Page 16 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

S he’s wasting away.

I watch the numbers drop in her chart, the sharp decline of her weight, the clear, measurable proof of her disobedience. She’s starving herself in an attempt to win some petty battle against me—as if I would ever allow her to have that kind of power. Foolish girl.

She still believes she owns herself. That is unacceptable.

I trace my fingers over her file, the inked evidence of every crack in her psyche. I have had many pets before her, women who came to me broken and left—no, not left, were remade—perfect. But Eliza . . . she’s different.

She’s stubborn, volatile, sharp where she should be soft. And yet, there’s something in her, something wild and beautiful beneath the filth of her defiance. She does not yet understand that I am her salvation.

But she will.

If she insists on destroying herself, I will teach her. I will show her that her body is no longer hers to ruin. I will break her down, strip away every last remnant of resistance, and when I put her back together, she will be perfect.

She will be mine.

I press the intercom button. “Bring her to the basement. We begin reconditioning immediately.”

I do not wait for an acknowledgment. I know it will be done.

A single-way mirror separates me from the scene unfolding before me. The room beyond is cold, clinical, a space designed for the breaking of fragile things. And Eliza . . . my dear, defiant Eliza has been so very fragile lately.

She stands in the center of the room, trembling but unbowed, her spine rigid, her chin lifted in that last, desperate show of defiance.

Her ribs press sharply against the pale stretch of her skin, each shallow breath making them more pronounced.

She’s ruining herself—starving, fighting, clawing for control in a world that has already decided she has none .

And yet, look at her.

Still standing. Still resisting. She’s exquisite.

The light catches on the faint bruises littering her arms and torso. Her body wears the history of her disobedience like a canvas, and it’s beautiful. But I can’t help but wonder how it will feel to see her covered in bruises that she begged for.

I do not love her for her defiance alone. No, it’s her resistance that calls to me. The way she fights against inevitability, against her own nature, against me. She does not yet understand that submission is not the end of her, but the beginning.

The orderlies do not speak as they work—this is routine for them. The one on the left, Frankie, raises a hand, flicking his fingers toward the metal tub at the center of the room. Eliza stiffens.

“Take your nightgown off,” he orders, his tone detached, disinterested. He’s done this too many times to care.

My breath mists against the glass as I lean forward, watching as she hesitates.

“Where’s the doctor?” she asks.

A pang of guilt hits my cold heart. She asked for me.

In a moment of uncertainty, she asked for me.

As that last flicker of resistance flares in her wide, dark eyes, she knows she has no choice.

She knows, and yet she still takes that fraction of a second to hesitate. She waits to see if I will appear.

Beautiful.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for the hem of her thin baby blue nightgown. There’s nothing sensual in her movements, nothing intentional about the way the fabric lifts, barring inch after inch of flesh. But I feel it all the same. The slow unveiling of her body is a ceremony, an offering.

She is unaware of how beautiful she is.

I watch, enraptured, as the gown slips over her head and pools at her feet.

Her collarbones are just like fragile wings, her stomach taut, her thighs softer where they press together. Despite her self-inflicted starvation, despite the bruises, despite her exhaustion, she is still breathtaking.

Her breasts rise and fall with her shallow, panicked breaths, her nipples tightening in response to the cold.

My eyes trace the lines of her, committing every detail to memory—the smooth curve of her throat, the way her pulse thrums just beneath the surface.

The slope of her hips, the faint marks of restraint around her wrists.

She doesn’t know what she does to me. She is mine, and she has yet to understand what that truly means.

The orderly gestures again, impatient now. “In the tub.”

Eliza shudders but obeys, her bare feet stepping gingerly onto the cold floor.

She lowers herself slowly, carefully, her muscles locking up before the ice can even touch her skin.

I see it before she feels it—the moment the shock sets in, the instant her fragile body betrays her with a violent, gasping inhale.

Her lips part, a silent cry trapped in her throat. Her back arches, her hands gripping the sides of the tub in a useless attempt to escape the frigid embrace of the water.

I feel it like a live wire in my veins. Her pain. Her submission. Her suffering. My beautiful, fragile pet.

