Page 1 of Lethal (Wellard Asylum #1)

I watch her shift uncomfortably in the rigid chair, the crappy, black faux leather creaking every time she does, and making her squirm further.

She’s trying her best to project confidence and control, but one only has to pay close attention to realize she’s anything but.

Then again, that’s my thing, paying close attention .

Understanding what motivates people, identifying their weaknesses and tells, and leveraging them to my advantage.

I’m a deadly spider just waiting for you to fall head-first into my trap.

I’ll watch you struggle to save yourself, while I slowly wrap you tighter in more webs, and I’ll rip your wings and limbs off, so you can never escape me, escape us .

My blood heats in my veins, as I observe her large, pretty brown eyes narrow with scrutiny as she watches my brother move his fingers in a rhythmic, incessant motion on the arm of the chair, accompanied by the metallic clicking noise of the handcuffs that have us strapped to the uncomfortable metal seats bolted to the concrete floor.

Deemed, of course, as a necessary precaution against us for the good doctor’s safety.

If she only knew how I’m fantasizing about scooping out her left eyeball with my bare fingers, digging into the flesh until her screams fill all the space in this shitty room.

The one that reminds me of my favorite melted milk chocolate, and wrapping it up in that wet, pink tongue of hers that I keep getting glances of, as she licks her sinful lips.

I’d douse it with the sweet, rich, warm blood that’s rushing through her veins, pumping in her heart at a rapid pace, based on the throbbing of her pulse in her slim, creamy swan neck.

I’d season it with some cinnamon and cloves, maybe even a pinch of black pepper, and a splash of my favorite spicy bourbon.

God knows eyeballs can be downright bland, when not prepared correctly.

My cock strains against the cheap material of the dingy, gray sweatpants they force us to wear, here in this shithole they call a hospital, and I call prison.

I compel myself to take even, natural breaths, and not give away my thoughts, since that might scare the poor little doctor off.

Seeing her has become the best part of my week lately, and I don’t want that to be taken away from me.

I get the feeling that the good doctor might not appreciate the direction of my thoughts, but too fucking bad.

She can’t stop them. She also can’t halt the dreams I have nightly, of suffocating her with my cock down her throat, and tearing her heart out of her chest.

“Did you have other relatives you were close to, besides your mother and father, growing up?” She questions, the sound of hope clinging to her words, as she poises her black pen over her notebook, ready to document whatever we say so she can dissect us.

Oh, doctor, what a fucking question. Should I tell her we murdered everyone who carried a drop of our blood without mercy?

Dispatched all those fuckers to the dregs of hell, so they could meet their maker, the devil.

A smirk crosses my lips as I spread my legs wider, trying to get comfortable and, in the process, making the good doctor uneasy, as she notices the size of the lump between my legs from her peripheral vision, and a tinge of pink crosses her cheeks.

So innocent, I would love nothing more than to taint you.

I wonder if she can sense how quickly we could stop her next breath, if only we weren’t chained down like animals at the zoo.

“Ring around the silence, tied up nice and neat. A pocket full of fingers, snipped and cooked to eat. Ashes… ashes… We laugh as you go down...” Wren whispers humorously to himself, as he begins to rock his straining body slowly on the chair next to me.

The doctor leans forward tentatively, her dark hair streaked with copper falling over the side of her face, as she attempts to discern his mumbled words, careful of the yellow line marking the floor, which divides and establishes her safety zone, and where she is out of reach.

It’s almost diabolic and cruel, to taunt us with that bright and glaring line, showing us how very close we are to being able to touch her, and yet still too far away.

“Wren, I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Did you have an answer to my question?”

Oh, this should be good. I almost pity her, for her attempts to connect with us.

I’m not sure if she’s naive, or if she genuinely believes she can help us.

Maybe she has a saint complex, I wonder, does she know most of them were killed for their beliefs?

It’s a waste of time and energy. There is no saving us from the darkness that invades our souls.

Whether her actions and words are genuine is another story.

The part inside of me, that has kept my brother and me alive this long, says otherwise.

The little toy is putting on a show, and she’s a shit actor.

The question is, why? What does she want with two irredeemable serial killers?

Fame? Anarchy? Peace for our victims? The possibilities are endless, and I mean to pry them out of her.

“Ring around your heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, it beats too loud. Dark voices spin, round and round . A pocket full of blood and memories, buried where you sleep. Ashes… ashes… You’ll beg and scream without a sound for me.

