Page 1 of Your Devoted Monster

The problem with fucking strangers who reminded him of his attempted killer was that none of them were actually trying to kill him.

Ezra stared at the bruises on his throat in his phone's camera, prodding them with one finger. Too high. Too even. No real intent behind them. The gym bro who'd just left had wrapped his roid-thick hands around Ezra's neck like he was squeezing a stress ball, all pressure and no art.

Pathetic.

His apartment still reeked of the guy's body spray and mediocre sex.

Ezra hadn't even come, had faked it just to get the guy to leave.

He'd seemed proud of himself too, smirking before pulling on his Under Armour shirt, completely missing how Ezra's eyes had gone dead the moment he'd said "you like that, baby? "

No. He didn't like that. He hadn't liked anything in three years.

Ezra pulled on boxers—didn't bother cleaning up, liked the filthy feeling of being used even if it hadn't been good—and collapsed on his mattress.

2:47 AM. Halloween night bleeding into the early hours of November 1st. The worst time.

The time when his skin felt too tight and his scars ached and his body remembered things his therapist said he should "process in healthier ways. "

Dr. Martinez could go fuck herself. She didn't know what it was like to feel truly alive only once in your life, and to spend every moment after chasing that high.

He opened Grindr with the muscle memory of an addict reaching for a pipe. The grid loaded, showing the same disappointing options. DomTop4U (couldn't dom his way out of a paper bag). MascJock89 (had cried after Ezra bit him). ThroatGOAT (mediocre at best).

Ezra scrolled lower, past the profiles he'd already disappointed or been disappointed by. His standards were specific and impossible: someone actually dangerous. Someone who'd make his body remember what it was like to fight for survival. Someone who'd—

His thumb stopped moving.

The profile was new. Had to be. Ezra had memorized every torso in a ten-mile radius, and he'd never seen this one. Pale skin, expensive sheets, lean muscle with a dancer's grace rather than gym bulk. But that wasn't what made his breath catch in his throat.

It was the scar.

The scar.

Ezra's vision tunneled. The room went silent except for the rush of blood in his ears. His lungs forgot how to work, breath trapped somewhere between inhale and exhale, his body going into lockdown before his brain could catch up.

A defensive wound across the ribs, maybe four inches long, silvered but still visible against the pale skin.

The exact size and shape of the knife wound Ezra had given the Riverside Ripper three years ago when he'd fought for his life.

The memories slammed into him—the scramble as he’d snatched the knife from where it’d fallen, the weight of it in his hand, impossibly light.

The resistance of flesh parting, the wet heat of blood over his fingers.

He'd been on his back, nearly unconscious from being choked, vision starring at the edges.

Had driven the blade up and in with the last of his strength, felt it scrape across ribs before sinking deep.

His attacker had made a sound—not quite a scream, more like surprise, like betrayal.

Like Ezra had broken the rules of their game.

The knife had saved him. That wound had saved him. His hands creating that exact scar had been the difference between victim number six and survivor.

And now it was staring at him from a Grindr profile in the middle of the night.

Ezra's fingers cramped involuntarily, curling like they were still gripping a knife handle that wasn't there. Even though his mouth was dry as bone, he could taste copper on his tongue.

Profile name: YOUR DEVOTED MONSTER

Distance: 0.5 miles away

Bio: Come and find me.

Ezra's phone slipped from his hand, landing screen-up on the mattress, the scar glowing in the dark room. His heart was doing something dangerous in his chest, too fast and too hard, the kind of rhythm that came before passing out or throwing up or coming untouched.

He grabbed his phone again with shaking hands. Clicked the profile.

Created three weeks ago. One picture. No stats except—

Looking for: The one who got away.

No.

The room spun. Ezra pressed his palms against his eyes hard enough to see stars, trying to think through the adrenaline flooding his system.

Three weeks. This profile had existed for three weeks.

While he'd been fucking his way through disappointments, while he'd been going to therapy, while he'd been pretending to recover—the man who had tried to kill him had been that close, waiting like a trap with its jaws open.

His logical brain—the part that had kept him functional enough to hold down a job and maintain the facade of recovery—screamed at him to screenshot everything, call the cops, lock his doors.

