Page 23 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

T heo. Where is Theo?

He was just here. He was here.

Then—

Hands.

Rough. Unforgiving.

They seize my arms, my waist, yanking me up from the floor. My body jolts from the sudden force, my feet dragging against the tile as they lift me.

I thrash.

I scream.

“Theo!”

My voice breaks, shatters into something raw and desperate. I twist in their grasp, kicking out, clawing at them. My nails sink into flesh, tearing, and someone curses under their breath. Their grip only tightens.

“Hold her,” a voice commands.

The Doctor.

Dread slams through me, paralyzing, freezing the breath in my lungs.

No. No, no, no.

I jerk violently, but it’s useless. Arms lock around my waist, a human vise, while another secures my wrists, crushing them in his grasp like steel restraints.

I shake my head frantically, breath hitching as I try to twist away, but I can feel him stepping closer. The scent of whiskey and cologne creeps into my senses, suffocating.

Then. Fingers.

Soft, sickeningly gentle, brushing the damp strands of hair from my face.

“Shh, little one.” The Doctor’s voice slides over my skin. “It’s all right now.”

A sound rips from my throat, something between a sob and a snarl.

“Where is he?” I gasp, my chest heaving, my voice cracking on the name. “Where is Theo?”

The Doctor exhales slowly, like a patient father indulging a child’s tantrum.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until his fingers curl under my chin, lifting my face.

I freeze. His touch is deceptively warm, steady, and firm.

But it offers no comfort. Only control. My breath stutters as I meet his gaze. Cold. Knowing .

Shaking my head, my breath comes in sharp, frantic gasps. “No—” I whisper, more to myself than to him.

His lips curve, but it’s not a smile. It’s something worse. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. A mockery of tenderness. Then, softly, he says:

“He was never here.”

DOCTOR

I lower myself into my chair, settling her into my lap like a doll that has lost its strings.

She doesn’t fight. Her head lolls against my chest, her breathing shallow, and I hum with quiet approval, stroking my fingers through the damp tangles of her hair.

She’s pliant now, broken open just enough for me to fit my hands inside and reshape her.

I have been waiting for this.

Her hands twitch against the fabric of my vest, a useless attempt to hold herself together.

The soft, distressed noises slipping from her throat are like music—tiny, ruined things, so quiet they could be mistaken for breath.

I hush her, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.

“Shh, little one.”

She shivers.

Her mind is still unraveling, the truth tightening around her like a noose. She is trying to deny it. I can feel it in the tremor of her limbs, the shallow hitch of her breath against my throat.

I let the silence stretch, my grip tightening ever so slightly around her waist, reminding her that she is caged, that there is nowhere to run.

Finally, she finds her voice. “Where’s Theo?” It’s broken.

I sigh, my fingers pressing against the edge of her jaw as I tilt her face upward, forcing her to look at me. Her lips are swollen from biting them raw, her pupils too wide, the last traces of her fantasy clinging to her expression like cobwebs.

“I’ve already told you.” Her breath catches. She doesn’t answer. I smooth my thumb over her bottom lip, silencing whatever weak protest might be forming there. “He was never real.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel the violent crack in her reality.

Her body stiffens, fingers clutching at the lapels of my vest, like she’s trying to anchor herself.

“No,” she whispers, shaking her head, the word fragile and desperate.

“No, no, no, no.” For a moment, I think she might claw at her own skin again, rip herself open in a futile attempt to prove she’s still real.

I can’t allow that. I catch her wrists, forcing them down into her lap.

She struggles, weak little jerks of her arms, but I hold firm.

“You’re slipping, Eliza.” I press my lips to her forehead again, letting my breath ghost over her skin. “I won’t let you.” Her body jerks as if struck, a strangled sob catching in her throat. Good.

I stroke my hands down her arms, tracing the delicate lines of her veins, the places where she’s bruised herself in her hysteria.

“You made a ghost of him, pet.” My voice is low, threaded with something deeper, something possessive.

“And now, I’m here to bring you back.” A fresh sob wracks her body, and I drink it in, savoring it, letting the weight of her collapse into me completely.

She is so soft like this, so helpless, her body curling into mine as if seeking warmth.

And she will have it.

From me.

Only me.

I press my palm against her stomach, fingers splayed, feeling the soft rise and fall of her breath.

“You don’t need him.” My voice is honeyed, soothing, my grip tightening just enough to remind her who holds her now.

“You have me.” She stills beneath my touch, her pulse a frantic little thing beneath my fingertips.

“I have such wonderful news for you, little one.”

I feel her tense before she even speaks, her muscles coiling as if she might run.

She won’t.

She can’t.

“You are carrying our child.”

She goes rigid, as if the words have frozen her from the inside out. It is beautiful, the way her mind stops. The way her body barely dares to move, trapped between disbelief and horror. Her lip’s part, but no sound comes out.

I hum with a quiet approval, my thumb stroking gentle circles against her stomach. “You’ve done so well, little one,” I murmur, my voice dipping lower, warmer. “Our pup is growing inside you, and I will take such good care of you both.”

Her reaction is slow, delayed by the fractures in her mind, but then, a strangled noise, raw and desperate, rips from her throat. “No.” A single word, choked out like a prayer.

“Yes,” I correct, a quiet warning lacing my tone.

Her hands press against my chest as if to push me away, but there is no strength left in her limbs. She is nothing but trembling breath and wet, red-rimmed eyes, her fight dying before it can even begin.

“You will never leave this place.” I slide my fingers through her hair again, relishing the way she flinches at the tenderness. “But you will never need to.”

Her body shakes, tiny, broken movements. She tries to turn her face away, but I don’t let her. Instead, I tip her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze. “I will cherish you,” I tell her. “I will protect you. You are my pet, my perfect little thing, and I will never let you go.”

The sobs come harder now, wracking her body, but I hush her, drawing her closer, pressing my lips to her damp cheek.

“It’s all right, pet.”

A sharp inhale. A tremble. I can feel her slipping, spiraling down into the space I’ve carved out for her .

My fingers slide to her throat, a light, possessive pressure. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who owns her now. “I will take care of everything.”

Her breath shatters against my skin. Her body curls into mine, as if seeking something, anything, to hold on to.

I smile, slow and satisfied, stroking my thumb over the bruises forming beneath my grip. “You don’t need a ghost when you have a master.”