Page 7 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

He’s curled up in one of the chairs near the edge, arms crossed over his chest like he can fold himself out of existence. Hair a little damp. Fresh bandages on his wrist. Pale. Quiet. Still not looking at me.

So you’re gonna make me come to you, huh?

Fine.

I stride across the room, grab him by the arm—not hard, but firm enough to make his breath catch—and pull him out of the chair.

He stumbles, wide-eyed.

“Down,” I say quietly, nodding to the space beside the chair. “Like a good little mutt.”

He hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough to get me hard, but then he drops. Kneels at my feet like he belongs there.

Test passed.

I drop into the chair like it was made for me—legs spread, cock already stirring behind my fly.

He’s there without needing to be told, right where I want him, kneeling like he’s praying at the altar of a better monster.

My fingers thread through his hair, slow and tight.

I tug, not hard, just enough to make sure he remembers who the fuck holds the leash.

I lean in, voice low, breath hot against his ear.

“You said you wanted this. Said you’d be good. Said you wanted my protection.”

His breathing stutters, lips parting like he’s about to speak but he doesn’t. Smart boy.

I grin, slow and sharp.

“Then act like it.”

His throat works in a swallow. Red flush creeping up his neck, eyes fixed on the floor like it might save him. I feel the tension ripple through him—conflict, need, disgust, and shame. All of it tangled under his skin like wires ready to spark.

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t breathe.

Just stays there.

Silent. Obedient.

Exactly how I like him.

Group starts. One of the counselors—a grey-haired ex-addict with too much empathy and not enough spine—asks if anyone wants to open up.

So I do.

I clear my throat, pat Gabriel’s head, and say, “I think about killing people a lot.”

The room tenses. The counselor doesn’t flinch. Good. Shit , might make progress after all.

“But not the way you think. It’s not rage or impulse control issues or whatever psychobabble you scribble on those little notepads. It’s curiosity.”

I stroke Gabriel’s hair as I talk. Soft. Repetitive. Comforting if it weren’t so fucked up.

“I want to know what makes people scream. What makes them stop fighting. What makes them break. Is it the blade? The begging? Or is it the silence right before they realize you’re not going to stop?”

The room is dead quiet. No one’s breathing. Gabriel hasn’t moved.

“You see, most people don’t wanna admit they like power.” My voice rolls lazy through the circle, but there’s nothing casual about it. “But I do. I fucking love it.”

The room’s still. Tight. The kind of still that says no one’s breathing unless I say they can. I shift in the creaking metal chair, legs spread wide, one hand tangled in Gabriel’s hair where he kneels on the floor in front of me. Head bowed. Spine rigid. Silent like I told him to be.

“I love what power does to people,” I go on, dragging my fingers through the mess of curls at his nape. “How it strips ‘em down. Leaves ‘em twitching, bare. No lies left. No armor. Just the meat of who they really are underneath.”

Across from me, the group counselor—Dr. Harrow, early fifties, weak jaw, stained coffee cup shaking in his grip—clears his throat. “And… do you think that urge is something you’d want to change?”

I don’t even blink. “No.”

Silence. My grin spreads.

“It’s not an urge,” I say slowly, like I’m explaining it to a toddler. “It’s a truth . And unlike the rest of you sad fucks, I’m not afraid to own it.”

One of the other patients lets out a soft whimper, rocking in his chair. Another stares at the floor, chewing on his sleeve like it’s going to save him. The woman next to him mumbles something to herself, fingers twitching in her lap.

But me? I’m relaxed. At home. Gabriel’s body heat against my legs, his shame curling off him like steam.

A soft shuffle echoes as someone adjusts in their seat. Another patient whispers to herself, fingers twisting the hem of her shirt.

“And what if these so-called ‘urges’ aren’t some sickness to fix?

” I let my eyes wander, dragging them across the room, watching the way people flinch when I land on them.

“What if it’s just curiosity? Not some pathology, just a natural itch.

Sure, maybe it’s a little twisted for the glass-jawed and gutless, but for the rest of us?

” I grin. “It’s just... interest. A fascination with the things no one wants to say out loud. ”

Dr. Harrow shifts. His pen finally moves. “Curiosity about… what, exactly?”

I tilt my head. “What people are made of. What they hide. What they’ll do when the rules crack and something worse slips through.” My fingers twitch like I’m drawing it in the air. “I think curiosity’s healthy. Honest. Dangerous, maybe, but real.”

I pause. Let it simmer.

“I like watching people. Poking at them. Seeing what spills out when you press the right spot.” I grin, slow and sharp. “Most people don’t like to admit they’d do anything to stay in control. They fight it. Deny it. But the second you make them kneel, the truth comes out.”

Across the room, one of the patients lets out a whimper and starts rocking. Another chews on his sleeve like it’s going to anchor him. The woman next to him mutters something about fire and God and keeps flinching every time I talk.

But I’m calm. Loose. I run a hand through my hair and glance down at the boy by my side.

Gabriel.

He hasn’t moved. Not since I told him not to.

His posture’s perfect. Still. Silent. But I can see it. The tension in his neck, the way his hands tremble just enough to betray him. He’s ashamed. Maybe scared. But not running. That’s what matters.

Dr. Harrow taps his pen. “And Gabriel?” he asks carefully. “Where does he fit into this… curiosity?”

I chuckle. “He gets it. Don’t you?”

I reach down, fingers curling into his hair like it belongs to me. His head tilts, almost imperceptibly, toward the touch.

“He understands what it means to stop fighting. To lean into the fire instead of running from it. He said he wanted this. Wanted to be protected. And now he is.”

Gabriel swallows. Doesn’t speak.

I let my thumb drag behind his ear, then drop my hand, casual, dismissive.

Dr. Harrow stares at us. He doesn’t write anything down.

“I’m not sick,” I say. “I’m curious. That’s all. You should be thanking me. At least I’m honest about it.”

The room holds its breath.

And me?

I just lean back and smile.

Because Gabriel hasn’t moved.

Because Dr. Harrow won’t stop me.

And because curiosity always gets what it wants.

Eventually.