u/Marisol_Cares

The port was small, just three or four vessels along the entire pier.

The Doctor walked along the edge of the concrete almost lazily, and from the outside it looked as though he were simply out for a stroll. Only the cries of birds somewhere beyond the mangroves and the idle slap of water against the piles were audible.

His lean muscles had already calculated the trajectory while his eyes unhurriedly scanned the horizon.

The Anadyomene was casting off from the wharf when a shadow appeared at the edge of the concrete. One swing and a nimble silhouette in black pushed off and soared into the air. The Doctor landed on the deck with the agility of an Indian. The landing was soft and scarcely audible against the noise of the waves.

The shore receded, leaving behind emerald slopes of hills and villa roofs lurking in the greenery. He allowed himself a look around.

The Anadyomene was a first-class yacht: the oily teak of the deck, the mirror gleam of the hull, and dark panoramic glass concealing the interior of the cabins.

He turned his gaze to the lounge area. Low marine-vinyl sofas curved around a table of polished wood. A little farther off, on a lounger under a white awning, a crumpled cushion still held the imprint of a body. She had been lying there not long ago. The Doctor drew in the air: cutting through the smell of sea salt, her familiar scent of lavender trailed faintly. And that scent was more intoxicating than any whiskey.

The Doctor was dressed in a black cotton suit, perfectly hugging his sinewy frame and sharply contrasting with the whiteness of the deck.

His stiff black hair gleamed with a deep gloss in the sun.

The curve of the saloon superstructure completely blocked the central deck from his view, where Leya sat on the edge of a lounger, her face turned to the sun. Today she had allowed herself to relax a little: her shoulders had dropped, her breathing had grown slightly steadier, and her inner tension had eased somewhat.

Dominic sat opposite, outwardly completely relaxed. He was dressed in cream linen trousers, his loose shirt open. His eyes watched her intently.

He remembered how just yesterday she had been pacing the cabin, unable to find peace, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Her gaze had been absent, turned inward, into those labyrinths where he had no access.

A few moments later, the sunlight on Leya’s face was crossed by the Doctor’s shadow.

Dominic rose from his chair. There was a coiled spring of readiness in him.

— Healer, — Dominic’s voice was calm, but in the address itself there was a slight, contemptuous emphasis, as if he were deliberately using someone else’s title. — Unexpected. I assumed you had finished dissecting other people’s neuroses in these parts.

On the Doctor’s chiseled face, as if carved from stone, a smirk played that was more like a baring of teeth. His narrow dark eyes, in which the wisdom of another tribe could be read, slid lazily over Dominic, then fixed past him — on Leya.

In her gaze, a shadow of panic flickered, which she instantly tried to hide. He saw the barely perceptible tension in her cheekbones, the slight tremor at the corners of her mouth. But she held on. Clever girl.

Leya rose slowly to her feet. A light silk sarong over her swimsuit wrapped around her hips, baring her tremulous lower back with its dimples, which he knew so well.

— My visit is dictated by necessity, — the Doctor said. — Leya had a session. She missed it.

He looked straight at her.

Her stomach made a nauseating lurch. The thin skin on her neck, tinged with a faint blue undertone, pulsed in feverish excitement. The wind tousled her mane of unruly chestnut-ash hair, strands sticking to her temples and the corners of her mouth, but Leya did not brush them away; her hands were busy gripping the edges of the sarong.

— Leya is unavailable for sessions from now on, — Dominic stepped forward, shielding her with his body. At six feet three inches, he was a head taller than the Doctor.

The Doctor smiled thinly, openly scrutinising her long legs and raising his eyes higher.

— She cannot be ‘unavailable.’ That contradicts the very essence of the session. Moreover… — his eyes narrowed, analysing the tremor in her thin wrists, — when her condition looks… unstable. The tension in her cervical spine is obvious. Spasm of the piriformis muscle… I can sense it from here.

Leya involuntarily raised her hand to her neck. Her heart was beating in her throat. The shore was drifting farther away, dissolving into the emerald haze of the hills.

— Her ‘tension’ is my concern now, — Dominic cut in, gripping a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid gleamed in the sunlight; he took a sip, and the ice clinked in the glass.

Leya stood, holding her breath. She felt as if she were about to suffocate — the air was too humid. Heat spread through her entire body. She could feel the sarong clinging to her buttocks.

— Your concern? — The Doctor gave a soft laugh. — You have no idea how her nervous system is wired.

He looked straight at Leya again:

— Leya. We’re going. The session will be a long one. You need correction. You know it yourself: if I don’t intervene right now, by nightfall it’ll come over you.

His voice was enveloping, like morning mist over a lake.

Leya wanted to say something, but the words stuck somewhere in her throat like dry grass. She could feel salty drops running down her spine, leaving trails; the curve of her lower back was already completely wet with sweat.

