Page 7 of Your Devoted Monster

It worked.

Holy shit, it actually worked.

Ezra's heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his fingertips, in the hand gripping the knife. The kiss—their first kiss, and he'd used it as a fucking distraction—had done exactly what he'd needed. The rush of freedom, of got him, sang through Ezra's veins.

He could still feel the ghost of it on his lips.

Gabriel had gone so still when Ezra kissed him, just for a heartbeat, like he hadn't expected it.

Like it mattered more than all the violence that had come before.

His mouth had been hot, demanding, tasting like copper and want.

For half a second Gabriel had melted into it, his grip loosening, his control wavering—

And that was all the time Ezra needed.

Now Ezra had a blade to Gabriel’s throat.

The look on Gabriel's face—shock bleeding into delight bleeding into pride—was worth every hour Ezra had spent practicing with zip ties in his shitty apartment.

His pupils were blown so wide the amber ring around them had nearly disappeared, swallowed by black.

His lips were parted, kiss-bruised and swollen from Ezra's mouth.

A flush was creeping up his throat, staining that perfect pale skin pink.

Ezra had never seen him look anything but composed, controlled, predatory.

This was something else entirely.

Ezra pressed the knife harder against Gabriel's perfect throat, right where the pulse hammered wild and desperate, and felt Gabriel's cock throb inside him in response. Still hard. Still wanting. Still connected.

Good.

He could see his reflection in Gabriel's dilated pupils—face a mess of blood and tears and spit, neck covered in bite marks, completely debauched. But holding a knife. In control.

For the first time in three years, Ezra was the dangerous one.

"My clever boy," Gabriel breathed, and somehow made it sound like worship despite having a knife to his throat. Despite being at Ezra's mercy. "My perfect survivor."

Gabriel's voice was rougher than Ezra had ever heard it—that careful, cultured tone shredded into something raw. His throat worked around the words, Adam's apple bobbing against the blade.

The words shouldn't have made Ezra's chest tight. Shouldn't have mattered. But they did.

Ezra stared at him, at the knife pressed to that pale throat. One inch forward. That's all it would take. Just a little pressure and Gabriel's blood would paint the concrete, hot and arterial. He could watch the light fade from those amber-ringed eyes. Could finally, finally be free.

Three years of hunting, of being hunted, of this sick twisted thing between them. He could end it right now. Should end it. Should press down and finish what he started in that warehouse three years ago when he stabbed Gabriel and ran.

But his hand wouldn't move.

Because Gabriel was looking at him like Ezra had hung the fucking moon.

Like this—being helpless, being at Ezra's mercy, having a knife to his throat—was exactly where he wanted to be.

His eyes were soft in a way Ezra had never seen, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the blade and everything to do with Ezra.

It was more intimate than any of the violence that had come before.

"You're thinking about it," Gabriel said, voice rough with something that might have been hope or fear or arousal—probably all three. "How easy it would be."

"So easy," Ezra agreed. He let the knife bite just a little, watching a bead of blood well up dark and perfect against pale skin.

The blood was warm when it rolled down Gabriel's throat. Ezra wanted to lick it off. Wanted to press harder. Wanted to pull away. Wanted everything and nothing all at once.

Gabriel's hips jerked involuntarily, pushing deeper, and Ezra could feel how close he was to losing control.

That perfect serial killer composure cracking because Ezra held his life in his hands.

Gabriel's pulse was racing where they were connected—Ezra could feel it through Gabriel's cock, each heartbeat a throb of arousal, getting impossibly harder at the threat of death.

The restraint was visible in every line of his body—muscles tense, jaw clenched, throat working.

But his eyes. God, his eyes were wild. Feral. Still dangerous despite everything, maybe more dangerous because of it. This wasn't Gabriel defanged. This was Gabriel showing Ezra the raw truth underneath all that control—the thing that wanted to be known, to be seen, to be matched.

He wants this, Ezra realized with a jolt. He wants me to have this power. Wants to be helpless for me the way I was helpless for him.

The thought made something dark and possessive unfurl in Ezra's chest.

Without warning, without thinking it through, Ezra lunged up and moved.

