Page 19 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

I can still taste her on my tongue, and I swear to God, it’s killing me.

After bed checks are done, I manage to slip out of my room and go down the hall. Thank God that I was able to swipe the key from one of the janitors earlier today. Making breaking into Eliza’s room much easier.

I slip inside her room, silent as a shadow, every muscle in my body wrung out and trembling.

The air is thick with her scent—-sweat, skin, something sweeter beneath it all.

My head is a fog of need and nausea. The Doctor made me do it—made us do it—and she took it all.

Let me break her, let me love her the only way I’ m allowed.

I’m sick. I’m fucking sick. And I like it.

The room is small, suffocating, but she’s made it hers, with scattered drawings taped to the walls like a desperate claim to sanity. I step closer, drawn in like I have no other choice.

And then I see them. Well . . . I see me. I stare, breath shuddering out of me in uneven bursts. Dozens of sketches. Hundreds. Eyes, dark and hollow. Hands, fingers curled around invisible wrists. My mouth, my teeth, parted like I’m whispering something only she can hear.

A lump swells in my throat, thick and choking. My hands hover over the paper, my fingertips tracing the edges without touching.

She sees me.

Not just the pieces of me that exist in this place, but the parts no one else has ever looked at.

She’s known me all along. And then, one sketch pulls the breath from my lungs entirely.

It’s different—drawn softer. Me, asleep, my head resting on her lap, her fingers buried in my hair. Not taking. Not breaking. Just being.

My vision blurs, my throat tightening. This is proof. Proof that she was made for me, that I was made for her. That no matter what the Doctor tries to twist in us, no matter how he pushes, she knows the truth just as much as I do.

I tear my gaze away, and there she is.

Eliza sleeps curled in on herself, a tangle of too-thin sheets and pale skin bathed in silver light. Her hair spills across the pillow, a dark halo framing her beautiful features. She looks like a doll someone forgot to put away. A perfect, breakable thing.

My perfect thing.

The marks are still there—the ones I gave her.

The bruises on her wrists, the fading imprints of fingers around her throat.

The streaks along her thighs, the evidence of what I’ve done—what we’ve done.

Something sick inside of me is thrilled at the sight, but another part, the part that aches, wants to gather her up, wants to smooth my hands over the places that still burn and whisper apologies that mean nothing.

Because I know that tomorrow I will be forced to do those things for her.

Forced to come to the realization that we both like the depravity of the act.

Of the submission she willingly hands over to me.

She shifts, breath hitching in sleep. I sink to the floor beside the bed, my knees drawn up, hands clenched so tight my nails bite deep. “I shouldn’t be here.”

But I can’t stay away. A sound leaves her lips, a quiet, fragile murmur. She says my name. Not his. Not a plea. Not a curse. Just “Theo.”

And it guts me. I press my forehead to the mattress beside her, my breath dragging in sharp and ragged. My fingers curl into the sheets, like if I hold on tight enough, I can keep from coming apart. The words slip out before I can stop them, raw, bleeding, and real. “Eliza, I love you.”

She stirs, the faintest flutter of lashes, and reaches for me in her half-conscious haze.

Her fingers skim my jaw, light as a whisper.

I should pull away—I should. But I can’t.

I can only shake. She blinks at me, still lost in sleep’s grasp, but I know— I know— she heard me. “You don’t have to say that.”

But I do.

I turn my head, just enough to meet her eyes in the dark. “I’ll get us out of here,” I whisper. “I swear it.”

A moment. A breath. Her fingers twitch against my skin. Her eyes finally open softly, scanning until they meet mine. “Theo. . .”

She doesn’t finish, but I know what she means.

“You don’t believe me . . .”

Her lip’s part, hesitation swimming in her gaze. It’s not a doubt. Not in me. It’s something worse. Like she knows we can’t leave.

I grab her hand, flattening it against my chest, pressing it to where my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Feel that?” I rasp. “I mean it. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Her breath shudders. “And then what?”

I blink. “What?”

“If we leave . . .” She swallows. “Where will we go?”

“We.”

