Page 50 of Writhe
“Should I administer the termination pills?” theorderly asks, his voice betraying the slightest edge of discomfort.
I finally look at him. His shoulders are squared, but there is unease in his gaze. I imagine he thinks this is a mercy, that I would rid her of the life growing inside her as if it were a mistake. Fool. I tilt my head, exhaling another lungful of smoke before speaking.
“You don’t kill a prize-winning bitch before she whelps, do you?”
The orderly swallows hard. He does not meet my eyes. “No, sir.”
I wave him off, already thinking ahead. I will not tell her immediately. I want her reaction raw. No forewarning. No escape. I want to see the moment it dawns on her, the realization sinking its claws into her mind.
She will cry, of course. I imagine she will tremble, shake her head, whisper that it isn’t possible. And then when she looks at me, searching for reassurance, I will give it to her. I will stroke her hair, wipe her tears, and remind her.
She belongs to me.
And she will understand.
ELIZA
The Doctor is waiting, standing beside his desk, one hand resting on the polished wood, the other tucked neatly in his pocket. His posture is easy, relaxed, like this is nothing out of the ordinary. But it is. I know it is.
Everything is wrong.
“Where’s Theo?”
I don’t say it—not yet. I just stand there, spine stiff, fingers curling into my palms as he watches me.
“Close the door, little one.” I hesitate. Just for a second. His lips twitch, the amusement in his gaze sharpened to a blade’s edge. He knows. He always knows. I shut the door. “Good girl.”
He meets me by the door, the warmth of his body brushing against mine as he reaches past me, locking it. His fingers linger upward toward me. A ghost of a touch at the nape of my neck, tracing the delicate skin there. A featherlight stroke that sends ice down my spine. “You’re trembling.” I force my body to still, my breath to slow. “Don’t show fear.”
“Where’s Theo?”
His hand presses against the small of my back, guiding me forward, my body brushing against him, like I’m something fragile. “Why are you thinking about him when I’m right here?” Because the room feels wrong without him.
I swallow the lump in my throat and sit when he urges me to, perching on the edge of the leather chair in front of his desk. I keep my spine straight, even thoughevery instinct screams at me to curl inward, to protect myself.
The Doctor moves slowly, lowering himself into the chair across from me. His gaze drinks me in, taking his time, fingers steepling beneath his chin. “I think you’ve outgrown him.”
A chill spreads through my limbs, cold as death. I shake my head. “That’s not true.”
He exhales through his nose, like a patient father indulging in the foolish naivety of a child. “I made you, Eliza. Not him.”
“You shaped me. But Theo?—”
“Is a crutch,” he interrupts smoothly, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “And you don’t need crutches anymore, do you?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His hand moves, tracing the inside of my wrist, his thumb brushing over my pulse. A featherlight touch that feels like ownership. I want to pull away, but I don’t. I never do.
I lift my chin instead. “Where is he?”
A chuckle rolls from his lips, deep and knowing. “You’re fixated.” He tugs my wrist, pulling me up, guiding me forward until I’m standing between his legs.
The air changes—thickens. My stomach knots. “Let me help you forget him, little one.” His fingers skim the hem of my nightgown, lifting it slightly. My breath stutters in my chest. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
Resistance has never been an option. “Say yes,” hemurmurs, lips brushing against my stomach. The warmth of his breath ghosts over my skin.
I don’t. But I don’t say no either. That’s enough for him. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, as he peels away my clothing, exposing me inch by inch with infuriating patience, as if unwrapping something precious. As if I’m a gift.
I feel colder without Theo.
