His Sword

by Holly Hart

  Harlan surveys me for a couple of seconds, the same intrigued smile tickling his lips. I do my best to fight the panic surging through my veins, carried on a tidal wave of adrenaline.

  Monkey brain off; put your adult head on.

  “Why are you here?” I ask. My voice sounds a couple of octaves higher pitched than usual, but other than the embarrassment burning my face, my reaction is tolerable. “I mean – sir.”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that. Like I said, just call me Harlan.”

  “Okay, Harlan,” I say, sucking in a deep, greedy breath, “is there something I can help you with?”

  Harlan takes a step back and leans against my desk. I notice that every couple of seconds, his eyes glance at the door, as though he half-expects someone to come charging through it, brandishing a weapon. I file the thought away.

  “I’m not sleeping,” he finally admits.

  It takes me a couple of seconds to process the comment. I feel like I’m on a bungee cord. One second, I’m ready to tear someone’s head off for reading my journal, the next I think I’m going to be fired the man who’s – technically – my boss. Now…

  … Now the CEO of Wolfe Capital is asking me for help.

  I blink.

  I know. Not exactly my finest moment.

  “Sooo,” Harlan says, biting the inside of his lip. He grimaces as if he hates having to ask, as if it somehow reveals weakness. “I was wondering if you’d be able to help.”

  “You want me to help?” I squeak, “You?”

  Harlan smiles, “Precisely. It seems we’re finally on the same page, Miss Warren.”

  Time seems to slow down.

  For a therapist, helping a man like Harlan Wolfe is the pinnacle. It’s like an artist handling a Rembrandt, a world-renowned violinist playing a Stradivarius or a basketball fan meeting LeBron James. Hell, getting into the heads of men just like Harlan is exactly why I joined Wolfe Capital as the in-house therapist. I want to be the best, and to be the best, you’ve got to treat the best.

  Or at least the most fucked up.

  “But… I can’t,” I say lamely.

  Harlan’s eyebrow kinks upward. “Oh?” he growls dangerously. “So… exactly why would that be, Miss Warren?”

  Be careful now, Skye. You don’t just say “no” to a man like Harlan Wolfe.

  “Because,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut for a second as I cast around for a reason. A reason other than the fact that I’m embarrassed to treat the man who’s read my journal, and might know my secret. “Because – it would be a conflict of interest!”

  “A ‘conflict of interest’?”

  “Yes,” I nod, grateful to have found a plausible reason for declining. “Because – you’re my boss.”

  Harlan flicks his fingers dismissively. “I don’t care about that. I’ll sign whatever disclaimer you need. I’ve come to you because you’re the best, Miss –,” Harlan pauses, and catches himself. “I mean Doctor Warren.”

  “The best?” I say in a small voice. I didn’t even know that Harlan Wolfe had ever heard my name. Knowing that he knows who I am is kind of terrifying.

  “It’s why I hired you,” Harlan says, plowing on as though he’s unaware of my discomfort.

  “Since you joined the team here at Wolfe Capital, the traders under your care are producing an average of 7% more return. That’s statistically… astonishing. In fact, I’ve been considering requiring every trader to undergo regular sessions in this office. As for your bonus –”

  “Bonus?” I squeak. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster – one second plunging toward disaster, the next climbing to higher and higher heights.

  Harlan stares at me strangely. “Yes, Skye. You’ll find I can be a very –,” he licks his lower lip, “rewarding boss.”

  I open and close my mouth a couple of times like a goldfish. Finally I say something, though nothing clever comes out. “Oh.”

  “It’s agreed then,” Harlan says, turning to leave. “We’ll start the sessions tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I stammer. “But –.”

  Harlan wrinkles his forehead. “Well you don’t expect me to come and see you when the markets are open, do you Doctor Warren? I do have a business to run, after all”

  I shake my head. I guess not…” I whisper.

  “Perfect,” Harlan says.