— When it overwhelms her — then she’ll wait out the storm. She’s not leaving this deck, — Dominic answered for Leya. His light-blond hair, with a touch of grey at the temples, played with silver in the sun’s rays.

— Dominic, I decide for myself whether I need sessions or not, — Leya got out uncertainly. Her voice came out thinner than she wanted.

— Leya, don’t interfere, — Dominic cut in, with a barely perceptible shrug. He didn’t even look at her, keeping the Doctor in his field of vision.

The Doctor’s face wore an indulgent expression.

He had always seen into Leya, felt her pain with frightening precision, as if her nerves were stretched directly into his consciousness. He saw her biting her lip, her dilated pupils, her uneven breathing, the faint flush that had risen on her cheekbones.

— Oh, come on, Dominic, you’re not her daddy, — the Doctor smirked, taking a step to the right, catching Leya again in his sights.

— Look at her fingers, Dominic. They’re trembling. Look at her breathing. She needs help.

The panic in her chest grew, turning into a heavy lump. Leya squeezed her eyes shut.

— You’re sniffing her fear like an old, hungry mongrel, — Dominic said.

He stood with the impeccable posture of a yachtsman, his open shirt revealing an athletic chest with a bronze tan. But against the Doctor’s resinous, natural swarthiness, his tan looked like nothing more than artificial gilding.

The Doctor did not deign to answer him. His sticky gaze slid over Leya’s silhouette again. He stepped closer to her, completely ignoring Dominic.

— Leya, — he said.

His hand rose and his fingers touched the air a centimetre from her lower back. He moved them gently, as if probing an invisible aura around her. She could feel the heat radiating from him through the trembling air.

Dominic saw her back curve in a barely perceptible motion from that phantom touch. She didn’t even realise it.

— Hands off, — Dominic said calmly. — One more step towards her and you’ll be swimming to shore. — The veins stood out on his broad hands, covered with golden hair.

— I haven’t even touched her, — the Doctor parried, without lowering his palm. His fingers continued to move through the air, tracing invisible patterns. — You’re building a crystal palace around her, Dominic, and she’s shaking so badly the walls are about to collapse.

Dominic narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the Doctor with cold, calculating excitement.

He walked over to the bar, poured more whiskey, and looked intently at Leya. In her green, slightly slanted eyes, he saw an abyss. She radiated such fragile, such ready-to-shatter beauty that something in his chest clenched with anger.

He took a sip of whiskey and turned his gaze to the Doctor.

— Enough chatter, charlatan. You mentioned her piriformis spasm? — His voice was steeped in boredom, but the fingers gripping the glass had gone white at the knuckles.

The Doctor caught the shift. A shadow of an intrigued smirk froze on his lips.

— Obviously, — he said curtly.

— Then correct it immediately, — Dominic made a light, almost casual gesture with his hand, as if he were discussing not his woman but a faulty mechanism.

Leya froze, suspended between them, unable to move. She heard Dominic’s voice but didn’t recognise it. There was no warmth in it, no protection — only the cold, calculating tone of a man weighing his stakes. She looked at his grey eyes in confusion and saw no trace of his former softness there.

— This is not a matter of ‘to correct,’ — the Doctor parried. — This is a matter of allowing the body to release what it holds. You can’t simply relax a muscle by command, Dominic. — His voice was patient, like a teacher’s.

Dominic gave a slight nod.

— Fine, — he said. — Show me your class.

Leya stood, paralysed. Her mind refused to comprehend, and her gaze darted from one to the other, trying to understand what was happening. She looked at Dominic, trying to find in his eyes even a hint that he was joking. The yacht was sailing farther out into the open sea.

Dominic leaned his hip against the bar counter, slowly turning the glass in his fingers. The wind tugged at her hair, tossing a strand across her face. She brushed it away with a trembling hand and pulled herself together with the last of her strength.

— Dominic, I’m hot. I’m going to the cabin. I need to finish the catalogue for the diamond collection, Leon is waiting for the appraisal. The deadlines are pressing. — She spoke almost breathlessly, the words tumbling over one another, as if she were afraid of being interrupted.

Dominic took another sip of whiskey, and only then spoke.

— The catalogue can wait, Leya. Leon fully understands that you’re on vacation right now and there’s no rush. Besides, we have a guest.

Leya felt nausea rising in her throat. Her gaze darted between Dominic’s stone face and the Doctor, who was watching them in silence, as if they were an absurd theatrical performance.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to quell the nausea, and in the darkness crimson flashes flickered — an echo of the migraine that promised to return by nightfall. A moment later, a faint smile appeared on her lips; an unexpected realisation came to her. If they wanted to play at being masters of life — she would play along with them.

