Page 17 of Exposed (The Wellard Asylum #1)

D r. Ambrose stands in front of the bathtub, smirking down at me. I wrap my arms over my chest. Heat cascades through my blood vessels; his attention warms me as he studies my every move, like I’m an organism under a microscope. A thing he knows he created.

I have to do this, I think. I have to.

I can’t let him live.

I can’t ? —

“Your boyfriend will assist you in gathering your essentials for a longer stay at the asylum,” he says.

My boyfriend?

Right. He means Benji.

My mouth goes dry; my throat aches. Why is it disappointing I’ll be leaving Dr. Ambrose, even for a short time?

I’m disappointed because leaving him means I haven’t killed him yet. It’s not about him ? —

“You trust me to leave this place?” I ask, my tone weak. I grimace. Why do I sound so pathetic?

A grin pulls the corners of his lips. “You’ll be back.”

Goosebumps erupt over my skin, a mix of disgust and desire radiating from my core and pushing to my outer flesh. Maybe this is a test to see how far I’ll go to resist him.

But what if I don’t want to leave?

I shake my head. This is ridiculous. I’m not here because of Dr. Ambrose. I’m here because I’m supposed to kill him.

But what if he wanted me all along? What if?—

I grit my teeth and suppress a grunt. Dr. Ambrose purses his lips, his eyes fixed on me. My stomach clenches. Damn it, I like that he notices everything about me, but I need to say enough to get out of this bathtub without him realizing the shower head is behind my back.

“A longer stay? Wh-what will I need?” I say. I need to say something. Anything. “Clothes? Books?”

“Essentials, my dear. You won’t need books or clothes while we reprogram your intellectual training. If you were previously on medications, you may collect those. I always support the prescriptions of my fellow doctors.”

His grin widens, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Does this mean he wants to take care of me now?

I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants my prescriptions in order to control my physical health.

He probably gets off on the idea of controlling someone in that way, and that’s terrifying.

Because that means he desires me.

And I desire him too.

What is wrong with me?

There’s nothing wrong with me, I tell myself.

I’m just being manipulated by a psychopathic, fake doctor who wants to do terrible things to me.

And I can use this situation to my advantage.

I don’t take any medications, but if the acid and blunt force trauma don’t work, I have a small pocketknife I’ve been sharpening.

And if that doesn’t work, I have pills filled with rat poison.

I can tell him it’s part of my medication, a pill I only take when symptoms occur, and I can find a way to feed it to him.

If I kill Dr. Ambrose, then my thoughts—my desires for him—won’t matter. He deserves to die.

Doesn’t he?

“Think of this as a chance to say a proper goodbye to your boyfriend,” he murmurs.

My boyfriend? How do I keep forgetting Benji? And what exactly does he mean by a proper goodbye?

I lean back. The shower head digs into my spine. This isn’t a goodbye for me. This is goodbye for Dr. Ambrose.

My voice trembles: “H-how long will I be staying here?”

“Indefinitely.”

My heart rate drops lower and lower, until I’m so weak, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pick myself up again. The metal shower head rubs against my back, irritating the skin; I don’t adjust myself. It reminds me of my goal.

I ball my fists until my knuckles blanch.

Even if Dr. Ambrose has been watching me for years, even if he’s always wanted me, even if he always planned to take me back—he’s still an abusive, murdering creep who will abuse me mentally, emotionally, physically, and sexually until I die if I let him live. And if I don’t do this?

The asylum will keep calling me back.

“What about my job?” I ask, stalling. “I need to notify?—”

“You were fired due to perversions, my dear. You abandoned your duties all for the hope you could finally find satisfaction, just like your mother.”

My face reddens. I forgot Benji lied to Dr. Ambrose, telling him I was masturbating on the job, that my sexual obsessions were taking over my life.

Maybe that wasn’t a complete lie. Maybe my obsession has taken over my life. I’m here, after all, rationalizing my desire to keep following Dr. Ambrose down this black hole.

Maybe Dr. Ambrose always knew I would end up under his control, just like my mother.

