Page 21 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

Eliza Marlowe.

H er name is elegant in my handwriting, a mark of ownership.

I trace the ink with my gloved finger, savoring it.

She has come so far in the past months. No longer the wild, defiant thing that was dragged into my care.

No longer screaming, biting, scratching.

She is quiet now, docile in the ways that matter. Eager. Soft.

Perfect.

I flip through the pages of her file, taking in the documentation of her progress. I have rewired her, stripped away the filth of her past life, and replaced it with something beautiful. She no longer needs the fantasy she clings to. No longer needs him .

The delusion has outlived its usefulness. He was a necessary evil, a tool to guide her submission, to help her relinquish control in a way that felt like a choice. But now, he has become a liability. He is an interference. And I do not tolerate interference.

I set my pen down, smoothing out the papers before me. The solution is clear.

Theo is no longer necessary.

A knock at the door disrupts my thoughts—soft, hesitant. I exhale, letting the silence stretch before I speak.

“Enter.”

The door creaks open, and one of the orderlies’ steps inside, his posture stiff. I do not bother looking at him right away; instead, I pluck my cigar from the ashtray and take a slow drag, letting the ember glow in the low light.

“Sir,” the orderly begins, his voice carefully measured. “The tests confirmed it.”

I inhale deeply, the smoke filling my lungs, then release it in a slow stream.

The words settle inside me, warmth blooming in my chest. Pregnant.

Eliza is pregnant. I smile, a slow, indulgent thing.

Of course, she is. I had been patient, knowing nature would take its course.

I had promised her a litter, and now she carries proof of my devotion to her healing.

“Should I administer the termination pills?” the orderly asks, his voice betraying the slightest edge of discomfort.

I finally look at him. His shoulders are squared, but there is unease in his gaze. I imagine he thinks this is a mercy, that I would rid her of the life growing inside her as if it were a mistake. Fool. I tilt my head, exhaling another lungful of smoke before speaking.

“You don’t kill a prize-winning bitch before she whelps, do you?”

The orderly swallows hard. He does not meet my eyes. “No, sir.”

I wave him off, already thinking ahead. I will not tell her immediately. I want her reaction raw. No forewarning. No escape. I want to see the moment it dawns on her, the realization sinking its claws into her mind.

She will cry, of course. I imagine she will tremble, shake her head, whisper that it isn’t possible. And then when she looks at me, searching for reassurance, I will give it to her. I will stroke her hair, wipe her tears, and remind her.

She belongs to me.

And she will understand.

ELIZA

The Doctor is waiting, standing beside his desk, one hand resting on the polished wood, the other tucked neatly in his pocket. His posture is easy, relaxed, like this is nothing out of the ordinary. But it is. I know it is.

Everything is wrong.

“Where’s Theo?”

I don’t say it—not yet. I just stand there, spine stiff, fingers curling into my palms as he watches me.

“Close the door, little one.” I hesitate. Just for a second. His lips twitch, the amusement in his gaze sharpened to a blade’s edge. He knows. He always knows. I shut the door. “Good girl.”

He meets me by the door, the warmth of his body brushing against mine as he reaches past me, locking it.

His fingers linger upward toward me. A ghost of a touch at the nape of my neck, tracing the delicate skin there.

A featherlight stroke that sends ice down my spine.

“You’re trembling.” I force my body to still, my breath to slow. “Don’t show fear.”

“Where’s Theo?”

His hand presses against the small of my back, guiding me forward, my body brushing against him, like I’m something fragile. “Why are you thinking about him when I’m right here?” Because the room feels wrong without him.

I swallow the lump in my throat and sit when he urges me to, perching on the edge of the leather chair in front of his desk. I keep my spine straight, even though every instinct screams at me to curl inward, to protect myself.

The Doctor moves slowly, lowering himself into the chair across from me. His gaze drinks me in, taking his time, fingers steepling beneath his chin. “I think you’ve outgrown him.”

A chill spreads through my limbs, cold as death. I shake my head. “That’s not true.”

He exhales through his nose, like a patient father indulging in the foolish naivety of a child. “I made you, Eliza. Not him.”

“You shaped me. But Theo?—”

“Is a crutch,” he interrupts smoothly, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “And you don’t need crutches anymore, do you?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His hand moves, tracing the inside of my wrist, his thumb brushing over my pulse. A featherlight touch that feels like ownership. I want to pull away, but I don’t. I never do.

