The Killers Game Pt 01

My new patient is a killer.

I don't like calling them that--patients. It implies care, healing. As if a sterile room and a clipboard can untangle the mess of a man who's spent his life perfecting the art of ending others'. My heels click against the sterile linoleum floor of the prison's counseling wing as I walk toward my next hour with Ivan Alexeyev--a member of the Russian mafia, a criminal, a killer.

The folder in my hands feels heavier than it should, like it's weighed down by the sheer magnitude of the atrocities listed within. Extortion, smuggling, and of course, murder. I've read the reports. I've seen the photos. The man behind the deeds should terrify me. Yet, as much as I hate to admit it, he doesn't.

Ivan intrigues me, and that's the real danger.

From our first session, he's been...magnetic. Charismatic in a way that should be impossible for someone locked behind bars. It's the kind of charm that could twist anyone's good intentions into something darker. His accent is thick, his words often coated with mockery or flirtation, and his dark eyes carry a glint that suggests he's always two steps ahead. But it's not his words or his gaze that unsettle me the most--it's the fact that I catch myself wanting to understand him.

What makes a man like Ivan tick? How does someone learn to kill without remorse? Is it nature, nurture, or simply survival? Those are the questions I tell myself I'm here to answer.

I stop in front of the door to our counseling room and take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. The guards on either side of the door glance at me and there's something in their eyes...something that sends a chill through my veins. I open the door, and the scene that greets me stops me cold.

Ivan leans against the far wall, but he's not alone. In front of him is a woman, one of the refreshment staff and she's on her knees, her lips wrapped around his cock. Her eyes widen when she notices me and she tries to pull back, but Ivan has her pinned. His fingers are tangled in her short black hair as he fucks her mouth.

I don't move, and I barely breathe. Something about this moment feels like a test, like he's trying to gauge my reaction. I can't let him win, even though the sight of him makes me flush hot. Even though I know I should look away, but I can't.

Ivan's dark eyes flick to me for a split second before he goes back to what he's doing, his broad shoulders rippling as he continues to thrust into the woman's mouth. Tattoos coil up his arms, wrap around his neck, and disappear under the rolled sleeves of his standard-issue prison shirt. Even the knuckles of his hands, pressing into the back of her head, are marked. The ink is chaotic--skulls, daggers, and swirling Russian script--but it fits him.

He's chaos embodied.

I stand there, frozen, my clipboard pressing into my chest. My mouth feels dry, but I refuse to react. This is his game, and I'll be damned if I let him win.

Ivan pushes the woman's head back down. My fingers dig into the manila folder as I watch them, and there's an ache that settles between my thighs. "Leave," he growls.

His voice snaps me out of the trance. The woman stumbles to her feet and slips past me, her face flushed and tear-streaked. She doesn't look at me as she disappears.

His full attention lands squarely on me.

"You're early, Liz," His voice is low, a teasing lilt curling at the edges. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"You can't keep doing that to the staff," I say coolly, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind me. My heels click against the floor as I move to my chair. "Harassing them."

He chuckles, a sound that's rich and dark like whiskey poured over ice. "Harassing?" He moves to the chair opposite me, dropping into it with a lazy grace that doesn't match his size. "They enjoy it. She loved taking my cock into her mouth. You saw her, didn't you?"

I ignore his words and the images they conjure. Ivan leans back in the chair, spreading his legs as he watches me. He doesn't seem the least bit concerned. The man is a wild animal--unpredictable, dangerous, but at least, he's caged.

"Or were you too distracted by the rest of me?"

I stiffen but don't look away. If he thinks I'll rise to his bait, he's sorely mistaken. He grins, his teeth white and almost predatory, and for a second, I wonder if he can read my thoughts.

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his tattoos on full display. There's a single word etched across his throat--svoboda, freedom. The irony isn't lost on me.

"So," he says, his tone shifting to something almost conversational. "What are we discussing today, Doctor Liz? My tragic past? My troubled psyche? Or are you just here to ogle me again?"

I don't flinch. "Your assignment."

He quirks a brow. "Ah, yes. You had me studying philosphy this past week."

"I think understanding your perspective will help me do my job," I reply, keeping my voice calm. "So, did you do it?"

He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, his body language screaming dominance. "I did. Sort of. Nietzsche's 'will to power,'" he says, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Fits me, don't you think?"

Of course, he'd choose that. "And why does it resonate with you?"

"Because the world is full of weak people waiting to be ruled." He folds his arms, his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. "They need someone like me to remind them what strength looks like."

