Big day today.

First session with Alison. My contacts in the prison give me everything I need.

I get up early, running out some aggression on a few push-ups. I then brush my teeth and comb my hair carefully. Take a look in the mirror.

Not bad. I adjust the jump suit a little on the shoulders and cuffs. Not tailor-made, but it’ll do. I’m fully confident of my ability to rock any set of clothes.

The guards meet me at the door and start walking me through the place. I feel the eyes of the men on me. Hating.

Still submitting.

That’s exactly how I like it.

We move through a few secure hallways until we come to a private interview room.

They cuff me to the table, which I don’t like. One of the guards tells me softly, apologetically, that it’s procedure. Only Dr. Hughes can say when—or if they come off. It’s her safety at stake.

Excellent. I love a challenge.

I wait quietly, enjoying the silence. Finally, I see her coming.

The hair…again. Out and flaming around her.

It’s so different from the calm that she carries with her. The silence of her gaze. Her eyes say ‘quiet and innocent’ but her wild hair says ‘fuck me’.

She’s wearing a tight, black skirt and a grey jacket with a blue blouse. The violent streak of savage blue showing between the monochrome enchants me.

She enters the room, sits before me, and speaks. It’s not until she touches my hand that I realize I’ve been literally frozen for the last few minutes.

“Jaxon? I’m speaking to you! Do you understand what I’ve just told you?”

The smile spreads dreamily across my face. “We’re on a first name basis now?”

She gives me a look. “I said ‘Mr. Covington’ a number of times. Are you ill? We can postpone—”

“No, no.” I reach out to touch her, and the chains clatter on the table.

She pulls her hands back, and I place mine gently on the table, clasping them, looking contrite. “I’m terribly sorry. I forgot the chains were there.”

I apologize for the noise, not for reaching out to her.

It’s her that seems lost in thought now. She’s looking at the shiny chains on my wrists. The loops through the sturdy table. A pink blush spreads slowly across her cheeks, and her red lips part, just slightly.

Is it me, or is she turned on by seeing me tied up?

I can’t help but grin. I wait patiently for her eyes to return to my face. When she looks at me and sees my expression, she does blush.

Oh, gorgeous. Blushes properly red and warm and looks at her papers. I hear the ‘click’ of her heel against the floor, the nervous tick again.

“So, Mr. Covington, I’m here to begin your official medical treatment. The first thing we do is run some basic personality tests to determine—”

“That sounds fucking boring.” I’m suddenly wishing for a cigarette.

I’ve opted against having one in case she doesn’t like smoke. It’s not like I’m addicted.

Not to cigarettes, not to anything at all—although I have used just about every substance. In my opinion, physical addiction is a weakness I don’t have time for.

“So, how long have you been afraid of self-discovery, Jaxon?”

I laugh, feeling real emotion flooding me as she uses my name. She gives the cutest, cheekiest smile. She’s saying the right words to be my doctor.

But the tone is all off. If she’s being that cheeky, then we could be naked.

Hmm. There’s a fine idea. I’m so distracted by the thought of that red hair against her pale skin, I forget to answer the question.

“Jaxon?”

“I’m sorry? I forgot the question.” I have a laugh, and she does, too.

“How long have you been afraid of self-discovery?”

“Oh, I’m not, honey. Not at all. I just don’t think these personality tests are true indicators.”

“Why is that?”

“Because they’re easily manipulated. It’s perfectly obvious which questions and answers are going to label you ‘coo-coo’ or ‘boringly sane’. I mean, you could give me these tests every day of the week and make a completely different diagnosis each time.”

“Interesting.” She makes a note on a page. I wait patiently.

“So, if the standard tests are lacking, I can go for the deep-impact, emotional side of psychotherapy. This is what we use when the subject is smart enough and lucid enough to be able to manipulate the tests.”

“Sounds awesome.”

“Although, I must tell you, anyone able to manipulate the tests is automatically classed as a sociopath. Sometimes a psychopath, depending on their level of intent.”

I put my chin in my hands and gaze at her. “That sounds perfectly reasonable.”

She frowns. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously. You won’t be let out of jail at all if we can’t prove some development—”

“Oh, you think so?” I laugh. She looks at me sternly.

Oh, fuck. She’s so cute!

“Your money won’t get you out of here, Mr. Covington.”

“Is that so.”

I’m enjoying gazing at her. I don’t even mind being chained up. Just sitting here, smelling her perfume, and watching her emotional reactions is the most fun I’ve had in months.

Maybe ever.

“So, you are accepting deep psychotherapy then?”

“So long as it’s deep and hard.”

Oh, there’s that blush again. She wants me. She fucking wants me.

“Why do you react so badly when people call you ‘Jack’?”

It’s like ice water down my spine. A shock of electricity through my skeleton. I sit up, abruptly.

She’s watching me evenly.

I take a deep breath. No one is ever going to understand this question. Maybe not even me.

Sure, there were those dudes at boarding school, who pissed me off calling me Jack. That’s not why I go into a blind rage, though.

Over sixteen-year-old puberty games? Please.

“Okay,” I start slowly, eyes wandering around the room. “But I want our first deal to stand. I answer your question, you answer one of mine.”

“Deal.” Her eyes are so calm. Taking in all my body language. Good.

“Okay. Well.” I breathe deeply. “My dad used to call me Jack. My mom called me Jaxon. It’s a common family name.

“My dad hated it. Always calling me Jack-sprat and making cracks about beanstalks and shit. Said it was a stupid name.” I look her in the eyes. “He was emotionally abusive to me and my mother.”

She nods sympathetically, marking something in her book.

“So, a simple childhood trauma is your trigger? It seems pretty tame.”

I stare her down now, very seriously. “I told you. He was abusive. One night he was getting drunk, calling me Jack. Mom was off in bed trying to forget she married the fucker.

“Dad started bouncing around the room, ‘What you going to do now, Jack? Huh, Jack? Oh, you don’t like being called Jack?’”

I look down at my hands. Let them shake a little as my fingers grip each other.

“Then he said he was going to change my name to Jack on all my papers. Passports, legal documents, everything. He wanted to erase the name ‘Jaxon’ from existence so everywhere I went, everyone would call me Jack and make jokes about it.”

“Then what happened?”

I look up into her concerned eyes. I make sure I look just a bit scared. A touch vulnerable.

“He…died.”

“Just like that?”

“Kind of.” I stare off moodily as if I’ve lost interest in the topic now. Like I don’t want to talk about my parents.

“Okay.” She writes a few things down in her book.

“That’s some good work today, Jaxon. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Even if it were all bullshit?”

She stares me down. Doesn’t miss a beat.

“Even if it’s bullshit. It’s still progress.”

“Hey! Wait!” I sit up and grab her wrists, pulling her forward.

She gasps, looks towards the window. Both guards stand up to the door, but she shakes her head. They relax.

It’s so funny; she thinks she’s in control here.

Our faces are so close together, I could kiss her. Hot breath on my lips. Her hair pulls around us, shading our faces.

“You promised me an answer.”

“Ask.” Her voice is quiet and strained.

I lean as close to her as I dare, lips almost touching.

“What color are your panties?”

She breaks free of my grip, flinging my hands away.

She raises her hand but doesn’t ask the guards to buzz her out. She sits there for a second.

Then she looks up, grinning.

“Blue,” she whispers, grinning like a school kid.

This is going to be fun.