  His lips graze my cheek as he passes by. It’s an uncomfortably intimate gesture. Hell, my therapist’s brain screams that it reads of a power move – a dominant alpha male laying down a marker. And Harlan Wolfe is a hell of a lot more than some summer breeze alpha male. He’s a freaking hurricane.

  And I kind of like it.

  “I’ll see you later, Skye,” Harlan smiles as he reaches the door. I jerk back into the moment. “Eight o’clock, sharp. My assistant will be in touch with the details.”

  And just like that, Hurricane Harlan is gone.

  Initial Session Notes:

  I’m in over my head. Patient has assumed a driving role in this relationship from the start. Effective therapy will require starting afresh.

  Dominant personality

  Used to getting what he wants

  Charming, and highly intelligent

  Does he know my secret?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Skye

  I kick my apartment’s front door closed behind me, and set an overflowing stack of my patients’ notes down on the little kitchen’s marble countertop. I had planned to spend all night going through them and coming up with specialized treatment plans for rich men while drowning in a bottle of cheap wine.

  After Harlan’s offer, I guess that’s off the table…

  Oh God. Harlan. Now what the hell am I going to do about him?

  I take some much-needed seconds to decompress. My head tilts forward against my chest, and I take a couple of deep breaths. I hide a smile when I realize I’m doing exactly what I tell my patients to do.

  “What a fucking day…”

  I look up at my neat, tidy apartment. The sight of it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It’s hard to believe that I’ve ended up in a place like this – especially given where I came from. I didn’t exactly have a white-picket-fence kind of childhood.

  Not even close.

  Girl, you need a damn shower. Anything else can wait.

  I kick off my work shoes, shimmy out of my skirt and head for the bathroom. I turn the temperature knob as far left as it will let me, and step into a cauldron of burning steam. Ever since Harlan Wolfe stepped into my office earlier this afternoon, my head has been spinning.

  I don’t know what to do or how to act. Nothing in my life to date has prepared me for going to dinner with a billionaire, especially not a billionaire who happens not only to be my boss, but who just might know my deepest, darkest secret.

  Is it a date? I wonder.

  And if it is, can I do anything about it?

  I don’t know how long I stand there, with boiling hot water turning my pale, freckled skin a curious shade of pink. The cramped shower billows with a fog of steam – so much steam that I struggle to breathe. The mirror attached to the shower’s tiled wall quickly fills with condensation, until even my outline disappears into nothingness.

  I like it, though, disappearing into the hot mist. It’s calming. It’s like I’m not even real, as if I was never here.

  And for a few seconds, at least, it helps me forget my nerves about my dinner – my date – with Harlan freaking Wolfe.

  But I don’t lose myself for long. I never can. I guess my mind just isn’t wired like that. I don’t like to stand around doing nothing. I like to act – to be in control. A second savored is a second wasted – or at least it is to me.

  I glance down my legs. I don’t know what I’m going to wear tonight, but whatever I choose, I probably can’t turn up with my legs looking like they do right now. I look like a shaggy brown bear.

  I shut off the flow of hot water and grab my razor.

  There�
�s easily enough steam to stop me from being attacked by the biting cold kiss of the AC. I lather up my legs and carve clean, hairless pathways through the snowy fields of suds.

  “God, Skye. It’s been way too long since you’ve done this,” I mutter to myself. I carefully ignore the reason – it’s not like I’ve had a reason to play dress-up, if you know what I mean.

  When I’m done, I run the backs of my knuckles along the freshly-shaved skin. An image of Harlan touching me there flashes through my mind.

  I flinch.

  It has been a long time since I’ve thought of a man touching me like that – or anywhere, in fact.

  “Don’t do it, Skye,” I groan. But even as the words escape my mouth, I know that the seed of the idea has burrowed too deep.

  I’m going to do it.

  “You’re such a pussy,” I mutter ironically. “And for God’s sake, girl – stop talking to yourself!”

