Page 14 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)
S omething’s off.
Not just a little off. Not just quirky-Gabriel-might’ve-skipped-his-pills off.
No—this is wrong .
It starts with the twitch.
Barely a flick of his fingers. But I see it.
I always fucking see it.
Gabriel’s holding his tray like it might bite him. Like the plastic is lined with glass shards and regret. Like he’s afraid if he loosens his grip, everything he’s been holding in will come spilling out in front of everyone.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at anyone . Just stares at the pale lump of something that’s supposed to be potatoes, shoulders hunched, and eyes hollow.
I hum as I chew. Slow. Methodical. Letting my molars grind too long on the shriveled meat puck they’re calling sausage today. Saltless. Flavorless. But it gives me something to crush while I watch my favorite little puppet unravel in silence.
Because something’s festering. I can smell it.
And maybe I’ve been a little distracted.
Haven’t fucked with Gold in days. Haven’t needed to.
Our little trade deal? On hold. He can keep his lukewarm bribes and pathetic table scraps.
I’ve got something better now. Softer. Sweeter.
Gabriel’s been emptying my nuts just fine, and he doesn’t try to talk after.
Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make it complicated.
Until now.
Now he’s quiet in the wrong ways. Sitting too still. Breathing too soft. Eyes too wide.
And I don’t like it.
He’s hiding.
And I don’t like games I didn’t start.
Not with him .
The sweet little rat’s got his tail dragging through red paint, leaving streaks behind him like he wants me to notice. Wants me to chase.
Oh, I’ll chase.
He flinches when Ziggy walks past.
That —that’s new.
Ziggy doesn’t even look at him. Just laughs too loud at something one of the orderlies said and breezes past our table like he doesn’t remember face-fucking my toy two nights ago. But Gabriel remembers.
Oh, he fucking remembers.
Used to be he only flinched for me .
Now he flinches for Ziggy. For Halstead. For the ghosts buzzing behind his eyes that I didn’t put there.
But not for me.
Never for me, and that’s a problem.
My lips twitch into a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
Looks like I broke my toy a little too well.
Guess it’s time to see what’s rattling inside.
And if I don’t like what I find?
Well…
We can always start over.
He’s on the floor again.
Door cracked just enough to show me his silhouette hunched in the dark like some broken marionette. He thinks no one’s watching.
He thinks wrong.
I slip in quiet. Don’t say a word. Just lean against the frame, watching my little puppet twitch and scribble with fevered hands. That sketchpad of his, clutched like it’s gospel. Or maybe confession. Sweat slicks the back of his neck, hair matted like he’s been at this for hours.
The air stinks of fear.
Not piss-your-pants fear. No, this one’s guilt-shaped —ripe and sour, coiled behind his ribs like something rotting. I’d know. I bottled it once.
I shut the door with a soft click .
He flinches like a kicked dog.
“Missed group,” I say, voice syrup-slick and smiling. “That hurt my feelings.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look up.
Oh, this is rich.
I walk over and plant myself on the edge of the bed, legs spread, laying back as I support myself on my elbows. I’m close enough to touch him. Close enough to bite.
At first, he doesn’t move.
Until he does.
Slow. Careful. Like approaching a wild animal with blood on its breath.
He crawls toward me.
Hands trembling. Breathing shallow. Doesn’t say a damn word. He doesn’t have to . His head bows as he reaches me, forehead resting against my knee. And for a moment… I just watch.
Because goddamn this is fantastic.
He’s not doing this to please me, he’s doing it to remind me.
Our deal.
He’s mine. I protect what’s mine.
Which means someone made him feel unsafe.
Which means someone’s about to bleed, and thank fuck cause I’ve been itching to draw some blood.
And then without a word, his fingers ghost over my thigh.
Voluntary .
Unprovoked .
I tilt my head, amused. “Well, well… that’s new.”
