Page 10 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

“The possession of a soul is far more seductive than the possession of a body.”

— Sylvia Plath

“ T hey used to call it the Devil’s Fork,” Gabriel says, his voice low, like he’s trying to trick the memory into coming out clean. “Where I grew up. Two highways splitting through nowhere, crossing like they were arguing about which direction would leave faster.”

The circle stays quiet, that forced kind of still that reeks of prescription fog and padded shame. I hear someone sniff. Someone else scribbles. But nobody really listens.

Except me.

I fucking devour it.

Gabriel’s got that faraway stare again. The one where his eyes gloss over like they’re watching ghosts.

He twists the hem of his sleeve, knuckles pale.

“At night, you could hear them—semis, mostly. Big ones. Always going fast. Too fast. And my brother, he—” His voice cracks, and he swallows.

“He used to dare me to cross when they came. Said if I didn’t flinch, it meant I was brave enough to leave. ”

Goddamn. You can practically hear the trauma jerking itself off behind his teeth.

And me?

I’m hard.

Because that’s the thing about boys like him. Soft boys. Ruined boys. They carry their pain like roadkill slung over their shoulders. They want someone to help them drop it. Want someone mean enough, unholy enough, to rip the rot out of them and fuck the hole clean.

And that’s me.

That’s always been me.

Group ends the way it always does—chairs scraping like bones, eyes scattering like roaches. Dr. Harrow mutters some half-dead farewell, and the rats all run. But Gabriel doesn’t glance my way.

He never does.

He just floats toward the east hall, to that spot where the cameras go blind and the hallway hums with electricity and dread. The place that smells like something feral was once chained there, and maybe still is.

I trail him.

Silent.

Smiling.

When he slips into his room, I catch the door before it clicks. Ease it open and step inside, smooth and slow like smoke.

He startles but doesn't scream. Doesn't run.

Of course he doesn’t.

He’s been waiting for this.

Just like me.

I close the door. Let it whisper shut. Let the moment stretch like a garrote.

“Pretty story today,” I purr, voice thick with honey and venom. “The highway. The brother. The trucks like steel-toothed monsters.”

He turns toward me, but only a little. Shoulders hunched, lip caught between his teeth like he’s trying to chew the panic down before I can smell it.

Too late.

“I liked the part where you almost died,” I add, stepping forward. “That flinch test? Mmm. Got me all warm and fuzzy. Bet you’d pass mine too.”

He backs up a step.

I keep coming.

“C’mon, baby,” I coax, voice dipped in a predator’s croon. “You want to feel better, don’t you? You want that ache in your ribs to go quiet? Want someone to shut off the traffic in your head?”

He shivers.

“I can do that.”

My palm finds the side of his face. It’s warm, damp, trembling.

“You just gotta kneel for me, sweet thing. Let it all go. All that pain, all that noise. Let it drip down your throat.”

He swallows. Hard.

“Good boy,” I breathe, already tugging the waistband of my track pants down. “Now let me hear what silence tastes like.”

He hesitates for half a breath, then drops.

Fuck.

There’s something about it. The sight of him—knees spread on filthy tile, lips pink and trembling, eyes gone glassy like he’s already halfway gone. Pliant. Frightened. Obedient. Like he’s waiting for slaughter or salvation.

Same fucking difference.

I curl my fingers into the back of his hair, twisting tight until his scalp strains.

He gasps, and I lean close, voice syrupy-slick with something foul beneath it.

“Bet you were thinking about this all through group, weren’t you, sweetheart?

Talking about highways and loneliness and mama’s pills, when what you really wanted was to be right here, gagging on my cock like a good little escape plan. ”

He lets out a shaky breath, lips parting like he wants to deny it.

Too late.

I drive forward, no warning. No mercy. Just a hard, wet shove between his lips. His throat clenches around me, a strangled noise catching in his chest as I bottom out.

Fuck.

He’s tight. Warm. Perfect.

I start slow. Shallow thrusts. Just enough to make him drool. Just enough to hear him gag when I press against the back of his throat. His lashes flutter, eyes watering beautifully. His hands twitch on his thighs, almost like he’s praying.

Then I see it. That flick of movement.

His hand, inching toward his cock.

“Ah-ah,” I growl, slamming my foot down against his wrist—not enough to snap it, just enough to make him think twice next time. “This isn’t for you, mutt. This is for me.”

He groans, chokes, moans around me, and fuck, that sound?

It wrecks me.

I snap my hips, bury myself deeper. Grip his curls tighter. Start fucking his face the way you’d wreck a gift you know you’re not supposed to keep. Rough. Unforgiving. Watching him fall apart.

Drool pours down his chin. His throat spasms again and again, spit-glossed and raw from the stretch.

He takes it.

All of it.

I pull out right before I snap, his jaw hanging open, breath rasping, strings of spit still connecting us. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Mine.

“Up,” I bark, and he scrambles to his feet, unsteady, dizzy from lack of air.

I don’t wait.

I shove him face-first onto the bed, grabbing at the waistband of his tracks. Yank it down rough. Mine drop next. Nothing left between us but heat, breath and the filthy promise of what comes next.

He glances back, wide-eyed. Vulnerable.

Perfect.

“Scared?” I murmur, stepping behind him, cock hard and leaking, eyes dragging over the bare curve of his ass as he trembles on his elbows. “You should be.”

I spit. Let it drip between his cheeks and watch it slide down his hole like a filthy promise. Then I scan the room, and spot the thing tucked half under his bed: a plastic hospital hairbrush. Handle thick and rounded. It’s white.