— Well then… to hell with work. But we haven’t even had lunch today, and it’s almost evening. — Leya said. She said it with a light, almost playful intonation, and her voice sounded surprisingly steady. Her swan-like neck stretched.

Dominic paused for a second, an admiring smile touching his lips. He appreciated that desperate bluff.

— Excellent idea, darling. Doctor, I hope you’re hungry? On board we have everything one could want: fresh oysters, white fish, vegetables from the local market, — he said, and his voice sounded as if he were inviting an old friend to a dinner party, not a man he had been ready to throw overboard a moment ago.

— I won’t decline, — the Doctor replied condescendingly, not taking his eyes off Leya.

— Leya, set the table, please. Everything is already prepared. If you need help — just say so.

The Doctor remained silent, watching as Leya disappeared into the doorway of the saloon.

She was gone, but the air remained soaked through with that maddening lavender and light notes of tobacco — she had started smoking again.

Dominic watched her go, seeing the smooth curve of her lower back, the scattering of chestnut curls over her shoulder blades, and how the sarong clung tightly to her buttocks with each step. The thought of allowing that bastard to touch Leya again was repulsive to him.

But he felt an almost painful pleasure at the thought that after tonight, Leya would never want to see her Doctor again.

Her heart was pounding so hard that it seemed to her the sound was carrying across the entire yacht. Each beat was like a stroke of a bell that she could not stop.

When the saloon door closed behind her, she pressed herself against it for a second. The climate control was pushing in cool air, and after the hell of the open sun it was pleasant here, but Leya was seized with a chill. Her resolve instantly crumbled, like dry plaster. For a second she felt as if her legs would simply give way and she would fall right there, by the door, and be unable to get up.

She tried to calm herself: at least she had wrested herself some time.

Pressing her palms to her burning cheeks, she frantically thought.

The main thing was to get off the deck — that kept circling in her head. Without me, they have no one to put on this show for. In a few minutes Dominic will cool down, he’ll have another drink, come to his senses, and simply throw the Doctor out… For a second her thoughts stumbled; she remembered that they were already too far from shore.

An icy wave ran down her spine. The Doctor had nowhere to go. Dominic couldn’t just show him the door. But she immediately brushed the thought aside. Dominic had told her that he wanted to spend the evening at the villa. So perhaps he would simply turn the vessel back toward shore. She clung to that hope like a life preserver.

Right now, the main thing was fifteen minutes of silence to catch her breath.

‘I’ll set the table, serve the oysters — and leave,’ she repeated to herself like a mantra. ‘I’ll plead a migraine, fatigue, anything. Dominic won’t break down the door to my cabin.’

In the refrigeration units rested containers: the freshest ceviche of wild snapper with drops of lime and pink peppercorns, a deep silver platter with oysters on ice, and a bottle of Montrachet Burgundy.

Leya set out the plates, straightened the napkins, laid out the cutlery. She did it all mechanically, letting her hands work instead of her head, which was no longer capable of thinking.

She didn’t have to call them; she heard their footsteps a few seconds before they appeared. The teak decking creaked under their weight, and Leya heard Dominic say something to the Doctor — quietly, almost indistinctly — and in response came a short, dry chuckle that sent an electric jolt through her body.

Light flowed along the walls, reflecting off the polished wood and leaving glints on the silver. The linen tablecloth was perfectly starched; on it stood three place settings: silver forks with long tines, knives with ebony handles, wine goblets, water glasses. In the centre of the table, in a crystal vase, stood a white orchid with a dark-purple heart.

Dominic looked relaxed and confident — he sat at the head of the table, gesturing for the Doctor to take the seat opposite him. Leya stood slightly to the side, watching tensely.

— Sit down, darling, — Dominic said, indicating the place between them.

— I’m not hungry, Dominic, — she said quickly, taking a step toward the exit. — My head is splitting. I’m going to my cabin…

The Doctor smiled faintly, as if reading her thoughts. His swarthy face with its sharp cheekbones was fixed in a mask of polite interest.

Dominic didn’t let her finish. He rose from the table and stood behind her. His heavy palms gently came to rest on her shoulders.

— Your head will ease once you’ve eaten, — his impenetrable voice sounded right next to her ear.

She shuddered all over, unable to control the reaction that gave her away completely. Leya could feel his chest almost touching her back; he smelled of Cuban cigars with whiskey and vetiver.

She had no strength to argue with him. She simply lowered her head, feeling his hands still resting on her shoulders, and allowed him to guide her to the table. The wooden back of the chair pressed into her spine, and she straightened up, desperately trying to maintain a posture that would look dignified.

— Try the ceviche, — Dominic said, sliding the plate toward her. His fingers lightly touched the edge of the porcelain, and she noticed how the gold rim on the plate gleamed in the lamplight.

