ᴍᴏᴛɪᴇsʜᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴘᴋɪɴɢ (#1 ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟs ᴛʀɪʟᴏɢʏ)✓

49: Tiesha And The Therapy I

Something was wrong with Tiesha.

Ky’Mon felt it in every silent second between them, in the way she shrank from his touch, the way she squeezed her legs tight whenever he reached for her.

Her eyes were constantly flicking over her shoulder like she was expecting something—or someone—to come after her.

He didn’t know exactly what that bastard had done to her. She wasn’t talking.

That silence was eating him alive.

Even Esther wasn’t safe. Two of his Elites—his most trusted men—were tailing the little girl constantly, shadowing her steps like silent ghosts.

They were there with Tiesha too, always alert, always watching.

That was how Ky’Mon knew something was seriously wrong—he never took chances when it came to his family.

By the time Ky’Mon arrived at the scene of the kidnapping, that dead bastard had already slipped through a window and vanished.

Ky’Mon didn’t know what horrors his woman had faced, but he knew it was bad.

At the hospital, the doctor told him there was no penetration.

Ky’Mon still didn’t understand why Tiesha flinched at his touch, why she was scared even of him.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, she would wake up crying, alone in the dark.

She wasn’t opening up—not to him, not to Koko, not even to Lowe.

It was like she was trapped behind an invisible wall he couldn’t break down.

Ky’Mon decided it was time to get serious. He took her to a therapist.

He wanted answers. He wanted to fix this.

But Tiesha was stubborn. When they arrived home and he pressed her to go, she shook her head.

“I’m fine, Ky’Mon. I don’t need no therapy,” she said, voice tight.

Ky’Mon rolled his eyes.

“You sure?”

She nodded, but he could tell she was lying.

He let his fingers drift down her thigh, teasing her skin.

She snapped her legs shut like a steel trap.

Her back pressed hard against the wall, so he reached out and gently but firmly spread her legs apart.

“Ky’Mon,” her eyes flashed fear.

He slid his hand inside her underwear, but the moment she started crying and pushed him away, he pulled back.

“Please stop,” she begged, voice breaking.

Ky’Mon sighed and let her go.

He handed her his hoodie and watched as she wrapped it around herself, the oversized fabric swallowing her small frame.

“Car. Now. No arguments,” he ordered.

She gave a reluctant sigh but followed him out the door.

At the hospital, the therapist saw right through them.

After thirty minutes of sessions, she called Ky’Mon in.

“Well, Mr. Bells,” she said, her voice professional but grave, “your wife requires psychodynamic therapy.”

Ky’Mon frowned, crossing his arms.

“She’s suffering from some kind of emotional trauma,” the therapist explained. “She doesn’t know how to express it—or rather, she can’t let go of it. That’s why she’s shut everyone out.”