Page 4 of Your Devoted Monster

Gabriel finally turned Ezra around to face him, and the impact of it—looking directly at him, no wall between them, no avoidance—hit Gabriel like a physical blow. This close, with nothing between them, Ezra's eyes were devastating. Dark and defiant and hungry all at once.

Gabriel had imagined this moment a thousand times—what it would be like to finally look Ezra in the eyes without a mask between them. But imagination had been inadequate.

Up close, Ezra was a mess. Bruises layering bruises on his throat, old rope burns visible beneath tonight's disappointment.

Dark circles under his eyes from too many sleepless nights.

Cheeks slightly hollowed, like he'd forgotten to eat, too busy chasing something he couldn't name.

The white t-shirt hung off a frame that had lost weight since Gabriel had last held it.

Three years of damage written across someone who used to be unmarked.

Gabriel had done this. Started this. That night three years ago had been the catalyst, and everything after—every bad decision, every dangerous man, every spiral—traced back to Gabriel's hands on Ezra's throat.

He should feel guilty. Should feel something resembling remorse.

Instead, he felt possessive. Proprietary. Like an artist looking at a work-in-progress that had been touched by inferior hands. All those bruises, all that damage—none of it was done right. None of it was Gabriel's.

But Ezra's eyes. Those were still sharp, still aware, still fighting despite the exhaustion etched into every other part of him. Still the same eyes that had looked up at Gabriel three years ago and chosen survival over submission.

The rapid flutter of Ezra's pulse hammered visibly beneath pale skin. His throat worked when he tried to swallow. The exposed vulnerability of his windpipe, carotid arteries, all the delicate mechanics that kept him alive laid bare…

All his.

Gabriel's hand found Ezra's throat again, thumb pressing against his pulse. The other hand gripped Ezra's hip, keeping him in place.

"Tell me," Gabriel said, holding that eye contact even though it felt like staring into the sun, "what they did to you. Every disappointing thing. Every failed attempt to make you feel."

“Fuck off.”

The hand on his neck tightened. "That wasn't a request."

Ezra's breath hitched. "Kyle. Tonight. He choked me."

"Too high on the throat," Gabriel said, his voice tight with frustration. "All windpipe, no arteries. Amateur."

He shifted his grip to the correct position—lower, precise, exactly where the carotid arteries pulsed under his fingers.

Gabriel knew the exact pressure needed, had practiced on five different necks before Ezra.

He applied it now, felt Ezra's whole body jerk, the sharp intake of breath followed by that telltale feeling that meant the blood flow was properly restricted.

Gabriel watched Ezra as his eyes went unfocused, his mouth fell open, his body went simultaneously rigid and pliant. Beautiful. This is what it was supposed to look like. This is what those others had denied him.

"What else?" he asked, loosening his grip just enough to let Ezra speak, to let blood flow back to his brain.

"Someone—fuck—" Ezra had to swallow twice. "Someone tied my wrists. Last week. But the knots came loose."

Gabriel actually laughed at that, the sound harsh in the empty warehouse.

These amateurs with their rope and their negotiations and their pretend danger.

Without warning, he wrenched Ezra's arms behind his back, brutal and efficient.

The zip tie went on in one practiced motion—zzzzip—that distinctive sound echoing off concrete walls.

No safewords here. No quick release. Just commitment.

He felt Ezra test the restraints once, a reflexive pull that only made the plastic bite deeper into his wrists. Then Ezra went still with something that looked like relief.

This was real. The plastic couldn't be negotiated with, couldn't be undone with a word. This was what Ezra had been searching for in all those disappointing beds—genuine loss of control.

And Gabriel—Gabriel's hands were shaking slightly as he ran them down Ezra's restrained arms, as he tested the zip tie's hold. Because this was it. Ezra was helpless now, completely at Gabriel's mercy, and instead of fear Gabriel felt something like reverence.

He shoved Ezra to his knees, hard enough that the impact against concrete would bruise. Then he grabbed a fistful of Ezra’s hair, wrenched his head back to force eye contact.

