Page 2 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

Gabriel moves fast, head down, shoulders tight, disappearing into the maze of flickering hallways like a little rabbit trying not to get caught.

But I know this place better. I know the rhythm.

The routine. The way the staff rotate meds, the corners without cameras, the vents that whistle when you breathe too loud near them.

I stay back, just far enough to be unseen. Just close enough to hear the way his breath hitches when he pauses at his room.

He goes inside quick. Doesn’t turn on the light. Thinks that’ll make him invisible. It doesn’t.

Through the crack in the door, I see him grab a towel, plain white, worn thin. A pair of the standard-issue boxer briefs. Bar soap. That sketchbook, though? He leaves it behind. That tells me everything.

He thinks he’s lost me. Poor little fucker actually believes he’s alone. Safe.

Cute.

I duck behind a maintenance cart when he slips back into the hallway and makes for the showers. His pace is steady, but his fingers twitch at the towel. Like they know I’m watching. Like they feel it, and when he rounds the corner to the shower block, I give him a full ten seconds.

Ten.

Then I move.

Like smoke. Barefoot, silent, sliding between walls that sweat.

The air’s thicker here—hot, damp, and heavy with mildew and bleach. A single bulb buzzes overhead. I push the door open just enough to slip inside without a sound.

He waits until the others clear out like that’s gonna save him. Smart? Maybe. But not smart enough. Lotta freaks in this place who’ll shank you, choke you out, hell—bend you over and make you scream just to feel something. But none of ’em are me.

I’m the monster they check under their beds for.

The lunatic they whisper about when the meds kick in.

I’m the reason they don’t sleep. So while Gabriel’s busy thinking he dodged danger, all he did was hand it a fucking invitation.

Cleared the room just for me. Gave me the perfect view, the perfect silence, the perfect chance to take what I want.

And when I want something? There’s not a single fuck in this asylum, in this world, that can stop me.

He strips slow. Delicate. Like he thinks no one’s watching. Skin pale and smooth, untouched by sunlight. A few purple blooms across his ribs—fresh. Intake probably roughed him up. Doesn’t matter. He’s still pretty. Pretty in that weak, helpless kind of way.

My favorite kind.

He turns under the water, spine arching, and that perfect little ass bounces with each step. Round, tight. My throat dries out just watching it. My fingers curl into a fist, then slide into my waistband slowly, like I’ve got all the time in the world to enjoy this.

He doesn’t know I’m here. Doesn’t know I’m watching.

My hand works slowly, greedily, like it’s starved for him.

Fingers curl tight around myself, each stroke a silent, snarling prayer to whatever sick god made something that pretty walk into my world.

It’s not enough. Not nearly fucking enough.

I need more. Need his whimpers, his tears, that desperate noise he’d make when I finally?—

I groan low, throat tight.

“Fuck,” I whisper through my teeth, eyes locked on him like I could peel his skin with a stare. “That’s it, baby… keep teasing yourself like you’re not dying for it.”

My grip shifts, faster now. Harder. I can feel it rising, like a beast crawling up my spine, chewing through reason. My palm is slick with sweat, my body strung tight like wire. Every nerve is on fire. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it just to stay quiet.

But inside?

Inside I’m a riot.

Craving. Devouring. My mind painting a thousand filth-soaked images of him on his knees, his lips red and ruined, throat raw from screaming my name like it’s salvation and damnation all at once.

“Can’t wait to ruin that mouth,” I hiss, just for me. “Make you gag on it till your eyes roll back. That’s what you’re made for, isn’t it, cum puppet?”

The name tastes good on my tongue. Filthy. Final. True.

He rubs a hand down his hip, tipping his head back. His chest rises. Lips part slightly, like a gasp is trapped somewhere deep. My eyes drink him in. My hand strokes slower. Cruel. Controlled. The longer I wait, the sweeter it’ll be.

He thinks the steam hides him. Like mist can save him from a storm already inside the room.

Cute.

He moves like prey—cautious, twitchy, trying to disappear under the hiss of hot water. But I see him. I always see him. Those soft muscles begging to be bruised. That perfect neck, exposed like he’s daring someone to grab it and squeeze.