He palms me through my pants like he’s done it a hundred times. But he hasn’t. Not like this. Not on his knees. Not unprompted. Not shaking like that.
This ain’t obedience.
It’s desperation, and desperation always means one thing: something happened.
I watch him. Still. Curious. Hungry. He presses his mouth to the outline of my cock, and I swear his breath hitches like it’s holy. Like he’s begging without words. Begging to remind me of the deal.
He gives me everything. I keep him safe.
He’s never started it before. Never touched me without being told. Which means this?
This is a signal. A distress flare with spit and silence.
Something’s wrong.
I spread my legs wider. Don’t say a word. Just let him do it.
His hands slip under my waistband and pull me out. My cock springs free into the dark.
Thick. Heavy. Already hard from the sight of him kneeling. His mouth parts, pink and pretty, and he wraps his lips around the head like he’s starving.
Holy fuck.
I hiss. Grip his hair. Force his eyes up to mine.
“There he is,” I croon, voice gone rough. “My filthy little puppet. Sucking cock like he needs it. Look at you on your knees like a born whore.”
He moans around me. Not from pleasure—no, this is guilt. This is self-punishment.
And I let him drown in it.
His tongue slides under the shaft, licking like he’s trying to erase a sin. His throat works as he sucks deeper, trying to impress me. Or maybe appease me. Maybe both.
“You think this makes it better?” I growl. “Think I won’t find out what happened just because you’re being such a good little cum-sleeve?”
He whimpers.
I thrust forward, slow and shallow, until I feel the gag. His throat contracts. His eyes water.
He doesn’t stop. He knows better .
“Fuck. That’s it. Take it. You want protection, don’t you? You want Daddy to keep you safe?”
His hands are trembling now, gripping my thighs like they’re lifelines. I force his head down, let his nose press to my skin, let him choke a little on it. Let him feel just how deep this lie runs.
“Good boy,” I murmur darkly, hips flexing. “Goddamn good little cocksleeve. Bet you’d let anyone do this to you if it meant they’d keep the monsters away.”
He shakes his head, eyes wild. Denying it even as his lips stay locked around my cock.
I laugh. Sharp. Cold.
“Too late for that.”
My climax hits fast. Hard. A rush of heat that knots in my gut and rips through me in pulses.
I hold him still. Make him take it. Watch his throat twitch as he swallows every drop like the obedient little pet he’s trying to be.
When I’m done, I pull away. Wet pop. His lips are red and spit-slick, his eyes rimmed in tears, and he looks up at me like he’s waiting for a verdict.
I tuck myself away and crouch in front of him.
“Now,” I say, voice low and tight. “Tell me what the fuck happened.”
He hesitates.
Wrong move.
My hand slams into the wall beside his face. He flinches.
“I swear to god, if you lie to me—” I grab him by the face, thumb digging into one cheek, fingers grinding into the other. “Tell me who touched what belongs to me.”
“I-I didn’t think—I thought I could—he tried to touch me…after meds—he-he grabbed me, said he wanted to see— what you see. ”
My grip tightens.
“He said if he touched me, it’d be like touching a part of you.”
I go still.
Then I laugh.
Low. Cold. The kind of laugh that makes people flinch.
“Poor bastard,” I whisper. “Didn’t know he was writing his own fucking obituary.”
Gabriel sobs. I shove him back, standing fast.
“You don’t ever— ever —keep that shit from me,” I hiss, pacing like a loaded gun. “If someone so much as breathes in your direction, I want names. I want details. I want to know how hard I need to swing.”
He’s still kneeling. Still trembling.
Still hard.
I grin.
“Pathetic,” I mutter. “Look at you. Crying, begging, and still rock-fucking-hard. You’re broken, baby bird. And I like you that way. I’ll be back,” I say, cracking my neck as I head for the door.
Gabriel whimpers something behind me. I don’t catch it. Don’t fucking care.
Because all I can see now is Gold.
And all I want is to carve my name into his fucking spine.