The sight made Gabriel's breath catch in his chest.

Ezra on his knees, arms trapped behind him, looking up at Gabriel with pupils shot wide—fear and want and deep recognition in those dark eyes. Like he was finally seeing Gabriel clearly. Like he was finally being seen.

This. This was the masterpiece Gabriel had been trying to create all along without knowing it.

"What else?" Gabriel asked, keeping that painful grip in his hair, unable to look away.

"The bartender," Ezra's voice was already wrecked, rough. "Three months ago. He slapped me."

Gabriel remembered. Had watched from the closet as that pathetic attempt at dominance played out. The bartender had telegraphed every hit, pulled his punches, hit like he was afraid of leaving marks. Like violence was just a way to play pretend, of instead of the gift it was.

Without warning, Gabriel's palm connected with Ezra's cheek, sharp, precise. The sound echoed in the warehouse like a gunshot.

Ezra's head snapped to the side. A sound escaped his throat—not pain, not protest. Relief. Pure, desperate relief.

Before Ezra could recover, Gabriel backhanded the other side. Then again. Alternating, putting real force behind each one, watching Ezra's face blossom red, watching tears spring to his eyes and stream down his cheeks.

And Ezra's cock—Gabriel could see it jerking with each impact, flushed and leaking. Finally getting what he needed. The real thing, not theater.

Gabriel's palm stung. His control was slipping further with each hit, with each broken sound Ezra made. This wasn't about punishment or dominance. This was about truth. About stripping away every layer of pretense until only raw need remained.

He waited until Ezra's eyes went glassy, that telltale look of someone floating on endorphins and pain, before stopping. His hand ached. Ezra's face was a mess of red and tears.

Beautiful. Gabriel had never created anything more beautiful than this.

"What else?" His voice stayed calm, conversational, even though his heart was racing, even though he felt like he was coming apart. "Tell me how else they failed you."

"There was—" Ezra had to swallow twice before continuing, voice thick and slurred. "Guy two weeks ago. Wanted to fuck my throat. Kept talking about how good he was at it. How I'd love it."

"And?"

"He lasted maybe a minute."

Gabriel made a disgusted sound. Men who bragged about their skills were always compensating for inadequacy. "Open your mouth."

This time Ezra didn't hesitate, didn't question. His jaw dropped open immediately, obedient. Gabriel could see his tongue, could see down his throat, could see the tears still making tracks down his reddened cheeks.

Perfection. Complete surrender from someone who fought everyone else.

Gabriel slid his fingers in—two, then three, pressing down on Ezra's tongue.

He knew exactly when he hit the gag reflex by the way Ezra's whole body convulsed, but Gabriel didn't pull back.

Instead he held steady, watching Ezra's throat work, listening to the wet choking sounds, feeling the drool run warm down his hand.

This was about desensitization. About teaching Ezra's body to accept what was coming. About breaking down those reflexes until only submission remained.

"Control," Gabriel said while Ezra struggled, while tears streamed faster, while those dark eyes looked up at him with something between desperation and worship. “That’s what they don’t understand. It’s not about pleasure. It's all about control."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, watching the string of saliva that connected them stretch and snap. Ezra gasped, coughing, drool dripping down his chin, wrecked and beautiful.

Gabriel unbuckled his belt with one hand, keeping the other fisted in Ezra's hair. The sound of the leather sliding free made Ezra's whole body shudder, made his pupils dilate even further.

Recognition. Memory. Want.

Gabriel freed himself from his slacks, already hard—had been since Ezra sent him that first message. The way Ezra's eyes tracked the movement, the way his tongue darted out to wet his swollen lips unconsciously, made Gabriel's cock throb.

Three years. Three years of imagining this exact moment, and his imagination had been pathetically inadequate.

He yanked Ezra's head forward by his hair, brutal, no warning.

Ezra made a sound between a gasp and a moan, eyes going wide as Gabriel's cock brushed against his cheek, leaving a wet streak.