White pieces of fish, with barely noticeable pink veins, lay on a bed of thinly sliced onion, drizzled with a sauce in which droplets of olive oil glistened. Scattered on top were a few peppercorns of pink pepper.

— Of course, — Leya replied quietly, picking up her fork.

She took a tiny piece of fish and put it in her mouth. The sour-salty taste on her tongue, with a slight bitterness, burned her palate.

Leya felt her stomach clench, refusing to accept the food, but she forced herself to swallow.

— When was the last time you ate properly, Leya? — the Doctor asked.

She felt the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

— I eat enough, — she said evenly, cutting off another piece of fish. She cut it as if it were the most important task in her life — slowly, carefully, trying to focus on each movement. The fork in her fingers trembled slightly, and she gripped it tighter.

Dominic's jaw tightened. The chewing muscles beneath his cheekbones tensed, and a hard line appeared on his face, the one she saw when he was truly angry. He poured himself more wine and took a sip, watching them over the rim of his glass.

— Leave your concerns about patients for the clinic, Doctor. Right now you're a guest. So just eat and enjoy the moment, — Dominic said. He enunciated the words through a lazy smirk.

The Doctor smirked but said nothing. He slowly raised his wine glass to his lips, taking a sip, and his eyes continued to watch her. She could feel that gaze on her skin, and it made it even harder for her to eat.

— Of course, this climate… Humidity at ninety percent, the heat. An organism unaccustomed to the pressure here automatically blocks digestion. Spasmodic functions slow down, — the Doctor continued.

— I've grown accustomed to the heat, — Leya replied, not raising her eyes. Her chestnut curls fell in heavy rings across her face, blocking her peripheral vision.

— Accustomed to the humidity, to the constant sun, to air that's like jelly? — The Doctor narrowed his eyes slightly.

— That's impossible. For that you'd have to be born here. Or spend years here. — He paused.

— You overestimate the importance of climate, Doctor. — Dominic smirked.

Leya took a sip of wine, trying to keep the glass from clinking against her teeth. The wine was cold, and it burned her throat with a tart bitterness. She could feel the alcohol spreading through her chest in a warm wave.

— Eat some oysters, Leya, — Dominic said solicitously. — You need your strength.

— The oysters are excellent, — the Doctor remarked. He took one of the shells, brought it to his face, and she saw his nostrils flare almost imperceptibly as he drew in the smell of the sea, salt, and iodine that came from the open shell.

— Dominic, you have impeccable taste, I must admit.

— It's important to me that my guests feel comfortable, — Dominic replied, and there was a biting irony in his voice.

— Your 'guests,' Dominic, — the Doctor smirked, baring a row of even teeth that gleamed in the soft light, — always get what they come for. I've heard you're famous for that. — The Doctor smiled. His smile was sticky as honey.

He licked his lips, leaving a wet trace on them, and in that gesture there was so much obscene pleasure that Leya looked away, feeling heat flood her face. She moved her fork around her plate, creating the appearance of eating.

— Rest assured, you'll get what you came for. The session will take place on deck, after dinner. No taking her into the cabins, — Dominic said calmly.

Leya froze. Her hope that Dominic would cool down at the table and realise how badly he had overplayed his hand on deck crumbled. He wasn't going to quell the conflict. The alcohol and the Doctor's presence only fuelled his excitement. She could see it in his eyes — they gleamed like a man who was enjoying a game where the stakes were too high to back down.

— Excellent. Open space is the best environment for working with tension, — the Doctor nodded, and his voice was approving, like a professor who had finally received the right answer from a student. He leaned back in his chair. His skin gleamed with dark gold, with a barely noticeable olive undertone.

She tried to take another sip of wine — just to keep her hands busy. But the glass trembled in her hand, and wine splashed over the rim, leaving a stain on the tablecloth. The world around her was beginning to sway slightly.

Her breathing quickened. She could feel her chest rising and falling beneath the fabric of her swimsuit, felt how her nipples had hardened. The porcelain skin on her collarbones was covered in goosebumps, and she knew they both could see it.

She tried to focus on the orchid in the centre of the table, on its white petals with a dark-purple heart. But the flower began to blur slightly before her eyes, its petals merging into one large white spot. She blinked, trying to bring it back into focus.

The port was a shallow scratch of concrete — just three or four boats hunched along the dock, no more.

The Doctor walked the edge with a languid, almost careless stride; to anyone watching, he was just a man out for an idle walk. Only the birds cried somewhere beyond the mangroves, and the water slapped the pilings in a sluggish, half-hearted rhythm.

His dry, corded muscles had already mapped the trajectory — while his eyes, unhurried, swept the horizon like a slow-reading scope.

Anadyomene was already casting off from the pier when a shadow bloomed at the concrete's lip. One swing of his body, and the lean black silhouette pushed off, arcing through the air. The Doctor hit the deck with the soft-footed grace of a tribesman — the landing was muffled, barely a whisper against the churn of the waves.

