes in handy more often than it should.

I crouch down with a pin and twist the lock until I hear the satisfying click.

Yes.

The door creaks open, and I step inside.

It’s just like I remembered. Immaculate. Tasteful. Almost clinical in its neatness. The same grand chandelier hangs above the open entryway, casting golden light across the polished floors. There’s something almost sterile about the space. Like it’s a model home, not one a person actually lives in.

I scoff under my breath.

Why does he need so much space? Two stories, vaulted ceilings, multiple guest rooms? What’s he compensating for?

I never confirmed if he had a girlfriend. I don’t think he does. At the party, I could’ve sworn the hot brunette with the glasses tried to flirt with him, and he turned her down. I even overheard the secretary whispering about it the next week.

I move up the stairs as quietly as I can, but the wood creaks beneath my feet. I wince and slow my pace.

There’s a faint buzz coming from upstairs, maybe a television or a sound machine. It’s hard to tell.

I remember his bedroom is on the left.

I inch the door open.

Empty.

The bed is rumpled, the sheets tangled like he left in a hurry. The air smells faintly of his cologne, and I hate that I recognize it instantly.

He’s not here.

And yet… I don’t leave.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Let the silence settle over me.

I didn’t come here for him, I remind myself. I came here to feel like I had power again. Like I wasn’t just some broken doll he’s been gluing back together.

But sitting in his bedroom, alone, it’s hard not to feel pathetic.

Kaleb hasn’t messaged me in two days. Even when I sent a couple of pictures, he just hearted them. No dirty replies. No voice memos. Nothing.

The other guys? They’re background noise. All noise. They don’t see me. Not like Kaleb does.

And Blake?

Blake shouldn’t be on my mind this much.

But ever since he held me at the party, I can’t stop thinking about his arms. The way his voice softened. The way I clung to him like I was drowning.

I should’ve pushed him away. But I didn’t.

And now, lying back on his bed, I get horny just thinking about it.

I hate that I fantasize about letting him fuck me. About going back to that night and not pulling away.

God, if he walked in right now and wanted me, I wouldn’t say no.

Not even close.

He’s my therapist, sure. But what kind of therapist invites their client to a house party? What kind of therapist lets them into their bedroom?

He can deny it all he wants, but I know he wants me.

I know it.

And just when the thought becomes unbearable, I feel it.

A hand. Rough. Firm. Clamping over my mouth.

I freeze.

Another hand snakes around my waist, yanking me back against a solid chest.

I panic for a second, my heart skips. Is it Blake?

It has to be.

"Got you," a voice growls near my ear. Deep. Low. Dangerous.

It is him.

His voice sounds different, richer. Unfiltered. Less Blake the therapist and more... Blake the man.

My body betrays me instantly. Heat floods my stomach. My breath stutters.

Jesus.

I should be petrified right now, but instead a warmth blooms inside me.

My brain is telling me to tell him to fuck off, but my body is ready.

Too ready.