Dr. Price exhales through his nose, an enduring sort of amusement in his gaze. “Or we can play the silent game.” He dusts an imaginary speck from his knee. “You might win, for a while.”

With a sigh, I take in the room, from the cozy fireplace in the corner to the mullion windows facing the grounds. Astrid is gone, so I’m guessing she left upon his arrival.

I turn back to Dr. Price. “Is this session confidential?”

“Outside of the Brotherhood? Of course.”

A humorless laugh bursts free. “Of course.”

“You don’t trust the men in this tower. That much is obvious.”

“Perceptive,” I mutter.

“And yet, I imagine you’re perceptive as well.” Unfazed, he shifts toward the edge of his seat, fingers raking through his thick blond hair, trimmed short at the sides. “Tell me, Novalee, what do you think I’m here to talk about?”

The question sinks into the quiet, an invitation and a trap all at once. I hold my tongue, stubbornness and self-preservation fighting to win.

“I’ll make it easy for you,” he continues, his gratingly smooth voice pushing through the stillness. “Why don’t we start with last night?”

The room shrinks, walls closing in, as images tumble through my thoughts like shuffled film reels.

Liam, pulling me back from the brink.

Our desperate union in his penthouse, afterward.

His heartbreaking devastation.

I picture him buckling to the floor, dragging me with him, both of us trembling from cold and adrenaline. Regret slithers through me, and a chill skates across my skin. I brush my fingers over the gooseflesh rising on my arms.

“Your resistance is telling.” The doctor’s tone takes on a thoughtful cadence. “If there was nothing to be ashamed of, you’d have no trouble talking about it, would you?”

I snap my attention back to him, teeth clenched. He commands the space with practiced authority, but his words fall with a casual edge that shoots unease through me.

“Guilt often takes the shape of silence,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Or maybe it was something else. A cry for help? Is that why you were on the cliffs?”

I push the memory of last night’s snowy trek aside and focus on the fireplace, where the flames dance in pirouettes.

“I want to help you through this, Novalee, but I can’t do that unless you meet me somewhere in the middle. It doesn’t even have to be halfway, but I need you to give me something.”

“Last night was…”

Blurred from alcohol.

Drenched in grief.

Sharpened by guilt.

“Cold,” I finally answer.

He purses his full lips. “What else?”

“And dark.”

“Are you afraid of the dark?”

“Last night, I wasn’t.”