“ A cackling laugh leaves my brother’s lips, as he refuses to make eye contact with the doctor, who is looking more antsy by the moment.

Surprise, horror, and fear, intermingle across her delicate features as she pales, making my lips twitch in amusement as she catches his words this time.

I love seeing the effect my brother has on people.

She should really work on her poker face; it’s mediocre at best.

Wren yanks sharply on the handcuffs, making them rattle, and I observe as the good doctor’s grasp tightens on her pen, as if she could use that as a weapon to stop us, if we managed to get loose.

Ridiculous. Where the fuck did Wellard even get this one?

She’d be better off dealing with something milder than what you would find in this hellhole, like depressed housewives needing to vent about how their spouses underappreciate them, or men who are trying to deal with their feelings of toxic masculinity, and failing.

She’s not equipped to handle someone like my brother or me, yet here she is, in a room with two ruthless killers who wouldn’t hesitate to strangle her with our bare hands, and then fuck her dying corpse.

Fuck, at that thought, my cock twitches, and I have to swallow my moan.

“Where did you study, Doctor?” I question, interrupting her scrutiny of Wren, as her gaze turns in my direction, and her shapely, dark eyebrow cocks upward, with curiosity at the personal question.

This is our twelfth session with this doctor, in the three months she’s been here, and we typically avoid speaking directly to her if possible.

Something that we know causes her all sorts of frustration.

After all, we are not here to make anything easy for her.

Something in me, call it boredom, or maybe it’s the lick of excitement starting at the base of my spine, wants to play with her, to see how far we can take it, before she goes screaming out of here, and we have to start the process all over again with someone new.

She’s the sixth psychiatrist they’ve sent our way, in the two years that Wren and I have been incarcerated in this cesspool-filled purgatory, and she won’t be the last. A life sentence is a fucking long time, and that’s all we have.

.. time. We are forever trapped in this place, so we might as well get our rocks off where we can.

I watch my brother discreetly. I know that look on Wren’s face; he’s already close to the edge, his lips smashed together with a soft groan, and a tightness to his eyes, ones that are identical to mine, not only in their vibrant blue-gray color, but in the darkness and madness that lies deep within.

He’s a dangerous grenade, just waiting for the pin to be pulled, and anyone caught in the blast radius will perish painfully.

I love watching when that happens. It brings me a sadistic glee.

The pretty woman before us shifts again, crossing her nude stocking-covered legs, and adjusting her conservative gray skirt over her knees, as Wren watches her now with laser focus.

He licks his lips, as if he’s picturing eating those sexy legs, like one would a giant turkey leg at the fair.

He’s scaring her, but of course, he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

If I’m the spider, my brother Wren is something even more methodical, sinister, and dangerous.

Together, we are a deadly pair, carbon copies of abominations, as we’ve been told repeatedly over the years.

She knows all that; after all, that’s why she’s here, in this awful room that smells like mold, dampness, and despair.

Wellard Asylum houses the worst of the mentally ill, violent offenders in the southern part of the United States, with its promises of rehabilitation, research, and keeping the public safe from all the monsters.

Lies. The inmates in forced confinement within its walls aren’t the only monsters roaming around these decrepit walls.

No, the staff tasked to help us are as much villains as we are, the world just doesn’t know it.

“Are you worried, Sebastian, that I’m not qualified to treat you?

I graduated from an Ivy League medical school.

” I almost hear the note of hostility in her voice.

She doesn’t like to have to explain herself, or to have her abilities questioned.

Interesting. I file that information away for later, knowing that, at some point, I will be able to use it against her.

“ Bash, not Sebastian,“ I remind her, and not for the first time, that I don’t answer to Sebastian. Only two people have ever called me that and gotten away with it, and they are both no longer breathing.

“Bash, that’s right, my apologies,” she provides me with a small smile, that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Why work here with that type of education?” I force my body to sit upright, and lean forward in the chair, straining on my restraints as they dig into my flesh.

I’m curious about her. She’s not like the others here at Wellard, especially Halstead, the psychopath who runs this place.

The pause in her response, as she endeavors to gather her thoughts, and give me some bullshit reason for wanting to help us, tells me all that I need to know.

This little toy has secrets, ones she keeps closely guarded, but I’ll pry them from her, and when I do, I’ll carve out her heart and consume it as a tasty treat.

Tell me all your secrets, and your lies, little toy, it’s time to play with the monsters.