Page 34 of Asylum (The Wellard Asylum #9)

Trailing my free hand up his chest, my palm comes to rest on his cheek. “Atlas.”

He leans into my touch, and for a fleeting moment, a pang of guilt hits me in the chest.

He’s the broken one.

Not me.

I’m a trauma survivor with mental illnesses, but even with those things working against me, I finally understand who I am. “I was falling in love with you. I was willing to give you everything if you would’ve treated me like a person, and not an experiment.”

He grips my wrist, pulling it away from his face, kissing my palm. “If I were capable of love, Olivia, you would have it all.”

“What is it you feel for me then?” I push.

“Obsession. You occupy every waking thought. I need to know where you are at all times. No one will ever hurt you again.”

I blink. “You’re the only one who hurts me, Atlas.”

It’s his turn to blink, as if confused by my words. “But I enjoy your pain, little doll.”

Pushing up on my tiptoes, I crash my lips to his. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, groaning as I deepen the kiss, pressing myself against his chest.

His kiss used to set my body on fire. In the asylum, I craved his attention, his touch. After I lost my memory, I let myself fall for him again, and the things he made me feel were borderline insanity.

I needed him.

Now, I hate his fucking guts.

I crave his blood.

“Kill him.” Embracing the freedom in her words, it feels as though all my broken pieces are stitched back together, and for the first time in my life, I’m whole.

A phoenix rising from the ashes, the warmth of the smoldering embers building inside me. The pressure becomes heavy, igniting the flames of revenge and retribution. I’m death incarnate, and there’s only one thing left to do.

Let go.

“I’ll enjoy your pain as well, Dr. Stone.

” Taking a step back, I swing the fire poker around my front, plunging it into his abdomen, a squelching sound filling the air between us.

He staggers back, gripping the iron rod with both hands, and I watch as true pain flickers across his face.

I wrap my hand around the poker, ripping it from his gut, chunks of his insides dangling from the hook.

Is that a piece of his liver?

Maybe a bit of his kidney?

He falls to his knees, his hands flying to cover the wound as blood oozes out in a steady stream.

Standing above him, I grip a handful of his perfectly styled hair, slamming my knee into his face.

He howls, and I rear back, the full force of my fist connecting with his nose.

The crunching of his bones is nothing short of satisfying.

Squatting down in front of him, I lift his chin to meet my eyes.

“Do you approve of the person I’ve become, husband ? ”

He’s in excruciating agony, but the crazy bastard grins, his hand lifting to my face. “You’re perfect, little doll.” He coughs, blood spraying from his mouth, leaking down his chin, a crimson trail slowly running down his throat.

A foul smell invades my nostrils, and I realize I’ve punctured his intestines. “Your body is poisoning itself. Should I let you suffer the way you made me suffer? Or should I put you out of your misery?”

He hacks violently, the wheezing and gurgling forcing more blood from his mouth. He collapses onto his stomach, his life force pooling on the floor beneath him. Rising to my feet, I stand over him, the poker still in my hand.

He’s so fucking pathetic.

Turning his head to the side, he stops hacking long enough to stutter out a few words. “I’m s-so proud of y-you.” He attempts to clear his throat but ends up choking on more blood. “If I’m breathing, y-you’ll never be f-free of m-me.”

Even as he lies dying on the floor at my feet, he thinks he’s still in control.

I’m in motherfucking control.

He’s nothing. The big, bad tormentor is just another weak, little bitch, too prideful to admit he’s lost at his own game.

Lifting the fire poker in front of me, I slam it down into the back of his neck, blood spraying my legs and waist from the force of the blow.

I grit my teeth as the iron chafes against my palms, vibration from the impact rattling the small bones in my hands.

Twisting it side to side, I don’t stop until the wound is gaping before pulling it from his neck, tossing it to the floor beside him.

Sinking to my knees, I plop down on my ass next to him as he struggles for one last breath.

How the fuck is he still alive?

Isn’t there something in the neck that kills you instantly if it’s severed?

Stubborn bastard.

While my humanity far surpasses his, I can’t seem to find it in me to console him or give him any inspirational words of hope for the afterlife. There’s no bright light waiting for him at the end of a tunnel. No angels to open a pearly gate, allowing him to live in a pretty garden for all eternity.

Atlas Stone is a fucking monster with a one-way ticket to hell.

The devil himself will light the son-of-a-bitch on fire.

“Olivia,” he breathes my name, his hand reaching for mine. I pull it away before he can touch me, and he grins one last time before expelling his final breath.

I hold my breath, watching him for a few moments, making sure the fucker is really dead. His body is still as a statue, but I press my finger into his cheek just to make sure.

Nothing.

Rolling him onto his back, his chest doesn’t rise or fall, his extremities lying limply at unnatural angles. Pressing two fingers to the pulse point in his neck, I feel nothing.

He’s dead.

It’s finally over.

The uncertainty. The lies. The torture.

It all ended with his last breath, and I can’t help but grin.

I’m fucking free.

I don’t know what the next step will be, but I have a new identity, and with a little investigating, I’m sure I can get my hands on some of Atlas’s money.

The thought crosses my mind to take his phone, and send his black market contact a message.

The only thing stopping me from offering up his organs for a nice payday is the fact no one deserves to have a single piece of him in their body.

Everything about Atlas Stone is infectious and rotten.

Pushing myself up from the floor, I wince at my stinging palms and aching head. The voice is quiet now, satiated by the death of its enemy.

I’m in desperate need of a shower, covered in blood and his cum. I’m headed that way until my stomach growls, steering my body towards the kitchen.

I’ll deal with him later.

I’m in the mood for a sandwich.