Not for long.

I snatch it up and twist the brush head off. The hollow handle glints under the fluorescents, sterile enough. Depraved enough.

“Spread those pretty cheeks for me,” I say, voice low, deranged sugar. “You wanna be a good boy, right? Wanna make Daddy proud?”

He flinches. Whimpers.

But he obeys.

I kneel. Spit again. Slather the end of the handle, then press it to his hole. He gasps, sharp and high but doesn’t pull away.

“That’s it,” I croon. “Open up for me.”

The handle pops past the ring of muscle, and he cries out. His whole body jerks like a broken wire. I shove it deeper. Twist. Pull it out just enough to push it back in with a wet sound that makes my spine shudder.

“Stroke yourself,” I snarl. “Now.”

His hand flies to his cock, and fuck if that isn’t the prettiest thing I’ve seen all week—him jerking himself with one hand while I ruin him with a fucking brush handle. His thighs are trembling. His toes curl against the tile.

“Filthy little mutt,” I hiss, thrusting the handle harder. “Getting off on being used. Getting off on being nothing but a hole for me to fill.”

He gasps. Moans. His hips rock back like he’s chasing it, like he needs it.

I lean in, biting the shell of his ear. “You wanna cum? Then beg for it. Beg while I fuck you like the broken little thing you are.”

He sobs, voice ragged, desperate. “Please, Johnny—please, I need it, I need you, just—fuck—don’t stop, please don’t stop?—”

God, he’s fucking perfect, and now?

Now he’s finally fucking ready for me.

I spit into my palm. Slick myself. One hand on the small of his back, the other in his hair, I slam inside him with no warning.

He screams, but I groan.

Fuck he’s tight. So hot. So fucking perfect.

His whole body seizes and bucks, fists gripping the sheets. I press down, pinning him with my weight as I start to move, slow at first, letting him feel every inch stretch and split him. Then harder.

Rougher.

No rhythm, no mercy. Just noise. Slapping skin. Guttural sounds. The squeak of the bed against the floor. My breath in his ear.

“You feel that?” I snarl. “That’s what you’re made for. That’s what you’re good for.”

He moans. His cock bobs against the mattress, leaking. His hand creeps toward it again, desperate.

“Go on,” I allow. “Stroke it. Show me how much you like being used.”

He obeys.

His hips jerk in time with mine. I tug his head back by the hair, biting at his throat, rutting into him so hard his breath comes out as a whimper.

“Mine,” I growl. “Fucking mine.”

I see the way his back arches. The way he gasps like he’s ashamed of liking it, but the slick sounds beneath us don’t lie. Neither does the way his thighs start to shake.

I reach around, stroke him once, twice, and he comes hard, gasping my name like a prayer.

I don’t stop.

I fuck him through it, feel him shudder and jolt. My nails dig into his hips. My vision goes white around the edges. When I finally cum, I sink deep, gritting out a snarl against the back of his neck.

We stay like that for a long second.

Breathing.

Bleeding into each other.

Then I pull out and slap his ass. He collapses on the mattress, dazed, and wrecked with tears still staining his flushed cheeks.

I lean down, lips against his temple.

“Freedom’s coming,” I whisper, voice syrup-slick with promise and rot. “You remember what I said. We’re leaving this place. You and me. No cameras. No rules. Just you, me and the rest of your life at the end of my leash.”

Gabriel stares at me, skin flushed and trembling, lips bitten to shreds like he’s trying to gnaw through the reality I’m dragging him into.

“But… how?” he rasps.

I smile.

Wide. Crooked. A grin you don’t walk away from.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’ve already started. You just don’t know it yet.”

He swallows. His voice is barely there. “Started what?”

“Your session today,” I purr, brushing hair off his clammy forehead. “It’s private, right? One-on-one, just you and Harrow. He trusts you. They all think you’re safe. Sweet . Broken in all the right ways.”

His eyes widen, lashes fluttering. I can see the panic swelling behind them.

“Don’t look so shocked. You told me, remember? Group, two weeks ago. Said he keeps ‘checking in’ on you. Asked about your dreams. Your precious little sketches. Said he worries about you. That’s not worry, baby. That’s a door.”

I lean in, lips brushing his cheek. “So you’re gonna use it. Slide in deeper. Let him think he’s cracked you open.”

He shakes his head, but it’s weak. No conviction. Just fear.

I grab his face, make him look at me. “And when the time is right, you’re gonna steal his keycard.”

His breath catches. “Johnny?—”

“Shhh.” I kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’ll distract him. Cry a little. Touch his hand. Say you’re scared. Say you don’t want to be alone anymore. Then when his back’s turned? You take it.”

I run my thumb along his jaw, watching him unravel.

“And then you give it to me.”

He flinches. “And if I get caught?”

I laugh, low and sweet and vicious. “Then you better hope they lock you in deeper than I can crawl, pretty toy. Because if they throw you in lockdown, where I can’t reach you for weeks, I’ll make sure the next time I stretch you open, you won’t be walking away after.”

He goes pale. I stroke his cheek.

“But if you do it right…” I hum. “Then we’re gone. Just like that. You, me, a back gate, and whatever comes after.”

He nods. A single, slow motion like surrender. Like offering his throat to the knife.

“I’ll do it,” he whispers. “I’ll get it. Just—just promise me?—”

I grip his face harder. Force him to see the truth in mine.

“I’ll never leave you,” I say, voice laced with twisted devotion. “You’re mine now, Gabriel. My favorite fucking toy.”