Chapter 6 Little Miss Therapist's Panties

Maria Reyes

The red panties lay on my polished mahogany desk, resembling a pool of fresh blood. The room smelled of new leather and lilies, creating an unsettling atmosphere. The silence felt heavy, pressing against my ears and ribs. These panties were a reminder of that night.

Darian Wolfe sat still in the client's chair, relaxed yet intense, his ice-gray eyes fixed on me. His dark smile remained as he said, "Let's start with a woman I met two weeks ago at a bar."

I took a deep breath, trying to maintain a strong presence. This office was my space for healing and calm. I glanced at the degrees hanging on the wall, symbols of my years of work and expertise. Yet, under his gaze, it all felt fragile. "You've got this, Maria," I reminded myself. But he was chaos itself, a storm I had foolishly invited in.

I reminded myself to stay professional; that was my only defense. I smoothed my skirt, a nervous gesture that only drew his eyes, making me regret it instantly. My palms felt sweaty against the desk, and my lips were dry.

"Mr. Wolfe," I said, trying to keep my voice steady and cool. "We can discuss the incident, but let's focus on your experience. This object you presented seems personal, perhaps belonging to that woman. While objects can aid our discussions, we want to emphasize your feelings and what this encounter means for you." I pointed vaguely at the panties, avoiding looking directly at them. Talking about myself this way felt strange, but it was my only option.

He chuckled lowly, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. He leaned forward, bringing his scent closer, and traced the edge of the lace panties with his fingers, shocking me with the intimacy of the gesture.

"Objectively, Doctor?" His gaze was unblinking. "Let's talk about her. She ran away, disappearing like smoke before dawn, leaving behind... souvenirs." He lifted the lace slightly with his finger. My breath caught.

"Why would someone run from the darkness they were curious about? From the broken thing they claimed to see?" His voice dropped, heavy with meaning. "Unless she saw too much. Or felt too much. Or was she just scared of the dark?"

He shifted in the chair, the fine leather creaking beneath him. "The woman... she touched my scars. In the dark." His eyes captured mine. "She didn't flinch. Didn't ask. She just traced them, like reading braille, understanding the story without words." A silence fell. "Do you think scars tell stories, Dr. Reyes?"

My heart raced. This was an opening, hidden in intimacy.

"Physical scars," I said carefully, keeping eye contact and feeling my cheeks warm, "often show the trauma we've survived. But deeper wounds, the emotional ones, are harder to understand, especially when experienced as children."

I leaned forward slightly, matching his posture but keeping my desk as a barrier. "Tell me about the first scar you remember. The first story that shaped you."

He looked thoughtful, not responding right away. Then he stood up and began to pace between his chair and the bookcase near the window.

"Eight years old," he said, facing away from me, gazing out the window, though I doubted he had noticed the park below. His smooth voice turned rougher.

"Winter. A boarding school dormitory. Cold sheets, stone floors." He turned to face me. "I'd been... isolated. Punished for something I didn't even do," he said, looking at me and sizing me up. "Another boy. Bigger and angry. He didn't like me. He cornered me in a bathroom and smashed my head against a sink." He touched the faint scar near his temple. "It split open. Blood everywhere. The cold tile felt so harsh against my cheek."

He moved closer to my desk. I held my breath. "The matron called it a 'fall.' Convenient, right?"

He stepped closer, invading my personal space. His cologne-a mix of sandalwood and something darker-surrounded me. "No questions asked. No consequences. Just stitches and silence."

He leaned against my desk, just a few feet away. His presence felt intense and overwhelming. "That scar taught me a valuable lesson, Doctor Reyes. Pain is unavoidable. But being vulnerable? That's a risk you can't afford. People use it against you."

I resisted the urge to pull my chair back. His words were raw, exposing the hurt boy beneath the billionaire's tough exterior. It was exactly what I needed to understand him better. But the way he spoke, how close he was, and the intensity in his eyes stirred something in me. It felt like a seductive confession meant to unravel me.

"You see vulnerability as weakness," I said, my voice tight. I focused on his eyes, trying to see the pain, not the powerful body so close to mine, nor the memory of his hands on my skin.

"But accepting and processing it... That's strength. Who failed you, Mr. Wolfe? Who should have protected you?"

He smiled slowly, a dangerous smile, then pushed off the desk and moved right beside my chair, looking down at me. His shadow fell across my notepad, blocking the weak sunlight, and I had to look up to meet his gaze. The air between us felt charged.

"Protection?" He let the word linger, full of bitter humor. One hand rested on the back of my chair, his fingers just inches from me. I could feel his warmth.

"That's a fairy tale, Maria." Using my first name instead of my title felt like a violation, breaking down my professional barrier. It stirred a mix of thrill and panic in me.

"The only person who offered it..." His voice dropped, intimate yet charged. "...was a ghost. Fragile. Broken. She tried to shield the darkness with kindness." His hand hovered near my cheek. I froze, torn between pulling away and leaning in. "She smelled like lavender and despair."

"Your mother?" I whispered. Eleanor. The woman I saw in the photo had warm, sorrowful eyes. His mother showed him love.

His gaze sharpened, as if he could see through my facade. He knew I understood more than I should. His hand drifted lower, tracing the air near my throat, over my racing pulse, and toward my collarbone. His knuckles grazed my skin, sending a surge of electricity through me. I gasped silently.

"She saw the bruises," he said softly, his voice almost a caress.

His fingers brushed my skin again, light and deliberate. "She tried to wipe away the blood. Whispered promises she couldn't keep."

His eyes held mine, deep and stormy, stripping away the therapist inside me and revealing the woman who remembered his touch, his taste, and the longing.

"Promises of safety. Of belonging." His thumb pressed against my pulse point. "Do you know what happens to people who make promises they can't keep, Doctor?"

He was so close now that I could see the faint stubble on his jaw and the complex emotions in his eyes. The warmth of him overwhelmed me. My professional detachment was shattered. Confusion, empathy, fear, and a powerful urge collided within me.

"They die," he whispered, his words harsh in the intimate air. "They leave you alone in the cold. Just like she did. Just like he made sure she would."

The pain in his voice, combined with the truth about Eleanor and his feelings about Hector, hit me hard. It confirmed everything I had learned, but it came in a moment of intense closeness that felt threatening.

His eyes burned with intensity. He moved his hand from my collarbone to my neck, resting his thumb on my jaw. His other hand reached toward my face. The air around us felt heavy with unspoken words, years of hurt, and one night of deep connection. The red panties lay on the desk between us, seeming to pulse.

Suddenly, the door to my office burst open.

Naomi's voice called out cheerfully, "Maria, I forgot my-!"