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I take a deep breath, “So, how's your first week of classes been?”
“Fine, thank you,” she says quietly, British accent thick, something I thought I wouldn't give a fuck about, but apparently, my dickreallyfucking likes it.
“No issues with finding your way around?” she shakes her head. “Professors are all okay?” she nods, letting her gaze drop to my hands, her focus on my laced fingers. “People are being nice?” she nods again, and I want her to fucking speak. Cravingthe sound of her already, “And you've checked in with your psychiatrist?”
Her gaze flashes up onto mine then, eyes flicking between my own, I watch her bruised neck roll with her hard swallow.
An admission of guilt.
“You know that's one of the conditions for you to be able to stay? That you check in weekly,” I say softly, cocking my head in an attempt to catch her eye.
“I know,” she whispers, swallowing again, “I'll call him today.”
Him.
Something tightens in my chest, sharp and hot. I don't know why it didn't occur to me before that her therapist could be a guy. I guess I just assumed they'd be a she. I don't know why I care.
Poppy reaches up, fingers absentmindedly grazing over the bruising on her throat, and as if she forgot about the tender flesh, she winces, quickly dragging her hair further forward to hide it.
A bright blush sits high in her cheeks, her eyes darting to mine, and it takes everything in me not to catapult myself over the table, launch myself at her, tip the chair backwards, pin her to the floor and lick up the length of her pretty little throat, add my own marks.
“Good,” I nod, swallowing thickly, cock pulsing hard in my slacks. “And you're taking your medication?”
Antidepressants. Anxiety medication.
Her cheeks flush even redder, spreading like groping fingers down her throat. I wonder how far the blush extends. Does it smother her chest, drag its way down her tits, darken her nipples?
She nods, looking back down at her tattooed hands, the tips blanching white where she squeezes them so tight.
A lie.
“I know we've just met,” I say gently, “but you can tell me the truth,” I coax quietly. “I'm not going to report it,” I hedge, cocking my head further, dipping my chin in an attempt to catch her eye.
Look at me, look at me, look at me.
As if she heard my silent summoning, she looks up, our eyes connecting and for long moments she holds my gaze, something so delicately vulnerable in her wide orbs.
I want to break it.
I grit my teeth, my insides knotting, intestines coiling around my liver and kidneys like some sort of noose.
Her dad destroyed my brothers' lives.
So we'll ruin hers.
And I do so like to break pretty little things.
Moving forward with my assumption, “Is there a reason you're not taking them, Poppy? Are you having a reaction, hallucinations, headaches?” She shifts again in her seat, staring down at her lap, “This is a safe space,” I reassure her. “Confidential.”
“Are you a doctor?” she asks then, a small crease between her dark brows, her long lashes tickling the arch of them.
I wobble my head on my neck side to side, thinking about what to say.
“No. I'm a qualified student counselor with a background in psychiatry,” is what I decide on, the truth, more or less.
She hums, fidgeting again, and I'm wondering whether we should just sit here in silence for the hour. The dim light of the room, the silence, uncomfortable on her part, somewhat satisfying for me. I need her to bejustuncomfortable enough that we can move forward from it in future appointments, so I don't want to push her. Too far. Not yet.
“Aren't you like super young?” she suddenly blurts out, her eyes wide as she realizes what she's just said.