I jot down a note, even though my hands feel like they've forgotten how to write. Being around Ivan can do that to a girl.

"Is that how you justify the lives you've taken?" I ask, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

His smirk deepens, and for a moment, the playful facade drops. There's something darker underneath, something raw and unrepentant. "I don't justify anything, Elizabeth. I just do what needs to be done. Not everyone can handle that."

There it is--the monster behind the man.

I force myself to breathe. Then I cross my legs, pen poised over my clipboard, forcing calm into every muscle of my body. "What else?" I ask. "You mentioned Nietzsche, but surely you didn't stop there."

Ivan leans back, spreading his arms along the top of the chair as if he's on a throne, not in a prison counseling room. "I didn't. I thought about hedonism."

The corner of my mouth twitches. "Hedonism. Interesting choice."

His lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile. "Why not? Life is short, Elizabeth. Might as well chase what feels good."

"So that's it?" I ask. "Your entire moral framework revolves around pleasure?"

He laughs softly and I hate what the sound does to me. He leans forward. "Not entirely. I still like power. But the two are not so different, are they? Pleasure is power. The right kind of pleasure can make anyone yours."

I keep my expression neutral, my pen scratching against the paper even as my stomach tightens. "And what do you think chasing only pleasure has gotten you, Ivan? Here? Locked away, dependent on the whims of others?"

His eyes narrow slightly, but the smirk stays in place. "You assume I'm not still in control."

I tilt my head, giving him an unimpressed look. "Enlighten me, then."

He grins as he stands, moving over to my side of the desk and leaning against it. He crosses his arms, the movement stretching his shirt tight across his chest. I look up, my breath catching in my throat.

He stares down at me, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Tell me, Liz. Haven't you ever thought about letting go? About letting only what feels good rule you? Just once?"

I swallow hard as I glance at the camera in the corner of the room, its presence a thin layer of protection I don't entirely trust. "If anything happens, they'll see," I say, more to myself than to him.

Ivan eyes glint with amusement as he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Do you think about it? Losing it with me?"

I force a scoff, my grip tightening on the pen. "Why would I ever do that?" I ask, my voice flat, disinterested.

He chuckles and the sound makes my pulse race. "You're good at lying, Liz. Better than most. But not good enough to fool me."

I shift in my seat, struggling to keep my composure. "We're not here to talk about me."

"Why not? Afraid of what I might see?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm the one under the microscope. "Tell me, what are your philosophies? What drives you?"

"Discipline," I say firmly. "Integrity. The belief that people can change if they're willing to work for it."

He watches me. "You're lying."

"I'm not," I say, meeting his stare.

He moves back to his seat, shaking his head with a soft laugh. "No, there's more. You have a dark side too, Liz. Everyone does." His eyes burn into mine. "You were jealous of her, weren't you? The woman from earlier. Admit it."

I freeze. "You're mistaken," I say.

"Am I?" he asks, smirking as if he's already won. "You feel it, don't you? The way I make you feel. You hate it, but you can't stop feeling it."

This isn't new. Ivan has been probing at me since the first session, testing my boundaries, pushing me to admit what he already seems so sure of--that I want him. The first time he said it outright, I'd laughed it off, told him he was deflecting, projecting, anything to steer the conversation away from the heat that climbed up my neck at his words.

But Ivan isn't the kind of man who lets things go. He flirts shamelessly, his words heavy with double meanings, his gaze lingering too long. Each session feels like a game to him, a chessboard where I'm the prize, and he's determined to make me break my own rules.

He's good at it, too. Too good.

I glance at the clock, desperate to wrap up the session, to escape the oppressive tension building in the room. But before I can say anything, he speaks again.

"I'm escaping tonight," he says, his voice casual, almost bored.

I blink, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

He leans forward, his grin turning wolfish. "I'm escaping. Tonight. And there's nothing you--or anyone else--can do to stop it."

I glance at the camera again, knowing they can only see us, not hear. My heart pounds as his words sink in. "You're lying," I say, though the tremor in my voice betrays me.

"Am I?" he asks, his tone playful. "Let's make a deal, Liz. If you leave your door unlocked at midnight, I'll know you want me. And if it's locked..." He shrugs. "You'll never see me again."

My throat is dry, my thoughts racing as I force myself to stand. "Session's over," I say.

He grins, standing too, and for a moment, he's far too close. "Think about it," he murmurs, his gaze lingering on me as I step back.

I leave the room, my mind spinning. He's bluffing. He has to be. No one has ever escaped from this facility. No one can.

Not even a monster like Ivan.