Page 40 of Exposed
Love?
Acid curdles in my throat. Flashes of white spot my vision. I have the knife and the poison. This is what I want.
But what if the “right” reasons aren’t enough? What if I’mneverfree of Dr. Ambrose?
I take a step back. “No,” I whisper.
Dr. Ambrose opens the gate, the metal hinge creaking.
“I was afraid of this,” he says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out metal handcuffs. “Benji told me about your argument.”
Benji talked to Dr. Ambrose already? Even after he told me we had to run away?
“I-I don’t believe you,” I stammer.
“You may have your doubts, but we both know where you belong,” he murmurs.
Each word etches into my skin with goosebumps. As my pupils narrow in on him, I realize his features are carved into me. We have the same dark eyes. The same high cheekbones. And my skin is firm where his is loose, but in thirty to forty years, I will probably look just like him.
The world fades: there is no assistant, no cemetery, no empty coffin, no gate keeping us trapped.
It’s only Dr. Ambrose and me.
“I need more time.” I step back and stumble over a headstone. I catch myself and keep walking backward, careful to never turn my back on him, to always keep my eyes on the predator. “I need time.”
“You need more than time, sweet one,” he says. “You needme.”
I spin around and leap forward, each foot pummeling into the ground. The assistant darts to the side, closing in on me in one direction. Dr. Ambrose circles to the other.
I hide behind the small shack. My heartbeat drums in my ears.
Run! Leave!
I could hop the gate, but there are spikes at the top. I’mnot even sure I could pull myself up and over without getting hurt, and the assistant is waiting for me to escape the gates. And Dr. Ambrose is inside of the cemetery, getting closer to me with every second.
The knife.
Icanstab him. I can finally get this over with. I can?—
The gravel crunches. I whip around.
Dr. Ambrose fists my hair and drags me between the headstones.
“You can’t do this!” I scream. Hair rips from my scalp. He adjusts his hold. My body leaves a trail of flattened grass. I bang on his arm and dig my nails into his skin. “Help!” I twist my neck. Pain shoots down my spine. “Someone, please?—”
Dr. Ambrose drops me. I collapse on the ground, then flip over onto my hands and knees, pushing myself up. He kicks me in the stomach so hard, I roll and fall into a hole.
The coffin thuds, then the lid knocks into my head. I heave, the wind knocked out of me. Somehow, I stand up. I pull the pocketknife out, flick it open, and hide it in the waistband of my leggings. I accidentally jab my leg with the pointed tip. I’m probably bleeding, but I don’t feel it. I have to be prepared.
Dr. Ambrose jumps into the coffin, his weight crashing into the wood. He hovers over me, caging me in his darkness.
My chest deflates. His eye sockets deepen to black, like shadowed caverns in the night. He sneers down his nose.
“You’ve been obsessed with your mother ever since you found out who she was,” he says.
He unzips his pants. His peeling cock is hard, a driedcorn husk shedding its skin, and my legs spread apart even as I tremble against the dirt wall. He angles forward, crowding me.
“Did you truly think you would accidentally stumble upon an old copy of your birth certificate with her name?” he asks. “You only found out who she was because I wanted you to.”