Gabriel hit the concrete with a grunt of surprise, and before he could even react, Ezra was on top of him, straddling his hips, knife back at his throat like it had never left. Ezra didn't give him time to adjust, didn't give either of them time to think.

“Ezra,” Gabriel gasped, but Ezra was already reaching between them with his free hand, frantically guiding Gabriel's cock back inside. No finesse, no patience, just desperate need to be filled again while he held Gabriel's life in his hands.

Gabriel's face when Ezra sank back down on him—fuck. His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back. That careful mask completely gone, replaced by raw need. He looked younger like this, less controlled. More real.

This time Ezra was in control, setting the pace, taking what he wanted. This time Gabriel was the one pinned, helpless, at Ezra's mercy.

The reversal made Ezra's head spin.

"Three years," Ezra said, already starting to move, rolling his hips in slow, deliberate circles that made Gabriel's breath catch. "Three years of thinking about this moment."

Three years of nightmares and fantasies all bleeding together. Three years of wanting Gabriel dead and wanting him here, wanting revenge and wanting this.

He lifted up until just the tip remained inside, then slammed back down hard enough to make Gabriel's eyes roll back, to make his whole body arch off the concrete.

Set a punishing rhythm that had Gabriel gasping beneath him, that perfect mouth open and panting.

"Thought about killing you," he continued, grinding down hard, reveling in the control, in watching Gabriel fall apart. "Thought about finding you and—fuck—!"

Gabriel thrust up to meet him, hitting that spot that made him see stars, and Ezra's knife hand wavered for just a second.

But Gabriel's face—Jesus, the look on Gabriel's face.

Pure desperation, pure need, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Sweat beading on his temples. That pale skin flushed all the way down his chest.

Ezra’s free hand tore open Gabriel’s shirt, found exactly what he needed to see. The scar was raised, proud under his fingers. "Thought about gutting you properly this time."

Gabriel's cock twitched hard inside him at that, hips jerking up involuntarily. “Tell me.”

"You're sick," Ezra gasped, riding him harder now, knife pressing deeper against his throat, watching another bead of blood well up. Watching Gabriel's eyes, hungry and reverent.

"So are you." Gabriel's hands gripped his hips bruisingly tight, fucking up into him with abandon, no pretense of control left. His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable.

He was right. Ezra was getting hard again, his cock filling. His blood was singing, every nerve ending alive with power and danger and twisted intimacy.

They stopped talking then, just bodies moving together, violent and perfect.

Ezra rode him like he was trying to break them both, knife steady at Gabriel's throat even as his rhythm grew frantic.

He could feel everything—the burn in his thighs, the stretch of Gabriel inside him, the weight of the knife in his hand, the warmth of Gabriel's blood on his fingers.

And Gabriel beneath him, coming undone in ways Ezra had only dreamed about. Every thrust made Gabriel's breath hitch, made his eyes flutter, made that controlled facade crack wider. His hands were desperate on Ezra's hips, guiding but not controlling. Helping but not taking over.

Those amber-ringed eyes that had haunted Ezra for three years weren't looking at him with murder anymore. Or even with lust. It was something else, something worse. Recognition. Like looking in a mirror and seeing your own madness reflected back.

We're the same, Ezra thought, and didn't know if the realization was horrifying or comforting. We're both so fucking wrong—

And we're perfect for each other because of it.

Gabriel's hand came up slowly, deliberately, and wrapped around Ezra's wrist. Not fighting for the knife. Not trying to disarm him. Just... holding. Their fingers tangled together around the handle, both of them gripping the weapon that had started everything.

Ezra's breath caught. He could feel Gabriel's pulse through their joined hands, racing as fast as his own. Could see something new in Gabriel's hungry gaze.

Gabriel guided their joined hands down from his throat to his chest, right over his heart.

And Ezra knew what he wanted without being told.

He carved the first letter into Gabriel's chest, right over his heart. E.

The knife cut through skin like butter. Blood welled up immediately, hot against Ezra's fingers.

Gabriel's breath caught on the first slice, then came out in a rush. "Fuck—"

A choked sound ripped from his throat as he lost it completely. His hands scrabbled at Ezra's thighs, trying to hold on, trying to anchor himself, failing. His hips jerked up in sharp, uncontrolled thrusts, fucking into Ezra like he didn't have a choice, like his body had taken over completely.

