Page 22 of Writhe
My new pills—I can feel them dragging me down. Pulling me further into his complicity.
Theo looks like he wants to disappear. His cheeks are flushed, his jaw tight. I should hate him. But it’s hard to hate someone when they look like they might just break apart if you touch them too hard, which makes it worse. Because if he wanted this—if he liked this—it would be easier to fight him. It would be easier to bite and claw and spit in his face. But he’s trembling just as much as I am. He walks slowly across the room.
I stay still.
The Doctor clicks his tongue. “Eliza, do as you’re told.”
I don’t move.
Theo exhales sharply, a shuddering, guilty breath. “Please.”
My nails dig into my palms. He’s begging me to make it easy on him.
I won’t.
THEO
Eliza isn’t an animal.
She doesn’t want this. I don’t either. So why is my pulse hammering so fucking hard? And why is my dick so fucking hard. I widen the gap between Eliza and I, trying to make her understand with my eyes that she has to do this.
The Doctor hums in approval. “Now, Theo, tell her what she is.”
My throat goes dry. “What?”
He exhales, like he’s disappointed in me. “Tell her what she is.” A pause. “Say it.”
I don’t want to.
The Doctor clicks his tongue. “Still resisting? You don’t want to make this difficult, Theo. Tell her what she is.”
I swallow hard. My voice comes out quiet—wrong. “A pet,” I whisper.
Eliza’s jaw tightens.
“Louder.”
I hesitate too long.
The Doctor sighs. “Make her crawl.”
Eliza’s head snaps toward him, eyes dark and burning. “No.”
A single word.
The Doctor only smiles. “Then you know what happens next.”
My stomach plummets. I see it in her eyes—she knows too. Her hands tremble as she curls them into fists. Her breath comes quicker now, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow motions. She’s not scared—she’s furious. I look at the doctor, hoping . . . What? That he’ll change his mind? That he’ll stop?
He only lifts a brow. “Do it, Theo.”
I don’t move.
“Eliza needs discipline. Show her what happens when she disobeys.”
I should say no—I should fight this—but I don’t. I walk across the room and reach for her. She jerks away, but she’s too slow. I grab her wrist, pull her forward, drag her across the floor and onto the bench against the wall, bringing her to my lap like a doll with cut strings.
A doll. My beautiful porcelain doll.
