Page 6 of Exposed (The Wellard Asylum #1)

B efore I have the chance to straighten my clothes, the assistant is out the door. I catch up to him as he unlocks a nearby room. The key jiggles in the lock, then he pushes open the door.

An adjustable exam bed with paper lining is stationed in the back of the room.

A sink is bordered by cabinets and countertops, and in the corner, a metal filing cabinet is busted open.

A drain is in the middle of the blackened tiles.

Light flickers from the fixtures overhead, casting shadows under a circular, wheeled stool.

And a mirror covers the entire back wall.

Every muscle in my back tightens. The mirror’s surface is dingy and gray, like old mop water, and my reflection looks different, as if my entire body is distorted. Another version of me shedding from the inner carcass.

Benji mentioned a double-sided mirror he saw in Dr. Ambrose’s office. This must be it. Dr. Ambrose is probably watching everything right now.

The assistant motions to the bed. “Please undress and sit on the exam table. The doctor will be in shortly.”

I bite my lip. My eyes flicker around the room, searching for a paper dress. “ Where’s my gown?”

The assistant’s nostrils flare. “We will be conducting a full body examination, Miss Ward. Your modesty is unnecessary here.”

I frown. The assistant is slightly taller than me with short black hair. He can’t be more than ten years older than me, and yet he acts like he’s a scholar and I’m a failing student. He’s probably as bad as Dr. Ambrose. If I get the chance, maybe I should kill him too.

For now, Dr. Ambrose is my goal.

I hold the bottom of my shirt. The assistant removes a clipboard from one of the cabinets, then leans on the sink as he takes notes. Is he staying for this too?

“You expect me to undress while you’re in the room?” I ask.

He purses his lips. “ Now, Miss Ward.”

“Turn around.”

He huffs. “The specimen needs my assistance then.”

I wrinkle my brow. “The what? ”

He bounds toward me. A breath catches in my throat. He grabs my shirt and hoodie, and I shove his chest, pushing him away from me.

“What the fuck?” I yell.

His hands scrape my stomach as he wrenches the clothes over my head, then twists my arms behind my back. My chest slams into the exam table, and the paper lining crunches under my cheek. His peppery cologne swirls in my head.

My core flames with the need to scratch his eyes out and the desire to thrust my ass into his groin.

I don’t like this, I tell myself. I’m here for my mother. I’m not into the assistant. And I’m definitely not into Dr. Ambrose. I’m here for ? —

With his free hand, the assistant pulls down my thong and thermal leggings. Cold air cascades over my ass, my skin pebbling in goosebumps.

The tube of acid is lodged against my foot. I need to play nice, so he leaves me alone, then I can hide the vial without his knowledge.

“Undress,” he mutters. “Or I will get rid of the clothes for you. ”

His voice is dry and harsh, as if my existence is an inconvenience to him.

Acid rises in my esophagus, repulsion and excitement warring in my rib cage.

He’s so dismissive that it’s infuriating, but there’s something else there, buried inside of me, that isn’t quite sure how to feel.

A part that enjoys this for some reason.

A part that thinks it would be better if it came from Dr. Ambrose.

I shift on my feet. The tube of acid rides against the arch of my foot. Slowly, I push down my leggings. I don’t take them off completely yet.

The assistant steps back, returning to his clipboard. His face remains blank, as if forcefully stripping someone’s clothes is a normal part of his job. Maybe it is.

I take off my bra. A metallic clang echoes, startling me.

The assistant arranges a tray of medical equipment with so many tools, I’m not even sure what they are.

“Follow orders,” he barks. “Undress. Then sit.”

I undress cautiously. Once his back is to me again, I take off my socks and shoes, then quickly hide the vial under the exam table. My hip bumps into the table and shifts it. The assistant flips around.

“What are you doing?” he snaps .

I cross my arms over my bare chest. “Waiting for you to get on with it.”

He huffs. I sit my bare ass on the paper lining. The leather’s chill seeps through the barrier. He narrows his eyes, then glances from me to the tray to the exam table.

He’s already back to being disinterested in me. I let out a breath.

He takes my clothes and shoes off of the floor, then stuffs them inside of a biohazard bag. I straighten and blink at my reflection. My skin prickles. Is Dr. Ambrose watching me? Did he see me hide the vial?

Does he want me?

My cheeks redden. I don’t know why that crossed my mind. If Dr. Ambrose is my father, then he made it pretty damn clear he wanted nothing to do with me. And I can’t think about anything sexual like that. Not right now. Not when I’m here because of my murdered mother.

The assistant removes two stirrups from the exam table’s far edge. My stomach churns, my temperature rising.

“Those are for a gynecological exam,” I say. “Why would?—”

“This is about your sexual behavior, Miss Ward,” he says. “Obviously, we’ll need to inspect your holes.”

My stomach flutters. Inspect my holes?

Like I’m an object they can examine.

A specimen under a microscope.

A toy to use.

I grit my teeth and scrunch my eyes, forcing those thoughts away. I can’t think like that. I need to focus.

The filing cabinet catches my attention. The top drawer is partially open, files are pooling out of the second drawer, and rust speckles the bottom of the cabinet. It’s reflective of everything in the asylum. Used. Abandoned. Forgotten.

But I’m here. And Dr. Ambrose will be here soon.

I’m not here for myself, I repeat inwardly. I’m definitely not here because of some messed-up fantasies I may or may not actually have. I’m here for my mother. I’m here because I’m going to kill him.

Metal twists in the lock. The door flies open. My throat constricts. Nerves drip down to my stomach.

Dr. Ambrose enters and towers over me. He beams down his curved nose, amusement pursing his lips. His jaw ticks. A clinical and acidic aroma fills the room, as if his mere presence can swallow everything it comes into contact with.

And his full attention is on me.

He rolls the stool over to the exam table and sits in front of me.

“Feet in the stirrups,” he commands.

I put my feet in the metal footrests and angle my knees inward. I have to do this, I remind myself. This is part of getting his guard down. Just because you’re doing what he says, doesn’t mean you’ve given in.

“Move your hips down so we can see you, Miss Ward,” Dr. Ambrose adds. “Your boyfriend told me about your exhibitionist tendencies. Don’t hide when you know you want to be seen.”

Electricity surges from between my thighs down to my toes. I’m not actually an exhibitionist. I suggested using it as a “reason” for Benji’s fake concerns about my sexual behavior. But a tiny part of me wonders if it is true. Do I want to be seen like this? Maybe I do.

But I don’t want to be seen by Dr. Ambrose.