Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 225

JAX'S POV

I park the bike and kill the engine, pulling off my helmet. Then I just sit there for a second, staring at the building across the street like it’s something out of a dream I’m not sure I want to remember. It’s a few minutes to eight. My session starts then. One hour.

What the hell am I supposed to do in there for a whole hour?

Now that I’m actually here, I realize just how different saying “yeah, I’ll go” is from doing it. Saying it was hard enough. This part feels impossible.

I run a hand through my hair, dragging in a deep breath that doesn’t really help much. The building looks smaller than I thought it would. Xander paid for this himself. Didn’t even ask if I wanted him to, just said it was covered, which makes it harder to back out. Because how do you tell the man you love that you’d rather not face the parts of yourself he already knows hurt?

It’s been two days since we got back from Michigan. Two days that have been.... honestly, good. I’ve been keeping busy at the farm, pretending to be more useful than I probably am. Xander’s getting officialy promoted today. He fucking deserves it. He’s good with people, good with responsibility.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, snapping me out of my thoughts. I take it out, the screen lighting up with my new favorite photo, the one Damien took of us without asking. We’re in the water, half-laughing, half-kissing, sunlight breaking around us. It’s stupid how much I like that picture. How much it makes my chest ache.

The text is from Xander....*Text me when you're done.*

I stare at the screen for a long second. Then I sigh, thumb brushing over the photo again before I lock the phone. I could leave. I could start the engine, ride until I’m too far to turn back.

But I don’t.

Instead, I swing my leg over the bike, my pulse is loud in my ears. Every step feels heavier than it should, like I’m walking straight into something I’ve been running from for a long time. The glass door gives way easily when I push it open. The reception area’s quiet, light wood floors, pale blue walls, a few plants that look too alive to be real. A girl behind the counter looks up with a kind smile.

And as I stand there, I can’t shake the thought that this feels like it might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But hell, I’ve done harder things..And this time, I’ve got someone waiting for me at the end of it.

I give my name, and after the receptionist confirms I’m here to see Mrs. Roberts, she leads me down a short hallway. The carpet muffles our steps, the walls lined with framed prints of forests and coastlines, things meant to feel calming, I guess.

When we stop outside a door near the end, she gestures toward it with a small, polite smile. “You can go right in. She’s expecting you.”

Then she leaves.

And I don’t move.

I just stand there, staring at the frosted glass panel on the door like it’s some kind of barrier I haven’t earned the right to cross. My grip tightens around my phone, still in my hand. I mutter a quiet curse under my breath, shift my weight, drag a hand down my face, and finally knock.

Not even five seconds later, the door opens. It’s almost unsettling how fast it happens, like she’d been standing right behind it, waiting.

She smiles, Mrs. Roberts. She’s maybe in her late forties, short brown hair, eyes kind but too perceptive. The kind of smile that’s supposed to put people at ease.

“You must be Jackson,” she says warmly.

“Jax,” I correct automatically....instinct, not intention.

Her smile softens. “Jax. Nice to meet you.” She extends her hand, and I shake it briefly before she steps aside. “I’m really glad you could make it.”

I don’t respond to that.

The room’s nice, though. Cozy. Nothing about it feels sterile or clinical, more like someone’s study than an office. A couple of soft lamps, bookshelves along the wall, and a window that lets in the morning light. There’s even a faint scent of cinnamon and paper. It should help. It doesn’t.

She gestures toward the couch. “You can sit, stretch out, pace....whatever feels most comfortable.”

That would be leaving, but I sit instead.

She takes the armchair across from me. She isn’t holding a notebook and pen like I’d expected, she just folds her hands loosely in her lap and looks at me, calm and patient.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks. “Coffee, tea...water?”

I shake my head once. “No, I’m good.”

It’s quiet for a beat, the kind of quiet that makes every breath sound louder. She then asks if I found the place okay, and I nod. “Yeah. No problem.”

She smiles, a quiet, easy kind of thing. “That’s good to hear. Most people get turned around the first time they come. I’ve had to send Elaine out to fetch them more than once.”

A small breath slips out of me that almost sounds like a laugh but isn't. “Guess I got lucky.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says, and there’s something genuine in the way she says it, like she actually means it. Then she adds, “As I tell all my clients, there’s no pressure here, Jax. You can tell me as much or as little as you want. Especially today. The first session’s just about getting to know each other.”

I nod again, eyes flicking around the room designed to make people open up, which oddly makes me want to shut down even more.

“Okay,” I say, because it feels like I should say something.

She still doesn’t push. Just sits there, steady and patient, her eyes calm and kind in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Then she says, “Maybe we can start with a little about what brought you here. In your own words. Whatever feels right to share.”

What brought me here.....

Christ, where would someone like me even start? I could tell her everything, but I don’t think she’s ready for that. Hell, I don’t think I’m ready for that. She’s probably heard worse, she has to have, but part of me still wonders if I’ll be the one who leaves her speechless.

Xander told me to just try it out. Two sessions, he said. See how it goes. And if I hated it, we’d figure something else out. And I know he meant that, he really did. But if I bail after two sessions, it won’t be because it didn’t help. It’ll be because I’m a stubborn asshole who can’t stand being seen.

She seems to sense that I’m locked somewhere between saying something and bolting. “You don’t have to have the perfect words,” she assures me gently. “Or even know where to start. Most people don’t. Sometimes, it’s enough just to show up.”

My throat tightens a little, she studies me for a moment before leaning back slightly, her tone easy.

“What does it feel like for you, being here right now? You can say whatever comes to mind. Most people feel nervous, especially the first time around.”

I glance at her, then at the floor. Her brows lift, encouraging. I think about it for a second, then let out a breath. “I guess I feel a little nervous too.”

She nods, like that’s exactly what she expected. “That’s perfectly normal. It’s a new space, and new things tend to make people tense. What do you think it is about this that makes you the most nervous?”

I shrug. “I’ve just never done anything like this before.”

Her smile warms, not condescending, just knowing. “That alone can make anyone uneasy,” she says softly. “Trying something unfamiliar takes courage.”

Then she tilts her head, eyes gentle but curious. “So what made you want to give it a try?”

One name surfaces immediately. I don’t even know why, but I really don’t want to say it out loud. The thought of giving her his name, of putting him into this space, feels wrong. He’s mine, and I can already picture her twisting it into something to unpack. But it’s also the truth. I’m here because of him. Anything else would be a lie.

I swallow hard, realizing I’ve been tapping my foot against the floor. I stop.

“It was my boyfriend’s idea,” I finally say. And I see it, the quiet spark that says she’s found a thread she can pull.