The shore slid backward, unspooling emerald slopes and the dark tiles of villas tucked deep in the green. He let himself take it all in.

Anadyomene was a thoroughbred: the oily gleam of teak underfoot, the mirror-bright hull, dark panoramic glass that kept the cabin interiors hidden from view.

His gaze drifted to the lounge area. Low sofas of marine vinyl curved around a table of burnished wood. A little farther off, on a lounger under a white awning, a crushed cushion still held the indentation of a body — the ghost of her weight. She'd been here, not long ago. The Doctor drew a breath, and there it was — cutting through the salt of the sea, the faint, trailing thread of her familiar lavender. That scent hit him harder than any whiskey ever could.

The Doctor wore a black cotton suit, moulded to his lean, corded flesh, a dark slash against the blinding white of the deck. His coarse black hair caught the sun in a deep, oiled gleam.

The curve of the salon superstructure hid the central deck from his line of sight — where Leya sat on the edge of a lounger, her face tilted up into the sun. Today, she'd let herself loosen a notch: her shoulders had dropped, her breathing had found an easier rhythm, and the tight knot inside her had eased — just a fraction.

Dominic sat opposite, outwardly liquid with ease. He wore cream linen trousers, his open shirt hanging loose at his chest. His eyes, however, were fixed on her with that patient, unblinking attention he wore like a second skin.

He remembered how, just yesterday, she'd paced the cabin like a trapped thing — unable to find stillness, hoping he hadn't noticed. Her gaze had been vacant, turned inward, down into those winding labyrinths where he had no access.

A moment later, the sun on Leya's face was crossed by the Doctor's shadow.

Dominic rose from his chair. A coiled spring of readiness hummed in his frame.

— Healer. — Dominic's voice was calm, but the word itself carried a slight, contemptuous emphasis — as if he were deliberately using a borrowed, alien title. — Unexpected. I assumed you'd finished dissecting other people's neuroses in these parts.

On the Doctor's chiseled face — stone-cut, almost primitive — a smirk curled, closer to a snarl than a smile. His narrow dark eyes, holding the hard-bitten wisdom of another bloodline, slid lazily over Dominic, then fixed past him — on Leya.

In her gaze, a flicker of panic flared and died in the same breath, smothered before it could take root. He caught the barely perceptible tension in her jaw, the fine tremor at the corners of her mouth. But she held. Clever girl.

Leya rose slowly to her feet. A light silk sarong over her swimsuit wrapped her hips, baring the vulnerable dip of her lower back — the dimples he knew so well, had pressed his thumbs into a hundred times.

— My visit is a matter of necessity, — the Doctor said. — Leya had a session scheduled. She missed it.

He looked directly at her.

Her stomach lurched — a sick, hollow flip. The thin skin of her neck, faintly blue with the tracery of veins, pulsed with a feverish, too-quick rhythm. The wind tore through her mane of unruly ash-chestnut hair, strands whipping across her temples and the corners of her mouth, but Leya didn't brush them away — her hands were locked on the edges of her sarong, knuckles white.

— Leya is no longer available for sessions. — Dominic stepped forward, his body a wall between them. At six feet three inches, he topped the Doctor by a full head.

The Doctor smiled thinly, his gaze openly tracing her long legs, climbing slowly upward.

— She cannot be "unavailable." That contradicts the very nature of a session. Especially... — his eyes narrowed, reading the tremor in her slender wrists like an instrument, — when her condition appears... unstable. The cervical tension is unmistakable. Piriformis spasm... I can feel it from here.

Leya's hand flew to her neck, unbidden. Her heart slammed against her throat. The shore was receding fast, dissolving into the emerald haze of the hills.

— Her "tension" is my concern now, — Dominic cut in, his hand clamped around his whiskey glass. The amber liquid caught the sun, a blade of light; he took a swallow, and the ice rattled against the crystal.

Leya stood frozen, her breath caught in her chest. She felt like she was suffocating — the air was too thick, too wet. Heat spread through her like a slow fever. She could feel the sarong plastering itself to her ass, the silk clinging to every curve.

— Your concern? — The Doctor let out a soft, dry laugh. — You haven't the faintest idea how her nervous system is wired.

He turned his gaze back to Leya, fixing her in place:

— Leya. We're going. The session will be long. You require correction. You know it yourself: if I don't intervene right now, by nightfall you'll be overwhelmed.

His voice wrapped around her — smooth and thick, like morning fog rolling over still water.

Leya tried to speak, but the words jammed in her throat like dry grass. She felt the salt-sweat trickling down her spine, tracing slow, burning paths; the hollow of her lower back was already slick, completely drenched.

