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When I pulled my hand away, I fought the urge to tuck my fingers up against my chest because of the way my skin buzzed. I wanted to bottle the feeling, drink from it on a day when I felt tired and lonely down to my bones.
Liam blinked a few times.
Less than ten minutes later, I knew I never should have made that bet.
Chapter Twenty-Two
LIAM
“Why don’t you tell me about your family of origin, Liam?”
I exhaled slowly, somehow managing to keep a growl from emerging along with it. “Do I have to?”
Carol, fucking sadist that she was, merely gave me a calm, steady, patient smile. “I can’t force you to tell the truth, no. But it will help. Both of you bring history and baggage and trauma into this situation. It’s not just about Mira; it’s equally about you and Zoe. How the two of you communicate, how you manage inevitable disagreements. Those are all swayed by what you’ve been through.”
My options were slim.
I could bolt through the door. And there was a window behind Carol’s head. If I shoved her out of the way and used a lamp to break the window, I might be able to squeeze through before they dragged me back to that bloody couch.
To my right, Zoe sat with her legs crossed and her hands clasped in her lap. Slowly, I turned my head to pin her with a look. She gave me an apologetic smile.
I narrowed my eyes.
Carol tilted her head. “You seem upset by this change of direction. Would you like to talk about that?”
“Not particularly,” I drawled. “I thought this session was for Mira.”
“And it is. My colleague is with her in the main living area; I believe they’re playing with blocks right now.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, speaking softly enough that only Zoe could hear me. “Can’t we play fucking blocks at home for free?”
Zoe cleared her throat.
Right. I dropped my hand and sucked in a large, fortifying breath.
My whole body felt squeezed tight with tension, like these two women had set me in a man-shaped vise and were cranking the handle over and over and over until I had no choice but to spill my fucking guts onto the floor.
Carol smiled. “She’s a bit younger than we normally start with our kids. Usually, we wait until they turn three before initiating any form of play therapy, but given the circumstances of losing her parents, I think it’s wise that we establish a bond with her as she grows older.”
A lift of my eyebrows was all the concession I could manage.
She tilted her head. “A distrust of therapy is incredibly common, Liam. Where did that start for you?”
I leaned back on the couch, my shoulder brushing Zoe’s, and I settled my hands over my stomach so I could study Carol. She was friendly enough. Short gray hair and a grandmotherly manner that probably instilled a sense of comfort in all the little kiddies she saw every day.
Probably knitted the purple sweater she was wearing, even though it was easily seventy-five degrees outside. And the pearls around her neck looked real.
Next to me, Zoe inhaled slowly. She smelled like something fresh and clean and sweet. I couldn’t name it. The entire drive over, I’d tried to place what that smell was and couldn’t.
I imagined I’d have a better chance if I tucked my nose underneath that soft spot just below her jaw, where her scent was the most potent.
Those thoughts wouldn’t help shit, which was likely why we had both wandered into the kitchen with dark circles under our eyes. No sleep for either of us, as we’d been thinking about what had happened.
Thinking about whathadn’tquite happened.
Carol smiled patiently, completely undeterred by the silence that followed her question.
Of course we’d found the most stubborn therapist west of the Mississippi. She’d wait me out—I could see it in those shrewd eyes of hers.