The size difference between them was more obvious now—Ezra on his knees, hands bound, having to crane his neck up. Completely at Gabriel's mercy.

Gabriel traced the head of his cock over Ezra's lips, watching them part automatically. The eagerness made something possessive and hungry unfurl in Gabriel's chest. All those men who'd used this mouth, and none of them had appreciated what they had. None of them had deserved it.

Without warning, Gabriel pushed in—not gentle, not careful, just taking what was his. When he hit the back of Ezra's throat, he kept going, feeling the resistance, the panic, the moment when Ezra's body tried to lock up and reject the intrusion.

But Gabriel held him there, held him down, felt Ezra's throat constrict and convulse around him. Felt the panic turn to acceptance turn to something else.

The sounds Ezra made—desperate, wet, choking—went straight to Gabriel's hindbrain, the part that understood dominance and submission on a cellular level.

The way Ezra's throat worked around him, fighting and accepting at the same time.

The tears streaming down his face. The way his bound arms strained uselessly against the zip ties, unable to push Gabriel away, unable to do anything but take it.

Gabriel pulled back just before Ezra's body went limp from lack of air, then slammed back in. Set a brutal rhythm that had Ezra gagging, drooling, completely at his mercy.

Each thrust pushed Ezra closer to that edge where thought stopped and only sensation remained. Gabriel could see it happening—watch the moment when Ezra's eyes fell shut, when his jaw went slack, when he stopped trying to control anything and just accepted.

This was what those pathetic substitutes never understood. It wasn't about getting off. It was about erasure. About taking someone so far out of their own head that thought became impossible. About creating a space where nothing existed except Gabriel and what he was choosing to give.

Gabriel pulled out completely, watched Ezra gasp and cough and drool. Then, because he could, because Ezra was his to use however he wanted, Gabriel rubbed his cock against Ezra's tear-stained cheek, collecting the salt of him.

The sight of it—his cock against Ezra's ruined face, the tears and spit and surrender—made something crack further in Gabriel's chest.

He'd killed five men before Ezra, arranged their bodies the way he wanted them. But this—Ezra on his knees, face a ruin, eyes gone soft and trusting even as Gabriel used him—this was the masterpiece. This was what he'd been trying to create all along without knowing it.

Gabriel pushed back in, slower this time, watching Ezra's eyes lose focus. Out again. Back in, deeper, holding until Ezra's chest started to heave with the need for air.

Gabriel lost track of time, lost in the rhythm of destruction and rebuild. Push in, watch Ezra's throat convulse. Pull out, watch him gasp like he was drowning. Again. Again. Again.

The thinking part of Ezra—the part that doubted, that hated himself, that carried three years of failed attempts to feel something real—was dissolving.

Gabriel could see it in the way his eyes went empty of everything but present sensation.

No past. No future. Just Gabriel's cock in his throat and the seconds before he was allowed to breathe.

And Gabriel... Christ, Gabriel was coming apart in ways that had nothing to do with the wet heat of Ezra's mouth.

Every time Ezra's throat opened for him, every time those bound arms stopped straining against the zip ties, every time he chose to take Gabriel deeper instead of pulling away—it was rewriting something fundamental in Gabriel's understanding of himself.

He'd thought he was above this. Above connection. Above anything that required another living person.

But watching Ezra come undone, watching him choose this, choose Gabriel—it was better than any kill. Better than any arrangement. Better than anything Gabriel had ever experienced.

Gabriel pulled out one more time, looked down at what he'd made.

Ezra's face was barely recognizable—lips wet and obscene, cheeks painted with tears and come and spit, eyes unfocused and glassy.

He wasn't thinking anymore. Wasn't worrying or wanting or remembering.

He was just... present. Existing only in this moment, waiting for whatever Gabriel would give him next.

"Look at you," Gabriel whispered, not sure if Ezra could even process words anymore. His hand gentled in Ezra's hair, the gesture almost tender. "Finally here. Finally mine."

And for the first time in three years, Gabriel felt complete.