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“You want me to kick him out?” Smolyakov’s fishing for my wrath.
Ivy glances at me, meeting my eyes. I don’t say a word. I let herseeme like she always has. She takes a deep breath, opening her white notepad. “I’ll be okay. Thank you for checking in on me. I think I can manage.”
Smolyakov stares at me with threats in his eyes. For some strange reason, he’s protecting my little doe. She’s myobject, meaning she’s undermyjurisdiction. That piece of shit has no claim on her. I inhale, counting like Ivy taught me in the past. I don’t see an enemy in Smolyakov. He’s an additional set of eyes on my little doe, and she can use all the protection in the world.
Wordlessly, he exits the office. The door shuts with a bang. My little doe flinches, and I want nothing but to take her into my arms. I crave to keep her warm and shield her from her lunatic overprotective friends.
“What do you want?” she asks with a sigh.
“You.”
She winces. “If you’re not here for a therapy session, I’d suggest you leave. I will file a complaint. I mean it. This is my workplace, and I have boundaries that I’m not willing to cross.”
I’m hard already, but I’m not here for that. “I need help.”
“I’m aware,” she responds while taking a note on her notepad.
CHAPTERELEVEN
IVY
Paperwork ismy least favorite part of the job. It consumes most of my time when there are no appointments.
I scribble down something random on my notepad to make him think I’m not listening. Fuck. Of course, he knows I’m listening. It’s my job to take notes and listen simultaneously. He’s only been here for less than five minutes, and I’m already torn inside.
“Can you ask your questions?” he asks with an urgency I’ve never heard from him. He’s come to me in his usual gear, sweatpants that don’t hide what’s been inside of me. His hoodie lacks the usual basketball symbols. He’s dressed in black from top to bottom. I want to crawl over to his side and cuddle with him. The lovesick part of me sees him as a giant teddy bear, hard surface but a gentle heart.
I can’t think of him that way right now. “What type of questions do you want to be asked? You barged in here without my permission. Since you think you don’t need my consent to be my patient, go ahead. Lead this session. I haven’t prepared anything.”
“I want to become your patient again,” he announces, and I make a note of his pursuit of help. He does not deny that there’s something wrong with him. That’s a step in the right direction. “And I want to apologize.”
“For what, exactly?” I respond with more ferocity than I intended.
“Did I make you cry?”
“This is not about me. It’s your session, and we’re talking about you,” I remind him. I won’t tell him about my tears. He doesn’t deserve them right now.
“I left abruptly, and I headed to the new training facilities. I demolished whatever stood in my way.” He confirms the story Måns told me the other day. “I don’t remember what I did. The last thing I remember is your face. I don’t know a lot about what you do, but I think I had an episode.”
“An episode? What kind of an episode?”
“Alex winning his championship had an unexpected effect on me. I don’t know what bothered me about it at that moment, but I exploded. I left so that you wouldn’t get hurt. I’d never intentionally physically hurt a woman, but I knew that I had to leave your home. I don’t remember driving or anything that happened after I stepped out of your building. I blacked out,” he explains.
I keep taking notes. His honesty is refreshing. He’s baring himself to me, and I fight to control my yearning heart. “Are you jealous of your son?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
I repeat my question that I’m sure he heard the first time.
He firmly states, “I love my son.”
“Everyone knows that you love him, but are you jealous of his achievements? Did you want to be in his place when you were young?” I ask. He doesn’t outright scowl at my question, but I see his face tightening. “He’s chasing after his dreams, and he’s succeeding.”
“I know that,” he clips back.
“So?”
Jordan’s gaze is on the table that separates us. Something is bubbling inside of him, threatening to erupt. I’ve pushed his buttons, bruising his ego. He needs to deal with this. I continue, “You work harder than anyone I know. We meet once a month because you can’t find the time to see me more often. You have hundreds of employees. You’re in charge of a country that you don’t feel any connection to. You’re not a proud Katantian, yet you spend every minute of every day protecting their shores, their queen, and their livelihoods.”