  Clinically speaking, there’s nothing exactly wrong with speaking to one’s self, as long as it doesn’t happen all the time, anyway. My therapist’s brain tells me that it’s a perfectly rational response to a bout of nerves.

  And I’ve certainly got one heck of a reason to be nervous…

  As if I’m being operated by remote control, I watch my arm reach out for the shaving cream. I see my fingers lather the tuft – thicket, really – of burning ginger hair between my legs. If it’s been a long time since I shaved my legs, then I can’t even remember the last time I shaved my pubic hair…

  So don’t…

  But for some reason I can’t stop myself.

  It’s almost as if by trimming myself like this that I’m playing into a fantasy – a fantasy that I thought I had given up on a long time ago. A time existed when I played in the dating game like every other girl. I giggled with my girlfriends as we got asked out, one by one.

  I batted my eyelashes at guys in fancy bars.

  I had boyfriends, more than one.

  I tried every damn fetish and every damn kink, but none of them worked. Ten years, and I never came once. It took a decade without ever having an orgasm for me to realize the truth.

  I’m … broken.

  So I gave up on men. I gave up on sex. After all – what’s the point? When they can’t make you come, all men act the same. It punctures their ego. They treat it as an insult – like they are the one who’s suffering!

  Harlan will be the same… if he even wants that from me. What makes you think he’s so interested in you, anyway?

  The steam starts to subside. I inspect my freshly shaved legs, and my freshly shaved pussy. It has been years – literally – since I last saw the skin underneath my pubic hair. I feel practically embarrassed just looking at myself – as though I’m trying to play a role that isn’t me.

  Who are you trying to impress? You know none of this will work, don’t you?

  My reflection appears once again as the condensation drips off the mirror in the shower. I scowl at myself. For some reason, the sight sours my mood.

  “There –,” I grunt. “Happy now?”

  My reflection doesn’t reply. That’s probably a good thing. I’d have to cart myself off to a mental hospital if she had…

  The doorbell rings.

  I have a brief moment of panic as I try to figure out what to do. Do I try and throw on some sweatpants and run to the door – but risk missing the delivery, or instead just open it in my towel.

  I decide to go with the second option.

  It’s not exactly ladylike, but I guess sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I grab a towel, throw it onto my dripping shoulders and sprint for the door.

  The doorbell rings again. It sounds irritated this time, though I know that’s just in my head.

  “Delivery,” a man calls out in a gruff voice. He raps the front door with his knuckles, and calls out again.

  “All right, all right,” I mutter underneath my breath. “I’m coming…”

  You wish.

  I look through the peephole. The delivery guy isn’t exactly what I expected. He’s wearing a crisply tailored, dark navy suit, and carrying a small, rectangular black box. He looks more like a luxury chauffeur than a guy from FedEx. It doesn’t take an expert to figure out who sent him.

  My forehead furrows. What the hell is this? But I’ve got to admit, my curiosity is piqued.

  “Just leave it out there,” I call.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I watch, clutching my towel to my damn body as the smartly-dressed courier crouches and places the box on the ground. He stands up, glances down at it, then up at me – or at least, where the peephole is. He chews his lip with indecision.

  “It is fine,” I call out. “I’ll get it when you’re gone. I’m in a towel…”

  The driver blanches visibly. His face drains of blood as he processes what I just said. I squint as I wonder what’s going through his mind.

  “Yes ma’am,” he stammers. “I’m not – I wasn’t.” He shut his eyes, takes a breath and says. “I’ll be going, now.”

  He practically runs back the way he came.

  The corners of my mouth curl up with amusement. Does he think that Harlan and I are dating – and that I might think he wants to peep on me? As if someone like me would ever end up dating someone like Harlan Wolfe…

  An irritating voice pipes up from a dark corner of my mind. It’s irritating because I know it is right.