— Overwhelmed — then she'll ride out the storm. She's not leaving this deck, — Dominic answered for her. His light-blond hair, shot with silver at the temples, caught the sun like hammered metal.

— Dominic, I decide whether I need sessions or not, — Leya forced out, her voice thinner than she'd wanted — a reedy, uncertain thing.

— Leya, don't interfere. — Dominic cut her off with a barely perceptible twitch of his shoulder. He didn't even glance at her, keeping the Doctor locked in his sights.

The Doctor's face settled into an expression of lazy condescension.

He'd always seen through Leya — felt her pain with a precision that bordered on obscene, as if her nerves were spliced directly into his own consciousness. He saw the way she bit her lip, the black pools of her dilated pupils, the ragged hitch of her breath, the delicate flush blooming across her cheekbones like a warning.

— Oh, come on, Dominic, you're not her daddy. — The Doctor smirked, stepping sideways, his gaze finding Leya again like a scope reacquiring its target.

— Look at her fingers, Dominic. They're trembling. Look at her breathing. She needs help.

The panic in her chest swelled, clotting into a heavy, choking knot. Leya squeezed her eyes shut.

— You're sniffing her fear like an old, hungry dog, — Dominic said.

He stood with the impeccable posture of a yachtsman, his open shirt baring an athletic chest bronzed by the sun. But next to the Doctor's tarry, primal swarthiness, his tan looked like nothing more than cheap gilding.

The Doctor didn't bother to answer. His sticky, unblinking gaze slid over Leya's silhouette once more. He stepped toward her, ignoring Dominic completely.

— Leya, — he said.

His hand rose, his fingers hovering a hair's breadth from the small of her back. He moved them slowly, tracing something invisible in the air around her — as if reading an aura only he could see. She could feel the heat coming off him through the trembling air, a furnace behind a veil.

Dominic saw her spine bow in a barely perceptible arch at that ghost of a touch. She didn't even know she was doing it.

— Take your hands away, — Dominic said, his voice flat. — One more step toward her, and you'll be swimming back to shore. — The veins on his broad, golden-haired forearms stood out like corded rope.

— I haven't even touched her, — the Doctor parried, his palm still suspended. His fingers continued their slow, deliberate tracery in the air. — You're building a crystal palace around her, Dominic, while she's shaking so hard the walls are about to cave in.

Dominic's eyes narrowed to slits, studying the Doctor with cold, reptilian calculation.

He walked to the bar, poured himself another whiskey, then turned his gaze on Leya. In her green, slightly slanted eyes, he glimpsed an abyss — something fathomless and fragile. She radiated such brittle, breakable beauty that something in his chest clenched with a savage, angry tightness.

He took a swallow of whiskey and shifted his attention back to the Doctor.

— Enough blathering, charlatan. You mentioned her piriformis spasm? — His voice dripped with studied boredom, but the fingers gripping his glass had gone bloodless at the knuckles.

The Doctor caught the shift. A shadow of an intrigued smirk settled on his lips.

— Evidently, — he said, short and dry.

— Then fix it. Right now. — Dominic made a light, almost dismissive gesture, as if he were discussing a faulty piece of equipment — not his woman.

Leya froze, trapped between them, unable to move. She heard Dominic's voice but didn't recognise it. There was no warmth in it, no shelter — only the cold, calculating edge of a man weighing his chips. She looked helplessly into his grey eyes and found no trace of the gentleness she'd known.

— This isn't a matter of 'fixing,' — the Doctor parried. — It's a matter of allowing the body to release what it's been holding. You can't simply order a muscle to relax, Dominic. — His voice was patient — the patience of a lecturer explaining basic anatomy to a slow student.

Dominic gave a curt nod.

— Excellent, — he said. — Show me what you've got.

Leya stood frozen, paralysed. Her mind refused to catch up; her gaze ricocheted between the two men, trying to decode what was happening. She looked at Dominic, searching his eyes for even a flicker of a joke. The yacht was pushing further out into open water.

Dominic leaned his hip against the bar, rotating the glass slowly between his fingers. The wind ripped at her hair, whipping a strand across her face. She pushed it away with a trembling hand and forced herself together with the dregs of her composure.

— Dominic, I'm hot. I'm going to the cabin. I need to finish the catalogue for the diamond collection — Leon is waiting for the appraisal. The deadline is tight. — She spoke almost breathlessly, the words tumbling over one another, as if she were racing to get them out before someone cut her off.

Dominic took another slow swallow of whiskey before answering.

— The catalogue can wait, Leya. Leon knows perfectly well you're on holiday and there's no rush. Besides — we have a guest.

Leya felt nausea clawing up her throat. Her gaze darted between Dominic's stone-cut face and the Doctor, who watched them in silence, like a spectator at an absurd piece of theatre.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to quell the rising sickness, and in the darkness, scarlet flashes flickered behind her lids — the first warning of the migraine that promised to return by nightfall. A moment later, a faint smile touched her lips; a sudden clarity cut through the fog. If they wanted to play at being masters of her life — she'd play along.

