Page 12 of Exposed (The Wellard Asylum #1)

T he door flings open; my throat cinches shut.

Dr. Ambrose bounds into the room, his boots stomping on the tile.

His sallow eyes leer down at me, making my skin crawl, and his ponytail dangles down his back.

He lifts his hooked nose as if I’m foul trash stuck to the bottom of his boots, as if he can see the decay ripening inside of me.

Goosebumps prickle over my skin, and my clit throbs for his cruel touch. He’s disgusting. I don’t understand why my body reacts to him like this.

It’s not him. It’s the situation, I tell myself. You’d like this even if Benji was the one doing it.

Benji would never do this though. No matter how much I beg, he will never manipulate my body with a brutal tongue and dirt-caked fingernails.

Why are Dr. Ambrose’s hands always filthy?

And why do I like it?

“Thank you, Benji,” Dr. Ambrose says with a tone oozing with control. His gaze locks me in place. “I will contact you when the tests are over.”

Benji startles. “Wait a minute. I?—”

The assistant returns and shoves Benji out of the room. The door closes behind them, leaving Dr. Ambrose and me completely alone. To do tests.

A fluttery emptiness expands in my stomach. His gaze flickers over my naked form, his cold eyes lingering between my legs. He unlocks the restraints on my wrists; his rough, scarred hands send chills across my arms.

He steps away. The space between us is solid. I rub my wrists. The flesh is tender, slightly bruised from the constant contact with the restraints.

A thought pierces my mind, and my pussy constricts.

Dr. Ambrose has fingered—no, not just fingered—he’s fisted me. Punched my cervix. Tasted my holes. Exposed me. Why is some sick part of me excited by the potential of his “tests”?

He removes a folder sticking out of the filing cabinet, and a smirk spreads across his lips. I redden. Can he sense my vaginal muscles contracting right now?

I scowl. Even if I secretly like what he does for me sexually, I know who he is and what he did to my mother. And he will pay for it.

But why is he smiling? Is he laughing at me?

“Wh—” The tube in my cheek stops my words.

“Stand up,” he says.

The command sends an electric current through me, heat incinerating my core. I’m instantly on my feet. A slight tremble creeps through my legs, and a pleasing ache forms in my rib cage, licking at me like the flames of a fire.

It’s not because of him, I tell myself. It’s because he forces me. Because he doesn’t give me a choice. And it’s easier when I obey.

That’s not the full truth though. My thoughts go empty when I’m around him. And it’s not just his actions. It’s? —

“Listen to me carefully now,” he murmurs. “Open the door and follow my directions.”

His words tickle my skin, and my nipples peak. I walk forward with bare feet across the muck-caked tiles. I open the door.

“Keep moving,” Dr. Ambrose orders. My pussy tightens. He leans closer as he walks, keeping his words between us. “You’re excited for your next test, aren’t you?”

The acid tube in my mouth keeps me quiet, reminding me I only have to wait a little while longer. You’re the one who’s excited to torture an innocent person, you sick bastard!

He touches my shoulder, guiding me; tendrils of desire simmer from his fingers and capture my stomach. My brain whirls in a million directions. What could possibly be the next test? What will he expose now?

As we walk down the hallways, we pass doctors in lab coats and patients in various states of undress and stained gowns.

Guards swing batons, and though a kind nurse seems to smile at me, she turns her back as soon as she sees Dr. Ambrose.

The lighting is dim, and it’s like being trapped in the center of a cornfield where each direction seems to go on forever.

I can’t tell where the asylum begins and ends.

Helplessness crawls in my temples, a cry buried in the back of my throat. Will I ever be able to leave this place?

“Stop here,” Dr. Ambrose says.

We stand in front of a closed door. As Dr. Ambrose unlocks it, a shiver rakes over me. I wrap my arms around myself. The acid tube dances across my tongue, comforting me, giving me purpose.

Dr. Ambrose opens the door. Darkness crowds the stairwell, and moisture is heavy in the air. As we descend, the stairs creak. I rub my arms to fight off the cold. Dr. Ambrose nudges me deeper underground.

We finally reach the bottom of the stairs. A few dim red lights illuminate the area above us; I can’t see much else. Dr. Ambrose moves me by my shoulder until I must be standing in the middle of the room.

He lets go.

I hug myself tighter. His boots thump across the floor, and I shuffle my feet, staying in place. The floor is scummy like the exam room. It must be unkempt down here too.

A single lightbulb flickers on, glowing with amber wires, the glass covered in a dusty film. The fixture dangles from the ceiling, creating a shadow across Dr. Ambrose. Wasn’t he carrying a file folder with him? Where did it go?

A harsh shadow casts over his bulge. He’s got an erection already. I gnaw on my bottom lip. To be honest, I’m turned on too.

My eyes adjust to the lighting. There’s a darker space, a tunnel maybe, in the back corner, and I realize the red glowing lights are cameras stationed in each corner with another device aimed at the stairwell.

A metal o-ring hangs from the back wall, and I imagine a metal leash attached to it, chaining someone. Chaining me.

As Dr. Ambrose circles me, his black boots thud on the floor. No. Think. Plan. There’s a vial in your mouth. Search for other weapons.

I move the acid tube, hiding it under my tongue. As long as I don’t speak, it’ll be invisible, and I can hide it once he’s distracted.

Dr. Ambrose drinks in every inch of me, searing my insides, and those thoughts of revenge dissipate from my brain.

No. Stay focused. What else can help me kill him?

There’s a drain a few feet away from us, and in the other corner, there’s a sink and a showerhead. There’s also a deep claw-foot bathtub covered with a small tarp and a metal shower hose attached to it.

The hose. If the hose comes off, the metal shower head will be sturdy enough to hurt him.

My attention falls to the floor, and I latch onto his boots. Wait—is it typical for a doctor to wear boots in a place like this? Obviously, he’s not a normal doctor, but shouldn’t he be at least wearing sneakers or something more comfortable?

He must be wearing the boots to intimidate me. A monster in a lab coat.

“And now, we will determine the depth of your perversions,” he says in a low voice.

The hairs on my arms stand on end, as if reaching for him. My legs twitch, and my body throbs as if it can’t remember he raped, impregnated, and killed my mother.

If I kill him, I’ll have justice. Revenge. Closure.

And he won’t turn me on anymore.