I should be indifferent, not crying in front of this man. But his questions cut deep, carving out every flimsy excuse.

“I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to stop hurting so much.”

“What if I told you I have a way for you to let go of the pain?”

“I’m all ears, Doctor.” Sarcasm coats my words, but deep down, I want to believe there’s a way.

His focus sharpens, latching on to the fraying threads of my resolve.

“I’d like for you to explore the concept of delayed gratification.”

“Delayed…what?” Doesn’t he know I’m already an expert, baptized in denial my first month here?

“It’s a controlled response, a way to ease the mind and body into recognizing that pleasure, like pain, isn’t something that controls you. You control it.”

Shameful heat spirals low in my belly. “What do you suggest?”

“Tonight, when you’re in bed, I want you to bring yourself to the edge of orgasm. Picture the cliff. But this time, instead of jumping, you’ll take your power back.”

I swallow, fingers gripping the cushion beneath me. “You’re telling me not to…come?”

“Control is yours, Novalee.” A twitch of a smile pulls at his mouth. “The longer you hold out, the stronger your power grows. Don’t climax tonight, or even tomorrow. Draw it out. You’ll know when it’s time to let go.”

“This method sounds…” I search for the right words. “Strange, coming from a shrink.”

“I specialize in sexuality.” He glances at the clock. “And unfortunately, that’s all the time we have.”

“I thought you cleared your schedule?” I hold his gaze, brows arched in challenge.

“You gave me exactly what I needed. There’s no need to keep you.”

I blink, momentarily thrown.

A game. That’s what this is.

An illusion of choice.

The quiet manipulation of my mind.

And I’m already playing—my queen’s piece moving across the board before I realize the match has begun.

10

The sun is slipping below the horizon when I return to the House of Capricorn. Golden light slants across the floor, while the richness of seared steak and garlic butter drifts through the air. For the first time in weeks, my mouth actually waters.

I’m hungry.

I follow the scent, Astrid trailing behind, but Sebastian’s paintings catch my eye. The session with the shrink left me too raw to face them, so I push past the urge and step into the kitchen. Dirty pots and pans clutter the counter beside the stove.

Did Oliver cook?

That’s unexpected. He seems the type to have his meals sent up by the staff. I make my way into the dining room, and there he is, seated at the head of an oblong rustic table. In the center, fluttering candles surround a vase of white carnations.