Page 53 of Writhe
And that terrifies me more than anything.
When my orgasm crashes over me, it’s nothing but a hollow echo—more like a dying note in a symphony, flat and devoid of anything thrilling. Nothing like the fire Theo would make me feel.
The Doctor doesn’t like that.
“Not even a little song for me, pet? No howl of gratitude? No praise for what I’ve given you?”
His rhythm turns brutal, punishing, as he relentlessly chases his own release. “Howl, my sweet pet. Tell me how much you love me.”
His hands fist my hair, tugging hard. My scalpstings, and I can’t help but cry out, desperate for the release he’s demanding.
“Please. Doctor. I love you. Please.”
The words spill from my lips, too eager, too needy, but I don’t care.
He growls in satisfaction, his body stiffening as he spills inside of me, warmth flooding me, filling me, coating every inch until it slowly leaks from me.
When it’s over, I crawl into the large chair that he just fucked me over. He helps me lift my nightgown over my head and wipes a single tear off of my cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“Why wasn’t Theo here?”
His hand slides down to my chin, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to meet his gaze. His expression is calm, happy even. “You’re such a good girl for me now, Eliza,” he murmurs. “You don’t need your little fantasy.”
I push weakly at his chest. My limbs feel heavy and slow. “Theo . . . It’s not a fantasy. What we have is real. Is real.”
“Is he?”
The room tilts.
A cold fist of dread curls in my gut.
I sit up too fast, my breath hitching, my pulse thundering in my ears.
“Where is he?” I demand, pushing off the chair. “Where did you take him?”
The Doctor watches me with quiet amusement. “Why don’t you ask yourself that?”
Panic claws up my throat.
Rushing toward the door, I yank it open, stepping into the dim hallway, my pulse hammering so loudly I can barely hear my own frantic breaths. Theo’s name is on my lips, but I don’t call him. I can’t. It’s after hours, and this outburst alone will grant me a week in solitary. I can’t be in solitary. I need Theo.
My bare feet slap against the tile as I run, my breath ragged, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my ears. Theo isn’t in the rec room.
I scan every corner, every shadow, my gaze flitting over the hunched figures of other patients. No one looks up. No one acknowledges me. The television in the corner drones on, the colors too bright, the laughter from the screen distorted and cruel. I push forward, shoving through the heavy door into the hallway.
He has to be here. He has to be.
“Theo?” I whisper at first, then louder. “Theo!”
Nothing.
I move faster, checking the corners where he used to lurk, the places where I’d found him waiting before. The hallway stretches endlessly, sterile white walls broken only by the occasional bolted door, the smell of disinfectant thick in my nostrils.
My breathing is too fast. My hands shake as I push open the next door, an unused storage room. Empty. The next I look at the small square window to find just another patient, muttering to himself, rocking back and forth on his bed.
The dread is building.
Then I see it . . . the hallway.Hishallway.