He gave her so much attention. He even impregnated her.

Why did he do that?

Why does that upset me?

Why do I want him to like me more than her?

Tears well in my eyes; my throat pangs. I’m so fucking confused.

His nostrils flare. “You need this more than you realize, my sweet one.”

My sweet one?

It’s like I’m really his daughter, and it leaves me breathless.

It’s derogatory, being called “sweet one,” a childish pet name when I’m in my mid-twenties, and yet my core is tender, lust sweeping across my skull, mashing every rational thought until nothing is left but his words: sweet one, sweet one, my sweet one.

I untwist the acid tube behind my back. I can’t let this happen anymore.

“Dr. Ambrose,” I whisper. The tube’s top drops into the bathtub. I hold the container upright and steady.

He braces himself against the side of the bathtub. “Yes, sweet one?”

I thrust the contents toward him. The acid splatters his face, sizzling at the contact, and he howls, the surprised rage echoing through the basement.

His nails scrape at his skin, desperate to get the liquid off.

I jump out of the tub and clutch the shower head.

As I ready myself behind him, raising the fixture, everything I’m losing flashes before my eyes.

My father. My only deep connection. But I can’t stop now.

I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t do this.

I’m doing this for my mother. For other women.

I’m doing this for myself.

He cradles his face. Even in the shadows, the erection stretching his pants is obvious. And for a split second, I think about his cock in my mouth. The oozing sores. The sour stench. The ribbed purple veins. The calluses rubbing against my tongue.

I’ll never be able to think clearly again unless I kill him.

I raise the shower head again as if it’s a hammer. I straighten my shoulders. “You killed my mother, Ivy Ward.”

I smack the shower head into the back of his skull. His body dips, and he grunts. Tears stream down my cheeks.

“You were her nurse!” I scream. I whack him again, getting his shoulder blade this time. “You raped her! You killed her!”

I lift the shower head again, aiming for his head; as I swing down, he launches me off of him. I fall on my ass. I scramble for the shower head, but he stomps faster, grabbing it from the floor and throwing it to the side of the room. It ricochets off of the wall.

He lumbers toward me. I pant. Red inflamed craters mark his face. One larger burn on his cheek bubbles white, the acid burning him all the way to the fatty tissue. His eyes gleam at me, red vessels crowding his pupils .

The acid didn’t work like I wanted. He can still see me.

Maybe I want him to see me.

He leers at me, anger boiling his stare. “Go on,” he grunts. “Tell me.”

I tremble. The tendons in his neck pull taut, and I swear, he wants to kill me right now.

“Say what you have to say, you fucking bitch,” he growls.

Fear closes my throat. Somehow, I inch backward and get the words out.

“H-her file says she was here because her sexually addictive behavior interfered with her daily life. But you did so much worse to her, didn’t you?

You faked her issues so you could test her with your own fucked-up desires. You’re the fucking freak!”

“And you asked your pathetic, straight-laced boyfriend to piss in your mouth like a fucking toilet,” he snarls.

He knocks his boot into my chest, forcing me onto my back, and I quickly prop myself up on my hands, sprawled out like a crab.

He moves his boot between my legs, the rubber sole grinding into my pussy.

“You’re obsessed with your need for perverted satisfaction. ”

His cock twitches in his pants, and his expression contorts, the physical agony running through him. Then a smirk begins to crawl over his face.

He likes the pain.

Everything in my mind goes blank. Coldness surrounds me.

“You make these accusations about me, and yet you refuse to acknowledge your own desires and behavior,” he says. I shiver. He twists his ankle, his rubber boots smothering my pussy raw. “My darling, sweet one, we tried to help your mother, but some cases can’t be cured. ”

He bends down and brushes his hand over the top of my head, petting me like an animal. Ice runs down me. His boot is heavy. He chuckles deeply. He doesn’t seem entertained; he seems livid, forcing a laugh before the real torture begins. Tears crowd my throat. His upper lip curls.

“We’re both freaks,” he says. “And that is your problem, sweet one. Your issues are very much real. You belong here.”