This was evidence. This was proof the Riverside Ripper was still alive, no matter what they’d told him. Still here.

But…

But.

The profile had been there three weeks. If Gabriel wanted him dead, why advertise? Why wait? Why give Ezra the chance to call for help?

Gabriel.

The name came with the memory, sharp and intrusive: hands around his throat, the world going dark at the edges, a voice in his ear, intimate and gentle.

"I'm Gabriel. I want you to know who's killing you.

" Like it mattered. Like giving Ezra his name was a gift, something precious offered in the final moments.

The reverence in his voice had been worse than the pain, worse than the fear—like Ezra was special, chosen, beloved.

Gabriel had worn a mask that night: black, featureless, like an old-fashioned death's head.

Ezra had never seen his face. Only his eyes through the mask's holes, gray-green with rings of amber that had burned into Ezra's memory.

Only heard his voice, cultured and soft even while killing.

Only felt his hands, his weight, his presence.

Then the knife, and Gabriel's sharp intake of breath that might have been surprise or might have been something else entirely.

Come and find me.

Not "I'm coming for you." Not "you can't escape."

An invitation. A challenge.

Ezra's cock was fully hard now, had been since he'd seen the scar.

His body's wires were so crossed that fear and arousal were the same circuit, had been since that night.

Dr. Martinez called it a trauma response, gave him six different pills for it that he didn't take.

Ezra called it the only time he felt real anymore.

Everyone had told him that he was safe now. That the Ripper was probably dead. It had been three years since Ezra had stuck a knife into him, and the killings had stopped. Whoever the Ripper had been, it was over.

But that felt wrong in a way Ezra hadn’t been able to explain to the detective or Dr. Martinez or anyone who hadn't felt Gabriel's hands on them.

Gabriel was alive. Ezra had known it in his bones, in his scars, in the way he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And now here it was, three years later.

He could call the detective. Could do the right thing. Could be the good survivor who helped catch the bad guy. Ezra knew what everyone wanted from him.

Witness statements in sterile rooms. Crime scene photos he'd have to identify.

Forensic psychologists asking him to relive it in excruciating detail while they took notes.

Press conferences. A trial, maybe, if they caught him.

Sitting in a courtroom while lawyers dissected the worst night of his life, argued about whether Ezra had fought hard enough, questioned why he hadn't screamed louder.

And through it all, that soft careful pity in everyone's voices when they talked about his trauma, his recovery mindset, his healing process.

The performance of being a good victim made him want to claw his own skin off.

He could go through all that again. He could.

Or.

His fingers moved without his permission.

I found you.

The typing indicator appeared immediately. Like he'd been waiting. Like he'd been watching Ezra's profile, knowing exactly when he'd be desperate enough to look, horny enough to make bad decisions, empty enough to—

I've been watching you.

All those disappointments you bring home—none of them are what you really want, are they?

Ezra's cock twitched traitorously in his boxers. His scars burned. He should be terrified. Should be disgusted with himself for getting hard. Instead, he was aching like a teenager, his body screaming yes even as his brain tried to remember why this was wrong.

He was disgusted with himself. The self-loathing was there, hot and acidic in his throat, but it just made him harder.

Made him want it more. He was getting off on being stalked by the Riverside Ripper—the serial killer who'd murdered five men before him, who'd had his hands around Ezra's throat and whispered his name like a prayer while choking the life out of him.

And Ezra's cock was so hard it hurt, leaking into boxers still filthy with another man's come.

Fucking broken. Fucking ruined. And too far gone to care.

How long have you been watching?

Six months.

The bartender with the neck tattoo? Pathetic technique with that belt. All force, no finesse.

Six months. Six months of being watched. That was six months longer than anyone else in Ezra’s life had stuck around.

Why wait?

I needed you to understand something first.

That you've been trying to fuck the memory of me out of your system.

And you’ve been failing.

You needed to know this before you'd admit that you're still mine.

The words hit like a punch. Ezra's breath caught in his throat, because Gabriel was right.

The last three years had been a progressive spiral—trying harder and harder to feel something, anything, letting strangers do more and more, pushing boundaries that kept expanding into emptiness.

He'd been drowning slowly, and Gabriel had been watching him drown.

