Page 9 of Your Devoted Monster
Three years of watching Ezra through windows. Three years of standing in closets and lying under beds while other mentouched what was his. Three years of opportunities—he could have killed dozens, more. Could have continued his work, his art.
But he hadn't. Hadn't been able to. Because after Ezra, after that one perfect moment of pain and arousal andconnection, everything else felt hollow. Every potential victim he'd stalked had felt like a pale imitation. So he'd stopped hunting. Stopped killing. Stopped everything except watching Ezra.
He'd told himself it was focus. Dedication to the craft. Patience.
But standing here now with Ezra warm and defiant in his arms, Gabriel could admit the truth.
He'd been afraid. Afraid that touching anyone—killing anyone, fucking anyone,anything—would be disappointing after that one perfect moment when Ezra had stabbed him and rewired his entire understanding of pleasure.
"The question is," Ezra continued, pressing his advantage like the survivor he was, "can you handle someone who's awake for it? Someone who might fight back? Or do you need me unconscious to perform?"
The implication—that Gabriel couldn't, that he was afraid, that three years of obsessive watching meant he was incapable ofdoing—made something snap in his chest. Made the careful control he'd been maintaining for three years crack and splinter.
"Ezra," he said softly, the voice he used right before he killed. "You're going to regret that."
Gabriel's hand stayed on Ezra's throat. A collar. A promise. A claim.
With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife.
Not just any knife—theknife.
The one Ezra had stabbed him with three years ago.
Ezra's eyes went wide when he saw it, pupils dilating until the black nearly swallowed the brown. Recognition and arousal and fear all tangled together in an expression Gabriel wanted to photograph, to paint, to preserve forever.
"Remember this?" Gabriel asked, pressing down on Ezra's throat to keep him still. "You were the last one to use it. Your blood and mine, mixed on the blade."
He'd never cleaned it. Had kept that dried mixture of their blood like a relic. Like proof that this thing between them was real.
He brought the knife to Ezra's collar, slipped it under the fabric of his shirt. The sound of tearing cloth filled the warehouse as Gabriel cut downward in one smooth motion, splitting the shirt open from neck to hem. The blade was sharp enough—Gabriel kept it that way, obsessively—that it barely grazed skin, just enough for Ezra to feel the cold metal, the threat, the memory.
Gabriel could feel Ezra's pulse hammering where his hand rested on his throat. Could see goosebumps rise on newly exposed skin. Could hear the sharp intake of breath when the blade's edge kissed his stomach.
Perfect. Every reaction was perfect.
Gabriel cut the sleeves next, methodical, taking his time. Then the knife moved lower, to Ezra's jeans. The tip traced along the waistband, making Ezra's stomach muscles jump, making him suck in a breath that Gabriel felt against his palm.
"Don't move," Gabriel warned, and sliced through denim like butter—down one leg, then the other. He pulled the destroyed jeans away, then did the same to Ezra's boxers, leaving him completely exposed. The whole time, Ezra's eyes stayed locked on the knife, breathing shallow, cock hardening despite—or because of—the danger.
Getting hard from a knife at his throat. From the memory of violence. From Gabriel's hands on him.
"There," Gabriel said, putting the knife aside carefully. Still within view. Within reach. A promise for later. "Now we can begin."
4
Gabriel finally turnedEzra around to face him, and the impact of it—looking directly at him, no wall between them, no avoidance—hit Gabriel like a physical blow. This close, with nothing between them, Ezra's eyes were devastating. Dark and defiant and hungry all at once.
Gabriel had imagined this moment a thousand times—what it would be like to finally look Ezra in the eyes without a mask between them. But imagination had been inadequate.
Up close, Ezra was a mess. Bruises layering bruises on his throat, old rope burns visible beneath tonight's disappointment. Dark circles under his eyes from too many sleepless nights. Cheeks slightly hollowed, like he'd forgotten to eat, too busy chasing something he couldn't name. The white t-shirt hung off a frame that had lost weight since Gabriel had last held it.
Three years of damage written across someone who used to be unmarked.
Gabriel had done this. Started this. That night three years ago had been the catalyst, and everything after—every bad decision,every dangerous man, every spiral—traced back to Gabriel's hands on Ezra's throat.
He should feel guilty. Should feel something resembling remorse.
Instead, he felt possessive. Proprietary. Like an artist looking at a work-in-progress that had been touched by inferior hands. All those bruises, all that damage—none of it was done right. None of it wasGabriel's.