The word is a drug, a knife, a promise. I don’t have an answer. The world outside doesn’t want people like us. The world outside will never let us have this. But I don’t give a fuck about the world. I just know I can’t lose her.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’d rather burn the whole fucking world down than stay here another second without you. ”

She exhales, soft and shaky, and I don’t know if she wants to cry or scream or kiss me. So I make the choice for her. I crush my mouth to hers. Not rough, not desperate—not at first. Just a press of lips, reverent, a prayer in the dark. But then she responds, and something in me snaps.

Her fingers twist in my hair, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. I press her back into the mattress, my hands trembling as they slide over her, as I drink her in like she’s the only thing keeping me alive.

I don’t know what we are. I don’t know if love like this can survive in a place like this. But I know one thing: she’s mine. And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take her away.

Eliza lies beneath me, her fingers tracing slowly, idle patterns along my jaw. I let my weight rest beside her, arm draped over her stomach, head buried in the crook of her neck.

“You’re shaking,” she whispers. I exhale against her throat, pressing a lazy kiss there, nuzzling into her warmth like I could disappear inside her.

“I’m always shaking,” I murmur. “Only time I stop is when I’m with you.”

She doesn’t say anything about that. Just trails her fingers down my arm, over the bruises, the half-moon cuts from my own nails digging in too hard. She lifts my wrist, turns it over in the dim glow of the room, and presses a soft kiss on the inside of it.

Something in me clenches, painful and sweet.

“Have you ever thought about what it’d be like? ”

“What?”

Her lips curve, soft but sad. “Being free.”

I swallow. “Yeah,” I admit. “All the time.”

She shifts, curling closer, draping herself over me now. “Tell me,” she urges, tracing the dark circles under my eyes. “What’s the dream, Theo?”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. “The dream.” I don’t let myself think about it much. Dreams are dangerous. They taste too much like hope, and hope is a fucking sickness. But for her? I let myself imagine. “A house. Somewhere warm. Somewhere on a beach. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She hums, nodding.

“You could paint,” I continue, eyes still shut. “Big canvases, not just scraps of paper. You could fill the whole damn house with them, let the walls breathe with color instead of these.” I gesture vaguely at the asylum walls, at the pale, suffocating gray of them.

She sighs against my skin. “That sounds nice.”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “I’d take care of you.”

“You already do.”

I shake my head. “Not like I should.” I lift her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, my lips lingering there. “Out there, I could really take care of you. You wouldn’t have to be scared anymore.”

She lets out a quiet laugh. “You think I’m scared?”

I glance up at her, and the moonlight catches in her eyes, making them look deeper, darker. “Aren’t you?” I ask .

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifts, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, slow and lingering.

I chase the kiss when she pulls back, needing more. She gives it to me, lets me drink her in, lets me feel alive for just a moment.

Then. “Would we have kids?” she whispers.

I freeze. My stomach tightens, my heart a painful, unsteady thing. Kids . I never thought about that. Never thought I was allowed to. I lick my lips, my voice hoarse. “Would you want them?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Maybe. I think I will eventually.”

A lump rises in my throat. The image is soft and dangerous—a tiny thing with her eyes and my hands, with her stubbornness and my devotion. A family. Something good. I don’t deserve that—neither does she—but I want it. Fuck, I want it.

My fingers tangle in her hair, dragging her mouth to mine, kissing her harder, deeper, like I can pull that future closer, like I can make it real. She gasps, her body molding into me, and I roll her beneath me, pressing my weight down, needing to be inside her, needing to claim and consume and.

She stills.

Her hands press lightly against my chest, stopping me.

“Theo,” she breathes against my lips. “We can’t.”

I blink, my head foggy, my body thrumming. “Why?”

She swallows. “Not like this. ”

A sharp spike of something cold rushes through me. I don’t know if it’s rejection, fear, or anger.

“Not like this?” I echo, my voice thin, quiet. “Eliza . . .”

She cups my face, her touch so fucking gentle it hurts. “Let me love you instead.”

ELIZA

His hands are hesitant, fingers ghosting over my skin like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Like I’m something delicate, something sacred. Not a thing to be used, not a body to be broken.

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of his gaze settle over me.

He looks at me like I’m his salvation. Like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

I’m afraid I might be his ruin instead. “Theo,” I whisper, brushing his dark curls back from his face.

His eyes are glassy, feverish with something I don’t know how to name.

I see the fractures in him, the way he’s unraveling at the seams. But when he kisses me, it’s different. There’s no force, no cruelty, no desperation. Just Theo.