Page 5 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

GAbrIEL

T he door slams behind me. Metal bolts. Silence swells.

I stare at my hands—blood-specked, trembling, and useless.

His blood. My blood. Dale’s.

Does it even matter?

I sit on the edge of the cot. No—perch, more like it. Like the floor might open up and swallow me whole. I can still hear the washer in my head. Still feel the vibrations from Johnny’s laughter rattling in my bones as they dragged him off like an animal.

But he wasn’t the monster.

Not to me.

Not in that moment.

I press the heel of my hand to my cock, already hard again. Pathetic. Shameful. I don’t know what’s worse, that I didn’t fight back, or that I liked it.

I can still feel the heat of him against me.

His palm. His breath. The blade at my throat.

And his voice. That low, dirty voice curling around my spine like smoke in a locked room.

“You wanna live? Tie yourself to the worst monster in this fucking asylum.”

He touched me like he owned me. And I let him.

I wanted him to.

God, I want him now.

I close my eyes, and his image burns behind my lids.

Tall, coiled in violence, built like a knife wrapped in muscle and madness.

That raven hair—buzzed on the sides, messy on top, looked like he cut it himself with a dull blade.

His neck was wrapped in ink and bruises, veins like cords, and jawline sharp enough to scar.

Those teeth—too white for someone that unholy and always bared in a grin too wide to mean anything sane.

But his eyes?

Fuck.

Dark eyes—bottomless, boiling, and fucking feral. Like spilled ink smeared across a mind that’s never known peace. Looking into them was like falling face-first into a nightmare and begging not to wake up.

I can still smell him. Smoke, sweat, blood, and something darker like death and decay or lightning just before it strikes.

My fingers tremble as I slip them beneath the waistband of my filth covered pants. I’m still sticky from earlier. My cock’s flushed, and angry-looking. It aches like it knows it was promised something and left starving.

I wrap my hand around it, slow. Careful. Like I’m not even sure I have the right.

Shame blooms in my chest. My throat tightens.

I stroke once, twice—slow at first. Remembering the weight of his hand. The way he knew just how to grip me. The way he whispered filth and made it sound like gospel.

“Taste just like you look—desperate.”

I gasp. My head tips back against the wall. My hips twitch forward on instinct, chasing friction like a dog chasing a chain.

I pump faster.

Faster.

My breath hitches with every thought I shouldn’t be having.

The way he looked at me—hungry, possessive. Like I was something he made.

The sound of his voice—low and gleeful, like violence turned him on.

The way his thigh pressed between mine and I didn’t move. The way I moaned when he gripped me tighter, and how it wasn’t out of fear.

I picture his mouth, licking his thumb, sucking my filth from his skin. My filth.

“Filthy little thing…”

I groan, broken. My spine arches off the wall. I’m panting now, chasing the memory of it. Of him.

My thighs clench. I stroke faster, knuckles white. I know I shouldn’t. I know what he is. What he did.

But all I can think about is the way I begged.

“Please… I’ll be good…”

And how he smiled.

I slide my hand up to the head, circling, teasing myself the way he would’ve. My legs shake. My toes curl against the cement floor.

The cot creaks.

I bite down on the collar of my shirt to stop myself from making noise.

But it’s too much.

Too fucking much.

I see his eyes in the dark.

Feel the blade again, cool against my throat, his voice whispering, “Prove it , ” and I do.

I come with a stuttering gasp, hot and helpless. My stomach contracts, muscles trembling as I spill across my own fingers, filthy and alone. Again.

The high is fast.

The shame, faster.

I curl forward, sticky and shaking, heart hammering like it’s trying to outrun the truth.

I wanted it.

Still do.

Not because he saved me.

Not even because he scared me.

But because somewhere between the blood and the blade, Johnny made me feel something that I can’t explain. Something feral. Something real, and I know he’s coming back.

That’s the worst part.

Because when he does?—

I don’t think I’ll stop him.