  If you don’t think there’s a chance of something happening tonight, it says. Then why did you shave down there.

  I wait a couple more seconds until I’m sure the delivery driver’s absolutely gone, then I open the door. I peek around the door jamb, check left, then right, and reach out to grab the box left on my doorstep.

  Even the cardboard feels luxurious. Whatever is inside, I already know is going to be expensive. The thought should excite me, but instead it sends a tremor running through my stomach.

  I sit down on my couch and lay the box on my knees. I chew my lip as I try and figure out what to do with it.

  “You’re getting yourself into trouble,” I mutter. “You shouldn’t be hanging around with a guy like Harlan. You’re playing checkers while he’s playing chess…”

  Then again, what else can I do?

  As long as I work for Wolfe Capital – at my dream job, no less – then I kind of have to do whatever the boss tells me to do. Unfortunately for me, Harlan Wolfe is definitely the boss.

  So, there it is. I’m definitely not giving up my dream job. Not after I’ve worked so hard to get it. I was the youngest woman in a decade to get a psychiatry degree from Stanford University. I deal with testosterone-charged, misogynistic, asshole traders every single day.

  I’m sure I can deal with one fancy dinner.

  Or are those your famous last words, says a low voice mutters in the back of my brain.

  I run my fingernails underneath the ribbon holding the box closed. I undo the knot, and open it up.

  And gasp.

  Inside, I find the single most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s no price tag, but I don’t need one. It’s obvious. The black cocktail dress is perfect. The silk is so soft that as I run my fingers along the fibers it feels like I’m dipping my hand in warm water. The cut is slender, the design effortlessly stylish.

  I wouldn’t be able to afford a dress like this in a million years.

  “You can’t wear it,” I groan.

  It’s true, I can’t.

  I know Harlan Wolfe’s game. I clocked it the second I first laid eyes on him. He’s an alpha male – dominant. I don’t know what happened to him, or when, to make him like this – but I do know that he needs to control his environment. He needs to feel in charge – and he does it through acts like this.

  I can’t wear the dress. It sends the wrong message. It tells him that he’s in control of me – and if he thinks that, then any therapy I try won’t be worth squat.

  I stand up, letting
my towel fall off my body. My damp hair looks a darker shade of red than normal. I can’t wear the dress – not tonight. Not to dinner.

  But I can try it on, at least once. See what I would have looked like, what I could have looked like. And imagine – if only for a few seconds – that I’m the kept woman of a billionaire.

  I pull the cocktail dress on – carefully – over my naked body. It fits like a glove. I don’t know how Harlan managed it, but the dress matches my measurements as though it was made for me.

  Maybe it was.

  I model the dress in front of the mirror in my living room. The reflection of my small, yet elegantly appointed apartment provides the backdrop for my one-woman fashion show.

  I look incredible.

  It’s not cocky or arrogant to admit it. This dress would make the plainest woman in New York feel like a supermodel. Even the kiss of the expensive silk against my skin makes me feel a million bucks.

  I groan out loud as I pull it off.

  In its place I throw on an old, worn bra, a plain set of panties and a black cocktail dress. Only mine was a hundred bucks – max – found on a dusty rack at the back of a Target downtown.

  I eye myself up in the mirror one last time before I leave for the night. I meet the gaze of a freckled, pale-skinned girl staring back at me. I see a woman with curves in places she could do without, and none where she really wants them.

  So I give her a pep talk.

  “Just treat him like any other client, Skye, and please stop talking to yourself. That’s an order from your therapist…”

  Chapter Thirty

  Harlan

  Fuck.

  Skye Warren is devastatingly good-looking. But that isn’t the term that comes to mind the second I see her walk into the bar. What I really think when I first catch sight of her is that she looks fucking hot.

  I stand up and wave. Skye notices me a second before the maître d’ approaches her, and starts walking my way. She throws me a smile. It’s nervous, but definitely genuine. You can’t fake that.