Page 36 of Writhe
He finally turns, and the look on his face guts me. He’s furious, but not at me. At himself. His dark eyes are wild, glassy with something he won’t let fall. He looks like he’s unraveling. Like the weight of what he’s done is caving in on him, crushing his ribs from theinside out. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, voice thick, shaking. “I didn’t have a choice.”
I shake my head, but he steps closer, crowding me against the door.
His presence burns.
“He’s trying to fix us, Eliza. Don’t you see? We’re sick.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “You actually believe that?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “I believe that if you don’t do what he says, he’ll destroy you.”
“He already has.”
Theo flinches like I’ve struck him.
“He raped me. And I liked it. How fucked up is that, Theo!?”
Silence stretches between us, thick with things unsaid.
Then, suddenly, he’s on me.
His hands tangle in my hair, his lips crashing against mine. And for the first time in days, I feel something other than cold. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s desperate. Theo kisses me like he’s drowning. Like he’s trying to convince himself that I’m still here, still breathing, still his. And maybe I am. Maybe I want to be. His body presses against mine, caging me in, his breaths uneven, his hands shaking where they cradle my face.
“You have to be good, Eliza,” he ghosts against my lips, his voice cracking. “Please—Just—Be my beautiful doll and just play with him.”
I hate him for saying it. But I hate myself more for the way my body betrays me, melting into him, craving the only warmth I’ve been given in days. I don’t know if I’ll survive in this place.
But I know I won’t survive it without Theo.
Theo trembles against me, his breathing harsh, fingers twitching where they cradle my face. When he pulls back, his eyes burn into mine, pupils blown wide, something unhinged lurking behind them. He’s shaking his head, whispering under his breath.
“No . . . no, no, no, I can’t.”
His hands drop to my shoulders, gripping too tight, his whole body wracked with something too big for him to contain. His forehead presses against mine, the heat of him branding me, his breath shuddering between us.
“I can’t see you like this,” he rasps. “I won’t.”
His grip tightens, fingers digging in. My pulse jumps.
“My little Dollface . . .” His voice is barely a whisper, reverent and breaking. “He’s cracking you, isn’t he? Splitting you open, piece by piece.” He exhales sharply, his lips brushing against my temple. “I can’t watch it happen. I won’t let him ruin you—ruin my toy.”
My breath stutters in my chest. There’s something possessive in the way he holds me, something that makes the air between us thick and suffocating. He’s unraveling, but at the same time, he’s claiming.
“You’re mine.” His voice is dark, shaking with too many emotions layered at once. rage, sorrow,something deeper. “Even if I have to share you with him.” He cups my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You are mine to break, mine to put back together. My perfect little doll.”
I swallow hard.
Say what?
“I—”
“Say. It.” His fingers flex against my skin. His jaw is tight, his eyes desperate. “Tell me you’re mine.”
Something inside me twists, a dark part of me curling around the demand. I should shove him away. I should fight, scream, push him out of my space. But I don’t. Because maybe I am his. Maybe I’ve always been his.
My voice barely a breath when I speak. “I’m yours. But what if I’m also his?”
Theo shudders, exhaling like he’s been holding it in for years. His fingers slide down my arms, his touch rough, grounding, possessive.
