Page 21 of His to Ruin
“Of course, Dr. Howe.”
No point telling him the truth. He’ll just be annoyed. Something flickers across the doctor’s face—an expression I can’t quite place.
“Are you lying to me, Christian?” he questions as his voice drops an octave. His tone drips with disbelief. “You don’t wanta repeat of what happened before, do you? Not when you’ve finally become stable.”
The lights flicker, and for a split second, the room fades, exposing somewhere, something,different. While walls. Tightness in my chest. People screaming. I close my eyes again, willing it away.Not again. I blink rapidly several times and take a few deep breaths. In and out. In and out. In and out. My eyes refocus and I’m met with Dr. Howe’s concerned stare.
“No, doctor. Why would I lie?” I reply with my best feigned innocence. “Open and honest communication, right?”
The leather of his wingback chair squeaks as he repositions himself. He places the notepad and pen on the table next to him before leaning forward. He steeples his fingers, resting his chin on his hands while placing his elbows on his thighs.
“Don’t lie to me.” His tone lowers further, fury simmering beneath the surface. I bite my lower lip in response to his tone. “The medication is supposed to keep the nightmares at bay. Keep you sedated and safe,” he tells me. His dark eyes bore into me, as if they can see straight into my soul. Shadows begin to shift in my periphery.“Have you been taking your medicine? Or have you been a bad boy, my Little Nightmare?”
14
KALLUM
Christian lies to me with a straight face—again.
“I’m taking my meds.”
Yeah fucking right. As if I can’t taste the absence of the medication when I taste his skin. Where the sedatives should’ve dulled his fire. I watched him spit the pills into his palm, then grind them into a dust on the sink’s porcelain edge last night.
He really believes this room is real. That the doctor is real. That this session, this version of reality, is something more than a puppet stage I crafted from his fraying subconscious.
The clock behind him ticks. Backwards. The second hand jittering, then lurches back. Time here is mine. Just like he is.
Christian shifts on the couch, his knee bouncing, his eyes keep darting to mine. Brave boy. Always looking for control that he knows deep down he doesn’t have.
He knows I’m here. He can feel it. But I keep myself hidden to a degree. I like following him around in his mind. Fucking around with what I can until eventually he realizes that it’s alla ruse. Then the doctors will have to sedate him and we play this game all over again.
My favorite game.
He swallows hard, then forces a little laugh. “I’m serious, Doc. I’m all good.”
What I want to tell him is that he doesn’t have to fake it with me.
That he was built to satisfy me.
That I can give him what he craves.
What his cock aches for.
I rise slowly. The air stills and the fluorescent lights above flicker. Shadows billow in the corners of the room. My form flickers at the edges, like the reel of a damaged film skipping frames.
In the intake of Christian’s breath: I am still Dr. Howe.
In the next breath: I am his desolation.
My mask peels away, and the skin sloughs off in sheets, revealing my taller, older, hungrier appearance. Behind me, the room disintegrates. The bookshelves crumble into dust. The carpet ripples like water.
Christian stops breathing; his perfect lips part in shock. A tiny, soundless crack escapes his throat. Will he scream? Beg? Pray?
No.
He just watches, wide-eyed and trembling in that terrible little moment between realization and surrender.
I drop to my knees between his legs as he sits on the sofa. “You called me again,” I whisper, dragging my palms up his thighs. My hands leave invisible fingerprints behind. My long nails rake red-hot lines into his skin.