A sigh escapes my lips as I lean against the door and watch Doctor Gardner’s figure retreat down the hall after delivering his lovely ultimatum. And when that doesn’t adequately express my frustration, I add a whispered “fuck” for good measure.

I take another moment to gather my thoughts and make a plan.

This is just a challenge. It was never meant to be easy—that’s why it’s a test of my skills, my professionalism, and my clinical detachment.

I have the potential to be the best this field has to offer. I need to start acting like it.

I straighten my spine and adjust my skirt before settling my professional mask of aloof agreeableness on my face.

I’m the doctor, and Jaxon is my patient. It’s as simple as that.

I open the door to find Jaxon repositioning in his seat, as if he just slipped back into it. Hmm. I suspect he was listening to my conversation with Dr. Gardner, but I don’t necessarily have proof.

More than that, though—he could have easily made it into the seat and situated himself so I would’ve been none the wiser—it’s almost like he wants me to know he knows.

“Good news, Mr. Covington,” I say, forcing myself to use his surname, to at least try to create some distance. “It appears there was a misunderstanding, and I’ll be remaining as your treating physician for the foreseeable future.”

I smile blandly.

Jaxon leans back in his chair, hands on his flat stomach, and stretches his legs out until they’re almost touching mine. He smiles like a cat that just got his cream.

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it, Ali,” he laughs, the nickname rolling languidly off his tongue.

I almost shiver. I catch myself, though, and stiffen my spine instead.

When I told him no one had ever called me Ali before, I meant it. But not because no one had thought to.

Hardly. No, no one had ever called me Ali before because I’d never allowed anyone to.

I found the diminutive insipid. In fact, I find most nicknames to be an unnecessary complication.

But when Jaxon Covington calls me Ali, I feel none of my usual aversions. Instead, it’s like warm honey poured over vanilla ice cream. It makes me want to moan.

And I find myself mesmerized by his tongue.

Specifically, the way it catches between his teeth on the “-lee.”

I imagine it doing all sorts of other things.

I pick up my notes and begin shuffling through them. I need to give myself a moment to solidify my professional persona and banish the image of Jaxon drizzling warm honey over my breasts before suckling them clean.

I shift slightly in my seat at my own sudden desire. This might be harder than I thought.

I clear my throat. “So, Mr. Covington. Please tell me more about your mother.”

* * *

The rest of the session flies by in a whirl of loaded glances, half-smiles, and falsehoods. I listen to him elaborate on his traumatic childhood, taking notes as he talks.

It’s all lies. Every word of it.

But I let him go, wanting to see where each lie will lead because there’s a truth to be had even in deception. If you know where to look.

I simply record everything, interrupting periodically to ask him a probing question or if he could clarify a statement. I notice that he pauses occasionally to gauge my reaction, especially if the story was particularly horrific.

But I give him nothing.

My mask of professional detachment is firmly in place, despite the rocky start.

I can tell it frustrates him. I can see a faint tic in his jaw. And I like it.

If I’m going to be frustrated, then he damn well can be, too.

We carry on like this for some time, and before I know it, there’s the usual knock on the door. A prison guard is here to collect him.

I arch an eyebrow as I watch Jaxon simply give the guard a look and the man retreats to wait for him in the hallway. The subtle display of dominance is intoxicating.

The entire session, Jaxon has been careful not to touch me. So, so careful.

But he’s hovered just barely out of reach, to the point where I could practically feel his heat. But as the guard leaves, he leans forward across the table and takes my hands. I almost jump at the crackling intensity of the contact.

“Ali,” he says.

I maintain eye contact, instead of dropping my glance to his mouth.

Don’t shiver.

“Doctor Hughes,” he continues, rubbing small, soft circles on my wrists with his thumbs.

I know I should remove my hands, but I can’t seem to find the motivation.

“Thank you for continuing to treat me. I feel a connection here that I’ve never felt before, and I think I’m finally having a breakthrough. I’m learning stuff about myself I never even realized.”

He gives me a slight smile, then he pulls back and takes his hands away. “Keep up the good work.”

He winks as he stands and heads out of the room without waiting for my response.

I hear the door open and close, and then he’s gone.

I sit there, stunned, unsure of what just happened. And for the first time today, for the first time since I met him, I’m not sure whether or not he’s lying.

* * *

Back in my office, I have Jaxon’s police file, as well as my records from every meeting spread in front of me trying to determine a pattern. I go over all of my notes from the day, then I shift my attention back to the police file.

I’ve read it already, of course, but I keep going back to it, trying to find something that I missed. A piece that will help me solve this puzzle.

Then I see it. A small note in the margin.

Someone jotted down that Jaxon was completely cooperative until the detective called him Jack.

Then, it was as if someone flipped a switch.

I sit back and think. I personally had seen Jaxon become completely unhinged when someone called him Jack. But it seems that this is more than just an aversion.

It’s a compulsion, a deep-seated trigger.

When I brought it up today, he deflected first then gave me another false story.

I lean back in my chair and rub my temples.

Then I pick up my memo recorder and press record.

“Patient Jaxon Covington presents as a possible case of either sociopathy or psychopathy. However, it is yet to be determined where on this spectrum he falls, or if these personality disorders are paired in any degree with a psychosis.”

I hit pause, thinking this over.

I’m not sure what I want to do. If I really wanted to be done with him, I could just declare him competent and wash my hands off the whole affair. No one would be the wiser.

But I don’t think I can do that, and not just because it would be unethical.

Because once I reach a diagnosis, I’m done. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.

I want—no, I need more time with him. To properly diagnose him. That’s it.

I continue. “Patient remains guarded and stand-offish. A change of venue may be necessary to put him at ease.”

I don’t know why I said that. I have no doubt Jaxon Covington would be at ease wherever he was. Nevertheless, almost as if I can’t control myself, I put into the official record.

“Permitting he maintains good behavior, I suggest moving all future sessions to my office, with a guard posted outside the door, if necessary. I believe the more comfortable atmosphere will relax him, allowing a lowering of his guard and a more accurate diagnosis. So far, the patient’s fixation on fairytales and nursery rhymes, particularly those revolving around the name ‘Jack,’ which itself appears to be a trigger word for violent, manic episodes, seems to strongly allude to a childhood trauma.

“However, all attempts to determine the nature of this trauma have been either deflected or lied about, though it’s unclear if the falsehoods are intentional or a compulsory defense mechanism. Further assessment is needed. As of now, I cannot rule out bipolar disorder or undifferentiated schizophrenia.”

I press stop, then play everything back.

Yes, that’ll do. I upload the digital recording into the transcription software and then email a copy to Dr. Gardner.

My heart races, pounding in my chest like I’ve just run a marathon, and I’m not sure why.

All I know is this: I’m playing a dangerous game, one where I don’t know the rules and I’m not sure of the goal.

But I don’t care if I win or lose—as long as I play it with Jaxon.