walking into a monster's cage

Caitlyn’s POV

“I… I…” I am about to reply to Serg, but my phone interrupts me, the sharp ring shattering the thick silence between us. I flinch, the sound far too loud for my liking. For a moment, I consider ignoring it—letting it ring out while I demand answers, scream, cry, something—but my hand moves on instinct, swiping it and pressing it to my ear.

My boss’ voice come bubbles through the phone-steady and firm, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m calling to remind you about your new appointment at the prison.”

The prison.

I blink, my mind struggling to catch up.

Right. The assessment. My new patient. His scheduled release is next month. The files the secretary left on my desk this afternoon.

Oh no!

I inhale sharply. “I’ve got it covered. I’m on my way.”

Sergey watches me as I start the engine. “Cat, are you really just going to leave?”

I glance at him, something cold settling in my chest. “Yeah. No time to mope around. Some of us don’t have Daddy’s money to throw around on women just to keep up appearances.”

His lips part slightly, like my words sting.

Good.

“Leave.” My voice is steady—despite the storm still brewing inside me.

Sergey hesitates before murmuring, “I’m sorry. I hope one day you’ll understand.”

I don’t respond. I don’t owe him anything.

As he steps out, I crank up the volume on the stereo, drowning out the chaos in my head with music.

Twenty minutes. Just twenty minutes to pull myself together before I step into that prison.

By the time I reach the prison gates I have managed to calm my nerves a little.

The sight before me is nothing short of suffocating. Tall, wrought iron bars loom ahead, their cold, unfeeling presence a stark contrast to the fire still burning in my veins.

“To hell with him and his goddamn boyfriend,” I mutter under my breath as the guards inspect my bag before leading me down a long, narrow hallway lined with cells.

"Good luck with this one… he's a tough one," he says, and my lips curve into what I would assume is a genuine smile as I push the cell door shut.

The tiny cell is dark except for the light coming from a dim reading lamp that casts long, eerie shadows across the walls. Almost instantly, I feel eyes on my back, the ones that bore into your skin and make your hair stand in a nerve-wracking sensation. I turn toward the small, worn desk at the center of the cramped space.

There he is—slumped in a chair far too small for his broad frame, his presence hogging the room, making the space feel suffocatingly smaller than it is.

He is shirtless, the only thing on him is a pair of boxer briefs hanging low on his hips, exposing the deep cut of his waistline. Every rational part of me is screaming to turn around and walk away, yet my feet are refusing to move.

I am tongue-tied, helpless as my gaze roams over him, drinking in every hard, rough edge. His body is all lean muscle, powerful without being bulky, his tanned skin catching the dim light just right. Every shift makes his biceps and triceps tighten ever so slightly, and I hate the way a thrill snakes down my spine because of it.

His caramel-toned skin looks unfairly smooth, stretched over the hard ridges of his tattooed chest. My gaze keeps drifting upward, pulled to his face—rugged, sharp-edged, stupidly handsome, even with that scowl tugging at his lips.

Then, he lifts his head, and our eyes meet. Hazel. Deep. Piercing. Framed by thick lashes, his stare is cutting right into my soul. The teardown moment is stretching, each second unraveling something inside me. His gaze isn’t just meeting mine—it is consuming me, wreaking havoc in my chest, leaving me breathless.

This is… weird. I have never been affected like this by any of my patients, let alone Sergey, who had love-bombed me with everything a girl should swoon for. But let’s not get it twisted—this isn’t a boy. He is a man.

And by a man, I mean way older than me.

"What are you doing? And who are you? Where is Dr. Chavez?" The deep rumble in his voice, dispassionate, neutral, and absolutely monotonous. His left cheek dimples, and my body betrays me—heat is pooling low in my stomach, my thighs pressing together as my now-wet panties cling to me.

All from just this man’s voice.

But don’t judge a girl.

It is deep—huskier than sin, layered in all shades of grey, masculine, and sexy as hell.

“Never mind, get over here already, I am not so patient,” that hot voice rings again, and now I can swear my pair of underwear are dripping. But this time, I try to force my mind to reason and tell him I am actually his new therapist.

But strangely, I can’t. His voice is commanding, and I find myself moving before I even realize it, my wet thighs clamping together.

A low, rough chuckle rumbles from his chest as he leans back in his chair, watching me like a cat toying with a cornered mouse. His fingers drum lazily against his thigh—slow, deliberate, like he has all the time in the world.

But that's until…

"Well, well," he taunts, tilting his head with a smirk so damn smug it made my palms itch to slap it off. "Chavez must’ve been desperate to send me a fresh one. Tell me, sweetheart, do they give you a handbook on how to shrink the minds of men like me, or do they just toss you in and hope you don’t cry in the corner?"

I open my mouth to retort, but his sharp gaze flicks to my lips, that goddamn smirk widening like he’d just won a game I didn’t know I was playing.

"Ohhh, don’t be shy now," he drawls, stretching his arms over the back of the chair like he owned the damn room. "You're already looking at me like I just ruined your favorite fairytale. What’s wrong? Never seen a real monster up close?"

The silence stretches, his eyes practically drinking in my every reaction. He is enjoying this. Testing me. And worse? My body is betraying me, heat pooling low in my stomach, my pulse drumming in my ears.

Then, his voice drops—low, smooth, dangerous. "But hey, I’ll make it easy for you, doc. Let’s skip the mind games. How about you get those pretty little knees on the floor and show me just how dedicated you are to… rehabilitation?"

Then, sharper. “Now!”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

Every rational instinct is screaming at me to walk away—to maintain control. This is insane. I was trained to understand people like him, to analyze, diagnose, and contain. And yet… the weight of his stare, the sheer dominance in his voice, sent a deep, reckless thrill through me.

I should run.

Instead, I obey.

I sink to my knees, pulse hammering, my breath coming too fast. I don’t even flinch.

His smirk darkens into something far more wicked as he reaches for the waistband of his boxer briefs, pulling them down without hesitation.

I should look away. But I don’t.

And… holy. Fuck.