Page 22 of Exposed
Maybe Dr. Ambrose has been shaping my life more than I first realized. Through my mother. Through my obsessions. Through my desires.
I clench my jaw.My only desire is to fucking end this.
Benji reaches for my hand again. “Don’t let Dr. Ambrose do this to you.”
I bite my tongue. I don’t want to admit it to Benji—it’s hard enough to admit it to myself—but there’s somethingabout Dr. Ambrose I need to figure out. Maybe it’s that he’s my mother’s murderer, or the fact that hemightbe my father. I may never figure out what the reason is, but I can’t leave. Not until this is over.
In the grimy mirror, deep veins strain in my neck, my pulse visibly throbbing in my temples. Does Dr. Ambrose’s blood run through me? Can he see every tension building inside me?
Tell me you don’t belong here,he said with his thin, grueling lips, as if he always knew I was meant to be here with him, as if his disgust and hunger had always been waiting for me.
“I have to do this,” I say.
“What happens when you finish what you came here for? Closure?” Benji asks in a low voice. “Okay, but what about after that? What happens when you get out of here and you’restillobsessed with your mother?”
The words race out of me before I can stop them: “It’s not just about my mother. It’s about me.”
His tone plummets. “What? What about you?”
I make sure my face is turned away from the mirrored wall and any potential viewer on the other side. I can’t answer him anyway. Instead, I whisper, “The vial is underneath the exam table. Pretend like you’re tying your shoe.”
“Come on, Violet,” Benji says. He angles his back to the mirror too, keeping his chin down as he forces out the words. “Barely anyone gets out of here alive. You don’t deserve to be here.”
I don’t deserve to be here.
My chest aches. Why does that hurt?
Anger boils inside of me. I don’t deserve the lies about my past. I don’t deserve to be abandoned through death orselfish rejection. I don’t deserve an ex who ridiculed me. I don’t deserve a lot of things in my life.
I’ve always wanted to fit in, to belong, and though my ex and Benji gave me that to some degree, I needmore.I need to know if I really am like my mother. If my father truly abandoned me.
Beyond that, I need to kill my mother’s murderer so I can accept myself.
“Get the vial,” I demand in a harsh whisper.
This time, Benji grabs the vial as he pretends to tie his shoes. Luckily, even with the mirrored wall, the exam table will hide most of what we’re doing from Dr. Ambrose’s view.
Nerves flutter in my chest. “Keep your back to the mirror and pretend like you’re coughing,” I instruct. “Put the vial in your mouth like you’re eating a mint, then kiss me.”
Benji’s shoulders droop slightly. He fiddles with his shoelaces, then eats the tube. His lips near mine, and for a split second, I glance at the mirrored wall. Dr. Ambrose may see us kiss. Will it upset him? Will it turn him on? Will he think it’s more proof of my illness?
Why do I care?
Benji’s lips smack against mine, and he opens his mouth. The tiny glass bottle clinks against my teeth. I stuff it in my cheek. It’s bigger than I remember, but I only need to hide it like this for a little while. Dr. Ambrose will see my silence as obedience, which will probably excite him, and once I get my hands back, I’ll hide the vial another way.
Our kiss breaks, and vacancy fills me. There’s no imprint of Benji’s touch. I’m completely numb to him.
And yet Dr. Ambrose’s fist and his clit-pinching fingers flicker over my brain; my pussy immediately clenches, soreness riding every muscle in my body.
I strain slightly against the wrist restraints. Benji deserves someone better, someone who is sweet and devoted as he is. I need more though, and the sad part is I don’t know where those needs end.
“Be careful, all right?” Benji whispers.
I don’t say anything, because I shouldn’t be talking with the acid vial in my mouth. It might give the plan away.
I stay silent, because I can’t keep that promise.
The door flings open; my throat cinches shut. Dr. Ambrose bounds into the room, his boots stomping on the tile. His sallow eyes leer down at me, making my skin crawl, and his ponytail dangles down his back. He lifts his hooked nose as if I’m foul trash stuck to the bottom of his boots, as if he can see the decay ripening inside of me.