I lift my chin instead. “Where is he?”

A chuckle rolls from his lips, deep and knowing. “You’re fixated.” He tugs my wrist, pulling me up, guiding me forward until I’m standing between his legs.

The air changes—thickens. My stomach knots. “Let me help you forget him, little one.” His fingers skim the hem of my nightgown, lifting it slightly. My breath stutters in my chest. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Resistance has never been an option. “Say yes,” he murmurs, lips brushing against my stomach. The warmth of his breath ghosts over my skin.

I don’t. But I don’t say no either. That’s enough for him. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, as he peels away my clothing, exposing me inch by inch with infuriating patience, as if unwrapping something precious. As if I’m a gift.

I feel colder without Theo.

Where is he?

Will he come out of the shadows and take me? Whisper my name in that low, knowing way that makes me feel like I belong to him and only him? Or am I truly alone in this world?

The air settles heavy, suffocating. The silence stretches, filled only by the soft ticking of the clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

It’s the only sound I hear as the doctor pushes me forward over the chair, my bare skin flush against the cold leather. My wrists tremble where they grip the armrests. The air is thick, stifling, pressing against me like unseen hands.

His hands.

“Doctor . . .” My voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears it. I know he does because his palm drags slowly over my exposed ass, possessive, lingering. Then?—

Crack .

A sharp, searing smack lands across my right cheek, and I lurch forward, gasping.

“You don’t need him, pet. You only need me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the words sink in, wrapping around my ribs like a vice, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

He’s wrong.

He’s wrong, but my body betrays me, arching into his touch, responding even as my mind rebels. “You’re wrong . . . I need . . . both.” A mistake.

His chuckle slithers down my spine. A low, ominous thing, thick with menace. Behind me, I hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the slow rasp of leather sliding free, then the sharp metallic clink of his zipper. My stomach twists.

Theo isn’t coming. Theo isn’t going to save me. Theo won’t be the one to touch me tonight. It’s just the doctor.

“You don’t think I know what the both of you have been doing behind my back?” His tone is different now.

Another slap—harder this time, jarring, burning. I cry out, my knuckles whitening as I grip the chair, my breath hitching in sharp little gasps. His palm lands again. And again. A punishing rhythm. Skin meeting skin. “Please, stop . . . please.” The words fall from my lips, shaking, broken.

But he doesn’t stop.

“You’re going to take this punishment, pet, and then I’m going to pump you full of my cum and throw you back into your room to think about what you’ve done. ”

His words slam into me—humiliating, final.

“You don’t get to come, you don’t get to touch yourself, you don’t get to feel an ounce of pleasure without me observing you.”

I barely have time to suck in a breath before his palm collides with my face. My head snaps to the side, my cheek blooming hot where his hand landed. A shocked whimper slips past my lips, my vision blurring for a split second.

“What part of that don’t you understand?”

The Doctor grips my chin, forcing me to look up at him, my neck craning in an unnatural way that makes me whimper.

His fingers trace the sting on my cheek as my skin blooms under his touch. The contrast is dizzying. One moment, punishment, the next, reverence. But I don’t pull away. There’s nowhere to go.

“Say it, my sweet little pet,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my temple in something that mimics tenderness, something that almost feels real if I let myself believe it. “Say you love me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I can be kind. I can give you everything. You only have to love me. Love me like you love Theo—like you told him. He told me, Eliza. He told me everything.”

His hands move lower, gliding over my shoulders, my arms, and my waist. His cock nudges at my entrance and he growls.

“So wet. Your pussy is begging for its master.” He doesn’t go slow.

He slams his cock inside of me. I cry out at the intrusion of him and whimper as he allows no moment of adjustment.

He hooks his fingers into my mouth, forcing me back to arch forcefully.

The corners of my mouth burn at the stretch.

“Say it, and I will hold you—I will be gentle. If you refuse, then I will punish you.”

A sob fights its way up my throat. My body aches, my mind splintering. “I love you,” I whisper, the words foreign and acidic on my tongue.

His grip on my face tightens like he wants to crack me open and drink down the confession like wine. And then he turns my head and kisses me. Soft. Slow. Savoring.