— Well then... to hell with work. But we haven't even had lunch yet, and it's almost evening, — Leya said. She delivered it with a light, almost playful lilt, and her voice came out surprisingly steady. Her swan-like neck stretched.

Dominic paused for a beat, an appreciative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He recognised the desperate bluff for what it was — and he liked it.

— Excellent idea, darling. Doctor, I hope you're hungry? We have everything on board: fresh oysters, white fish, vegetables from the local market, — he said, and his voice rolled out as if he were inviting an old friend to a formal dinner — not a man he'd been ready to pitch overboard seconds ago.

— I wouldn't say no, — the Doctor replied, his tone condescending, his gaze still nailed to Leya.

— Leya, set the table, please. Everything's already prepared. If you need help — just say the word.

The Doctor said nothing, watching as Leya disappeared through the saloon doorway.

She was gone, but the air remained soaked through with that maddening lavender and the faint ghost of tobacco — she'd started smoking again.

Dominic watched her retreat, tracking the smooth sway of her lower back, the cascade of chestnut curls tumbling over her shoulder blades, the way the sarong clung to the swell of her ass with every step. The thought of letting that bastard touch her again turned his stomach.

But he felt an almost painful pleasure at the certainty that after tonight, Leya would never want to see her Doctor again.

Her heart hammered so violently she was sure the sound must be carrying across the entire yacht. Each thud was like the clang of a bell she couldn't silence.

When the saloon door slid shut behind her, she pressed her back against it for a moment. The air conditioning pumped coolness through the space, and after the furnace of the open sun, it should have been a relief — but Leya was seized by a bone-deep chill. Her resolve crumbled instantly, like dry plaster flaking off a wall. For a second, she felt her knees might simply buckle, dropping her right there by the door, unable to get up.

She tried to steady herself: at least she'd bought herself some time.

Pressing her palms to her burning cheeks, she scrambled for a plan.

The main thing was to get off the deck — that thought spun in her head like a broken record. Without me, there's no one for them to perform this spectacle for. In a few minutes Dominic will cool down, have another drink, come to his senses, and just throw the Doctor out... For a moment, her thoughts snagged — she remembered they were already too far from shore.

An icy wave crawled up her spine. The Doctor had nowhere to go. Dominic couldn't just show him the door. But she shoved the thought away. Dominic had told her he wanted to spend the evening at the villa. So maybe he'd just turn the yacht back. She latched onto that hope like a drowning woman gripping a lifebuoy.

Right now, the main thing was fifteen minutes of silence — just enough to catch her breath.

"I'll set the table, serve the oysters — and leave," she repeated to herself like a ward against evil. "I'll plead a migraine, exhaustion, anything. Dominic won't break down the door to my cabin."

In the refrigeration units, containers waited: freshest ceviche of wild snapper, bright with lime and pink peppercorns; a deep silver platter of oysters nestled on crushed ice; a bottle of Burgundy Montrachet, its label still beaded with cold.

Leya arranged the plates, straightened the napkins, laid out the cutlery. She did it all on autopilot, letting her hands work while her mind — tapped out, unable to think — stayed mercifully blank.

She didn't have to call them; she heard their footsteps several seconds before they appeared. The teak groaned under their weight, and Leya caught Dominic saying something to the Doctor — low, almost indistinguishable — and in response came a short, dry laugh that sent a jolt of electricity down her spine.

Light washed over the walls, glancing off polished wood and throwing tiny flares across the silver. The linen tablecloth was crisp with starch, set with three places: silver forks with long, elegant tines, knives with ebony handles, wine glasses and water goblets catching the glow. At the centre, in a crystal vase, a white orchid with a dark-purple heart stood.

Dominic looked relaxed, utterly confident — he took his seat at the head of the table, gesturing for the Doctor to sit opposite. Leya stood slightly to the side, her posture rigid, watching.

— Sit down, darling, — Dominic said, indicating the place between them.

— I'm not hungry, Dominic, — she said quickly, already edging towards the exit. — My head is splitting. I'm going to my cabin...

The Doctor smiled, barely a flicker — as if he were reading her thoughts off a page. His swarthy face, all sharp cheekbones and stillness, held a mask of polished interest.

Dominic didn't let her finish. He rose from the table and moved behind her. His heavy palms settled on her shoulders with a deceptive gentleness.

— Your head will ease once you eat, — his voice came, flat and impenetrable, right by her ear.

She flinched — a full-body jerk she couldn't control, a betrayal she couldn't hide. Leya felt his chest almost brushing her back; he smelled of Cuban cigars, whiskey, and vetiver.