The composed, meticulous serial killer—gone. Just this: Gabriel shaking apart, blood running down his chest, Ezra's initial carved over his heart, coming so hard he couldn't breathe.

Ezra felt every pulse of it. Gabriel filling him up while falling to pieces.

And Ezra had done that. He had broken Gabriel. The power of it was overwhelming.

But Ezra wasn't done. He kept moving, riding Gabriel through his orgasm and past it, until Gabriel was gasping and shaking from overstimulation, hips still jerking up involuntarily.

This. This was what Ezra needed to see. Not the composed killer. The raw thing underneath. The human, broken, desperate thing that matched Ezra's own darkness.

The blood was running down Gabriel's chest in rivulets now, pooling in the hollows of his collarbones, and Gabriel was looking at it like it was art, like it was everything he'd ever wanted.

Like Ezra had given him the most perfect gift.

His eyes were glazed, unfocused, that sharp intellect drowned in endorphins and pain and pleasure all mixed together.

Beautiful. Gabriel looked so fucking beautiful like this—undone, vulnerable, his. Not safe. Never safe. But real. The monster showing its soft underbelly, trusting Ezra not to gut him. Or trusting that if Ezra did, it would be worth it.

Ezra carved faster. Z. R. A. Each letter deeper than the last, the blade biting through skin.

Gabriel stared down at it. At his own blood spelling out Ezra’s name across his chest. And the look on his face—

Ezra came.

No warning, no build-up. Just the sight of that look and he was gone, coming untouched, streaking white across Gabriel's bloody chest. His vision whited out, the knife slipping from his grip as he doubled over, gasping.

When he could see again, Gabriel was staring up at him like Ezra had just rewritten reality. Like nothing else had ever mattered.

They stayed frozen. Both shaking. Ezra's come mixing with Gabriel's blood, forming inkblot patterns across Gabriel’s skin.

His name. Carved in two-inch letters over Gabriel's heart.

Permanent. Real. No going back.

Gabriel's eyes were soft, unfocused, coming back from wherever the pain and pleasure had sent him.

There was blood smeared across his collarbones, his jaw, his lips.

A drop of it on his cheekbone that Ezra had the strangest urge to wipe away.

His hair was a mess, sweaty and stuck to his forehead.

Without all the violence and terror and lust clouding everything, Ezra could see things he'd never noticed before.

The tiny scar through Gabriel's left eyebrow. The curve of his mouth. A small mole just below his ear. The particular way the amber in his eyes caught the dim light, like honey backlit by sun.

Human details. Intimate details. The kind of things you only noticed about someone when you were actually looking at them, not just at what they represented.

Gabriel was looking back just as intently, and Ezra knew he was doing the same thing. Cataloging. Memorizing. Seeing Ezra as a person, not just a victim-turned-partner, not just an obsession made flesh.

Just... them. Two completely fucked-up people who'd somehow found each other.

In five minutes they'd probably be at it again—more blood, more violence, three years of feelings still bleeding out between them in all the wrong ways. But right now, in this moment, they were just quiet. Just breathing. Just looking.

It felt more intimate than anything else they'd done tonight.

Gabriel looked down at the blood running down his chest, then back up at Ezra. "You know what this means.”

"What?"

"We match now." His fingers traced over Ezra's scars, the ones he'd made three years ago. "You marked me. I marked you. We're even."

Ezra laughed, dark and broken, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "We're nowhere near even."

"No," Gabriel agreed, still smiling that dangerous smile. "We're just getting started."

He sat up suddenly, making Ezra gasp as the angle shifted, Gabriel's cock still inside him, still half-hard despite everything. Blood was everywhere—on their hands, their chests, the concrete beneath them. They looked like a crime scene. They were a crime scene.

Gabriel's hands came up to frame Ezra's face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones with a gentleness that shouldn't be possible from a serial killer. His eyes were still wild, still dangerous, but there was something else there now. Something that looked like wonder.

"My turn," Gabriel said, voice wrecked and rough, and before Ezra could react, flipped them over, pinning Ezra beneath him. The knife skittered away across the concrete. "You're not the only one who's been practicing."