Page 49 of Writhe
For the first time, there is no urgency between us. No hunger, no violence, no edge of desperation threatening to consume us both. Just this. The quiet aftermath, the fragile peace of tangled limbs and whispered breaths in the dark.
I close my eyes, letting myself sink into it, into him.Theo presses his lips to my hair. “We’ll get better,” he murmurs. “The Doctor will help us.”
Something on my chest clenches. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
He believes it.
After everything—the pain, the bruises, the way the Doctor bends us and breaks us and stitches us back together with cruelty disguised as kindness, Theo still thinks there’s a way out. That if we just follow the rules, if we submit, if we behave, we’ll be fixed.
We’ll be saved.
A lump forms in my throat. I want to believe him. I want to close my eyes and picture a future where we aren’t trapped behind these sterile white walls, where the sound of locks clicking into place isn’t a lullaby we’ve learned to live with.
Where we aren’t just two broken people trying to make something whole out of the wreckage. But I know better. The Doctor isn’t our salvation. He’s our cage.
I curl closer, pressing my face against Theo’s chest, inhaling the salt of his skin, the lingering scent of sweat and something deeper beneath it. His arms tighten around me instinctively, his body curving around mine like a shield, like he can keep me safe.
But there is no safety here.
Not for me.
Not for him.
“We’ll get better,” I whisper back, the words catching on my tongue. “We’ll be together.”
Theo exhales shakily, like he’s relieved, like he needed to hear me say it.
I close my eyes, burying myself in the warmth of his body, in the illusion of comfort. The lie sits heavy in my chest, a dull ache spreading beneath my ribs.
Because I know the truth.
And it doesn’t matter how many times I say the words, how many times I whisper them against his skin, against the walls of this prison we pretend is temporary.
If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it too.
Eliza Marlowe.
Her name is elegant in my handwriting, a mark of ownership. I trace the ink with my gloved finger, savoring it. She has come so far in the past months. No longer the wild, defiant thing that was dragged into my care. No longer screaming, biting, scratching. She is quiet now, docile in the ways that matter. Eager. Soft.
Perfect.
I flip through the pages of her file, taking in the documentation of her progress. I have rewired her, stripped away the filth of her past life, andreplaced it with something beautiful. She no longer needs the fantasy she clings to. No longer needshim.
The delusion has outlived its usefulness. He was a necessary evil, a tool to guide her submission, to help her relinquish control in a way that felt like a choice. But now, he has become a liability. He is an interference. And I do not tolerate interference.
I set my pen down, smoothing out the papers before me. The solution is clear.
Theo is no longer necessary.
A knock at the door disrupts my thoughts—soft, hesitant. I exhale, letting the silence stretch before I speak.
“Enter.”
The door creaks open, and one of the orderlies’ steps inside, his posture stiff. I do not bother looking at him right away; instead, I pluck my cigar from the ashtray and take a slow drag, letting the ember glow in the low light.
“Sir,” the orderly begins, his voice carefully measured. “The tests confirmed it.”
I inhale deeply, the smoke filling my lungs, then release it in a slow stream. The words settle inside me, warmth blooming in my chest. Pregnant. Eliza is pregnant. I smile, a slow, indulgent thing. Of course, she is. I had been patient, knowing nature would take its course. I had promised her a litter, and now she carries proof of my devotion to her healing.