She had no fight left. She just dropped her head, feeling his hands still resting on her shoulders, and let him steer her to the table. The wooden chair back pressed into her spine, and she straightened, desperately clawing for a posture that might pass for dignity.

— Try the ceviche, — Dominic said, sliding the plate toward her. His fingers brushed the porcelain's edge, and she caught the gold rim flashing in the lamplight.

White pieces of fish, faintly veined with pink, lay on a bed of translucent onion, dressed in a sauce that glistened with droplets of olive oil. A few pink peppercorns were scattered on top like tiny jewels.

— Of course, — Leya replied quietly, picking up her fork.

She took a tiny piece of fish and placed it on her tongue. The sour-salt bite, edged with a faint bitterness, burned against her palate.

Leya felt her stomach clench, rejecting the food, but she forced herself to swallow.

— When was the last time you ate properly, Leya? — the Doctor asked.

She felt the fine hairs on her arms prickle upright.

— I eat enough, — she said flatly, cutting off another piece of fish. She carved it as if it were the most vital task of her life — slowly, meticulously, trying to anchor herself in each movement. The fork in her fingers trembled once, and she gripped it harder.

Dominic's jaw tightened. The chewing muscles beneath his cheekbones bunched, and a hard line cut across his face — the one she knew from moments when he was truly, coldly furious. He poured himself more wine and took a swallow, watching them over the rim of his glass.

— Leave your patient concerns for the clinic, Doctor. Right now you're a guest. So just eat and enjoy the moment, — Dominic said. He delivered the words quietly, through a lazy smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

The Doctor smirked back but said nothing. He raised his wine glass to his lips slowly, taking a sip, and his eyes never left her. She could feel that gaze on her skin like a physical weight, making it even harder to swallow.

— Of course, this climate... Humidity at ninety per cent, the heat. An organism unaccustomed to the local pressure automatically blocks digestion. Spasmodic functions slow down, — the Doctor continued, his tone clinical, detached.

— I've grown used to the heat, — Leya replied, not lifting her eyes. Her chestnut curls fell in heavy coils across her face, walling off her peripheral vision.

— Used to the humidity, the constant sun, the air like syrup? — The Doctor narrowed his eyes slightly. — That's impossible. You'd have to be born here. Or spend years here. — He paused, letting the silence stretch.

— You overestimate the importance of climate, Doctor. — Dominic smirked.

Leya took a sip of wine, fighting to keep the glass from chattering against her teeth. The wine was cold, and it seared her throat with a sharp, tannic bitterness. She felt the alcohol spreading through her chest in a slow, treacherous warmth.

— Eat some oysters, Leya, — Dominic said, his voice solicitous, almost tender. — You need your strength.

— The oysters are excellent, — the Doctor remarked. He took one of the shells, brought it to his face, and she watched his nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, drawing in the scent of the sea — salt, iodine, the raw brine that rose from the open half-shell. — Dominic, you have impeccable taste, I must admit.

— I want my guests to feel comfortable, — Dominic replied, and his voice carried a sharp edge of ironic cruelty.

— Your "guests," Dominic, — the Doctor smirked, baring a perfect row of teeth that glinted in the soft light, — always get what they came for. I've heard you're famous for that. — His smile was cloying, sticky as honey.

He licked his lips, leaving a wet, glistening sheen, and in that gesture there was so much obscene relish that Leya looked away, feeling the heat flood her face. She dragged her fork across the plate, going through the motions of eating.

— Rest assured, you'll get what you came for. The session will take place on deck, after dinner. No retreating to cabins, — Dominic said, his tone flat and final.

Leya went still. Her hope — that Dominic would cool down over the meal, realise how far he'd overstepped on deck — crumbled to dust. He had no intention of defusing the conflict. The alcohol and the Doctor's presence only stoked something feral in him. She could see it in his eyes — they burned with the cold gleam of a man who thrived on a game where the stakes were too high to fold.

— Excellent. Open space is the best environment for working with tension, — the Doctor nodded, his voice warm with approval, like a professor who'd finally heard the correct answer from a slow student. He leaned back in his chair. His skin glowed with dark gold, touched with a barely perceptible olive undertone.

She tried to take another sip of wine — just to keep her hands busy. But the glass trembled in her grip, and wine sloshed over the rim, bleeding a stain into the linen. The world around her was beginning to tilt, gently, inexorably.

Her breathing quickened. She could feel her chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of her swimsuit, could feel her nipples drawing tight. The porcelain skin of her collarbones prickled with goosebumps, and she knew they could both see it.

She tried to focus on the orchid at the centre of the table — its white petals, the dark-purple heart at its core. But the flower began to blur before her eyes, its edges softening, the petals melting into one pale, formless smear. She blinked, once, twice, fighting to pull it back into focus.