His palm cups my jaw, guiding my gaze to his. Therapy has sanded some edges off his intensity, but the core remains—that fractured-bright gaze cataloging my every microexpression.
“Fine,” I say, pretending to pout. I can’t be too upset, though. Sasha has never, ever let me down when he’s promised that “later, there will be more.”
I trace the puckered scar along his ribs through his shirt. “Dr. Nguyen said you skipped yesterday’s one-on-one. Everything okay?”
His pulse leaps under my fingertips. “Had a… visitor.”
When he hesitates, I thread our fingers together—Dr. Nguyen’s grounding technique #3. His exhale warms my temple.
“It was Moliets-et-Maa again,” he rasps. “You in that alley, Dragan’s knife at your throat. Only when he turned… it wasn’t Dragan. It was Yakov.”
I run my finger
