Page 45 of Writhe
He doesn’t falter, doesn’t slow. His pace measured and punishing as he fucks me through Theo’s aftershocks, through my own overstimulated agony.
I try to pull away—too much, too raw—but he doesn’t let me. His hand on my throat tightens, his other wrapping around my waist, holding me in place as he uses me, takes me.
“Where do you want it, doll?” His voice is deceptively smooth, but his restraint is slipping. “Inside? Want me to fill you up like the good little pet you are?”
I don’t know if I answer. If I even can.
It doesn’t matter.
He decides for me.
With a low, guttural groan, the Doctor buries himself deep, his body trembling as he spills inside me, claiming me in the only way that matters. “Give you a nice big litter. Raise our pups together.”
Theo huffs a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to my shoulder. “Fucking wrecked her.”
The Doctor hums with approval, his fingers trailing down my spine. My body feels boneless, every muscle trembling, every nerve ending fried. Theo presses another lazy kiss to my shoulder, but I can barely register it. My mind is slipping, the world around me blurring at the edges.
A hand. warm, possessive. cups my cheek. The Doctor. “Shh, pet,” he soothes, his voice a low hum, dripping with satisfaction. “Rest. You’ve earned it.”
I try to respond, to say something—anything. But the words never come.
Darkness creeps in, soft and inescapable. My body gives out before my mind does, and the last thing I feel is the weight of them around me, caging me in.
Safe. Owned. Theirs.
And then, nothing.
Ican still taste her on my tongue, and I swear to God, it’s killing me.
After bed checks are done, I manage to slip out of my room and go down the hall. Thank God that I was able to swipe the key from one of the janitors earlier today. Making breaking into Eliza’s room much easier.
I slip inside her room, silent as a shadow, every muscle in my body wrung out and trembling. The air is thick with her scent—-sweat, skin, something sweeter beneath it all. My head is a fog of need and nausea. The Doctor made me do it—madeusdo it—and she took it all. Let me break her, let me love her the only way I’m allowed.
I’m sick. I’m fucking sick. And I like it.
The room is small, suffocating, but she’s made it hers, with scattered drawings taped to the walls like a desperate claim to sanity. I step closer, drawn in like I have no other choice.
And then I see them. Well . . . I seeme.I stare, breath shuddering out of me in uneven bursts. Dozens of sketches.Hundreds.Eyes, dark and hollow. Hands, fingers curled around invisible wrists. My mouth, my teeth, parted like I’m whispering something only she can hear.
A lump swells in my throat, thick and choking. My hands hover over the paper, my fingertips tracing the edges without touching.
She sees me.
Not just the pieces of me that exist in this place, but the parts no one else has ever looked at. She’s known me all along. And then, one sketch pulls the breath from my lungs entirely. It’s different—drawn softer. Me, asleep, my head resting on her lap, her fingers buried in my hair. Not taking. Not breaking. Just being.
My vision blurs, my throat tightening.This is proof.Proof that she was made for me, that I was made for her. That no matter what the Doctor tries to twist in us, no matter how he pushes, she knows the truth just as much as I do.
I tear my gaze away, and there she is.
Eliza sleeps curled in on herself, a tangle of too-thin sheets and pale skin bathed in silver light. Her hair spills across the pillow, a dark halo framing herbeautiful features. She looks like a doll someone forgot to put away. A perfect, breakable thing.
My perfect thing.
The marks are still there—the ones I gave her. The bruises on her wrists, the fading imprints of fingers around her throat. The streaks along her thighs, the evidence of what I’ve done—what we’ve done. Something sick inside of me is thrilled at the sight, but another part, the part that aches, wants to gather her up, wants to smooth my hands over the places that still burn and whisper apologies that mean nothing. Because I know that tomorrow I will be forced to do those things for her. Forced to come to the realization that we both like the depravity of the act. Of the submission she willingly hands over to me.
She shifts, breath hitching in sleep. I sink to the floor beside the bed, my knees drawn up, hands clenched so tight my nails bite deep. “I shouldn’t be here.”
But I can’t stay away. A sound leaves her lips, a quiet, fragile murmur. She says my name. Not his. Not a plea. Not a curse. Just “Theo.”