I tighten my grip on the notepad in my hands, poised to take notes, though I know I won’t need them. I will remember this. I always remember the moments when they begin to truly break. Frankie gestures again and the other orderlies step forward, each carrying a heavy bucket, and then?—

More ice comes. Bucket after bucket, dumped in with a rush of sound. The cubes clink against metal, and the temperature plummets. She shudders violently, her muscles locking, her breath stuttering as shock sets in.

“All the way under, now,” Frankie instructs.

She doesn’t obey—the orderlies don’t wait.

They grip her shoulders, and in one fluid motion, they force her down.

The water swallows her whole. The orderly begins counting, their voice even and measured, each number punctuated by the sound of splashing water and the muffled thrashing beneath the surface.

“One . . . Two . . . Three . . .”

Eliza reacts immediately. Her body jolts, her limbs flailing in blind panic, but the orderlies don’t waver. Their grips are firm, practiced, pressing her down as if she’s nothing more than a struggling animal.

“Four . . . Five . . . Six . . .”

The water surges with her desperate movements.

Her legs kick, her arms swing, but the effort is futile.

The human body betrays itself when stripped of control.

I’ve seen this before. I’ve done this before.

But never to her. She’s trembling now, her body convulsing from the brutal cold, from the need to inhale.

The primal response is taking over. Her body needs to breathe—her lungs demand it.

“Seven . . . Eight . . . Nine . . .”

I watch closely, unblinking.

There.

The moment her body slows, her strength diminishing, her mind slipping into that dark, sinking place. That beautiful point of submission. She’s almost gone.

“Ten.”

The orderlies move immediately, yanking her up in one swift motion.

Eliza erupts from the water with a choked, gasping inhale, her entire frame shuddering as she collapses forward. She coughs violently, water spilling from her lips, her lungs heaving, desperate to fill with air.

She slumps against Frankie’s chest, too weak to resist, her limbs hanging like a broken marionette.

I press my fingertips together, observing her. A growl coils in my throat, low and seething, as I watch her naked body slump against Frankie. Against him .

Her trembling hands grip his shirt, her frail, shivering frame pressing into him as she gasps for air. Water drips from her hair, trailing down her pale skin, and I see the way his hands hold her steady. The way his fingers press against her bare flesh .

My vision darkens. She does not belong to him. Before I realize I’ve moved, I’m throwing the door open. The sharp slam echoes off the tiled walls, and every pair of eyes in the room snap to me.

Eliza’s, too.

Wide, panicked, filled with terror.

I soften my expression immediately, letting concern flood my features as I step forward. “What is the meaning of this?” I demand, my voice a commanding edge of righteous fury.

Frankie stiffens. “Doctor?—”

I cut him off with a single motion of my hand. “You dare touch her?”

His face flickers with confusion. “I was only?—”

“Insubordination,” I say smoothly, turning to the other orderlies. “Take him to the pit.”

Frankie pales. “Doctor, wait?—”

I don’t.

They move without hesitation, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him toward the door. He thrashes, protesting, but it is of no consequence. He will not touch her again. I’ll put him in with the fucking rats for touching her.

Eliza watches the scene unfold, her chest still heaving, her lips quivering from both the cold and the remnants of fear. She stares at me, searching for my face, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. I move toward her slowly until I’m kneeling beside the tub.

“Shh,” I soothe, cupping her delicate chin between my fingers, tilting her face toward mine .

She flinches, only slightly. But I see it—the hesitation. The doubt. I brush my thumb against her cheek, my voice gentle and warm. “You are so beautiful.”

She blinks rapidly; her body still wracked with violent shivers.

I lean in, my voice dipping to a murmur. “I will always protect you, my precious pet.”

Something in her tightens. Her lip’s part, but no words come out.

Does she believe me?

I slide my arms around her, lifting her effortlessly from the tub.

I pull a thick towel from the bench and wrap it around her, bundling her small frame against my chest as I sit on the cold tile floor.

She’s stiff at first—rigid—as though unsure whether she should resist or succumb to the warmth I offer.

So, I wait.

Minutes pass.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she sinks against me.

Her head falls against my shoulder, her body limps with exhaustion. Her breathing steadies, each exhale growing softer, her shivers easing as my warmth seeps into her frozen skin. I tighten my hold, pressing my lips to the damp crown of her hair. She’s asleep, allowing me to also close my eyes.

I am in too deep.