Waiting for him to be desperate enough.

You've been in my apartment.

Not a question. He knew. Could feel it suddenly, the wrongness he'd attributed to trauma, his paranoid fucked-up mind. Things moved slightly. The sense of being watched even with curtains closed. That one time he'd come home to find his window cracked when he knew he'd locked it.

Your lock is from 1982. The fire escape window doesn't latch properly. No cameras, no doorman, no neighbors who care.

You made it so easy, Ezra. Almost like an invitation.

Ezra's free hand went to his scars, pressing through the thin shirt. They throbbed in time with his heartbeat. His cock was so hard it hurt. He was disgusting. Broken. Getting off on being stalked by a serial killer. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Everything. Everything was wrong with him, and he was too far gone to care.

Were you here tonight?

The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Like Gabriel was choosing his words carefully.

Did you want me to be?

The question made Ezra's vision blur at the edges.

His hand moved to his cock without permission, pressing against it through his boxers.

He couldn't answer that. Didn't know the answer.

Had just wanted more—more than that gym bro could give, more than anyone had been able to give him in three years.

Yeah.

He typed it before he could stop himself, then immediately wanted to take it back. But it was true. God help him, it was true.

I was close enough to smell his cologne. Atrocious.

You have terrible taste in men, Ezra.

Present company excluded, of course.

The words took a moment to sink in, like his brain was moving through molasses.

Not outside the window, then. Not on the fire escape looking in.

Inside.

The realization crashed over him in waves.

The closet—he'd heard it creak tonight, hadn't he?

Had dismissed it as the building settling.

Or had Gabriel been under the bed, close enough that if Ezra's hand had fallen over the edge, he might have touched Gabriel's face in the dark?

Had he been behind the bathroom door, watching through the crack as Ezra let a stranger use him?

Gabriel had been there. Had watched every degrading moment. Had been so close Ezra might have felt his breath if he'd turned his head at the wrong moment.

The violation of it should have terrified him. Should have sent him running to the police, to anyone.

Instead, his cock throbbed, his body going hot and cold at once. He'd been that exposed, that vulnerable, and hadn't even known. Had been performing without realizing he had an audience of one—the only audience that mattered.

The thought made Ezra dizzy. Made his hand shake so badly he could barely type.

Why didn't you finish it? That night?

Who says I'm not finishing it now? Just taking the scenic route.

Where are you?

The old Murphy warehouse.

Door's unlocked.

Stop overthinking, Ezra. You've been dying slowly for three years.

Let me make you feel alive again.

Ezra stood on shaking legs. His phone was still in his hand, screen glowing in the dark room. He could still call someone. Could still make the smart choice.

Instead, he grabbed jeans from the floor and yanked them on commando, the denim rough against his sensitive cock. Threw on the first shirt his hands found, some band tee with holes in it.

If he stopped, his brain might catch up to what he was doing. Might make him hesitate. Might make him a coward forever, always wondering what would have happened if he'd just been brave enough to walk out the door.

No wallet. No ID. No phone. No keys.

If he died tonight, he wanted to make them work to identify his body.

He paused at his door for half a second, hand on the knob. This was insane. This was suicide with extra steps. This was—

No. This was the first choice he'd made in three years that felt like his. Not his therapist's. Not the detective's. Not society's idea of what a good survivor should do.

His.

For three years, he'd been living someone else's version of recovery. Taking their pills, saying the right things in therapy, performing healing he didn't feel. For three years, he'd let other people tell him what he needed, what he should want, how he should process what had happened.

Did you want me to be?

Gabriel was the only one who'd ever asked him what he wanted. And Gabriel already knew the answer.

Ezra left his apartment door unlocked and walked into the October night barefoot, the cold air biting into his skin.

The streets were still littered with Halloween debris—crushed candy wrappers, a discarded witch hat, toilet paper in a tree.

A woman walking her dog crossed the street when she saw him—some guy in ill-fitting jeans and a ratty shirt stumbling along at 3 AM like the walking dead, like another Halloween costume that hadn't quite made it home.

He barely noticed. Felt disconnected from his body, floating somewhere above it, watching himself make the worst decision of his life.

Or maybe the best.

He couldn't tell the difference anymore.