He doesn’t even know he’s already mine.

I wonder what kind of sound he’d make if I pressed his face to the tile.

If I whispered into his ear how many ways I’ve imagined slowly breaking him open.

Pretty boys like him always cry the best. The kind of sobs that choke mid-breath, all wet and pleading.

The kind of noise that says, I wasn’t built for this. And that’s exactly why I’ll do it.

That little twitch of his thighs. The way his breath stutters when the water runs down his spine. Gabriel isn’t clean. He never has been. Not since I saw him. Not since I claimed him, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

“Keep pretending, pretty boy. Keep washing like you’re clean. Like your hole doesn’t throb every time you think about getting ruined. I see it. I fucking feel it. The more you hate yourself, the harder I get.”

Then he turns—sudden, sharp. Eyes catch mine, just for a beat... then drop. Right to my cock. And there it is.

That moment. The crack in reality. He doesn’t move. Fucker doesn’t even make a sound. He just stares, caught like a scared little rabbit in a snare.

But he’s not scared. Not really. It’s his body that betrays him.

And it’s fucking perfect.

A twitch. Barely there. But I see it. I always see it. The way his cock starts to stir—slow and stupid, like it hasn’t caught up with the rest of him. Like it doesn’t care that I’m a monster, only that I’m watching .

“You getting hard for me, pretty boy?” I whisper, tongue dragging over my teeth. “Didn’t take much, did it?”

His hand shifts, like he’s debating whether to touch himself or hide. Pathetic. Beautiful. My fist tightens around my own cock, jerking harder now, rougher, feeding off the shame twisting his pretty little face.

That’s the thing—he knows . Knows I see it. Knows he should run. But instead, he stands there, letting his cock rise like it wants to be caught. Touched. Used .

“Oh, you filthy little puppet,” I growl under my breath, grinning like the devil himself. “You like what you see, don’t you? Yeah, I bet you do. Don’t worry, you’re gonna choke on it soon enough. Gag and moan on it. Bet you’ll even fucking thank me for it too.”

His eyes snap up again, locking with mine, and the second I see the panic and heat blur together in his pupils, I fucking lose it.

My grip tightens. Muscles flex. Breath stutters like a broken laugh caught in my throat.

It’s not just release—it’s possession . I watch him, cock standing there like a dirty little confession, and I pump mine harder, faster, my spine scraping against the tile, my teeth clenched so tight I swear I taste blood.

“Yeah, that’s it. Watch me, mutt. Watch what you fucking do to me.”

My eyes don’t leave his. Not for a second.

“Fuck…” I grunt, voice rough and hungry. “That tight little ass of yours’s gonna feel so goddamn good when I bury this cock inside it. You’re gonna scream, aren’t you?”

My pace doesn’t slow. I pump harder, watching the way his eyes widen, how his lips part—shocked, flushed, trembling.

“Gonna fuck you slow the first time,” I snarl. “Make you feel every inch. Let you sob on my dick like a good little toy. Then I’ll break you in. Ruin that hole till it remembers me.”

My breath stutters. I spit. Grip tighter.

“You watching this, pretty toy? This’s what you do to me. Just standing there like you don’t want it. Like your cock didn’t twitch when I caught you lookin’. Like you wouldn’t moan when I stretch you open and fuck the fight outta you.”

And then I cum.

Snarling, teeth bared, hips jerking into my fist like I’m already inside him. The mess hits tile—hot, filthy, obscene, and I don’t stop grinning, and the whole time— he fucking watches .

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

Just stands there, wet and trembling, cock half-hard, breath hitching like maybe—just maybe—he liked it.

I don’t say anything. Don’t need to. The look I give him says it all.

You’re mine now, puppet.

He bolts. Grabs his towel, nearly trips on it. Runs like hell.

But it’s too fucking late.

Good. Let him run.

Let him lie to himself. Pretend he hated it.

Because next time I cum?

It’s gonna be with that tight little hole split wide around my cock, his cheeks soaked, and that broken, needy moan trembling so deep I’ll feel it clench through his guts while I fuck him like he was made for it.

Because even that pretty toy knows he was made for this. To be stretched, filled up, and fucking owned.