My lips quiver at the mention of Benji. He did so much for me.
Dr. Ambrose presses his lips to my ear. “Tell me you’re normal.”
Normal. I am normal. Aren’t I?
If a person found out their mother was murdered, they’d become as obsessed as I am. This is natural.
Isn’t it?
Lots of people like being fisted. Maybe even by strangers.
But not by their mother’s murderer.
Not by the man who may be their father.
With one hand on my face, Dr. Ambrose reaches between us and palms his cock through the pre-cum dampened fabric. Chills wave through me, goosebumps prickling over my skin.
Dr. Ambrose’s words stab my core: “Tell me you don’t belong here, and all of this will be over.”
Belong here.
With him.
I open my mouth. “I?—”
The words are on the tip of my tongue, ready to jump out. I don’t belong here. This is not for me. It’s for her. I’m here to kill you. I’m here to stop your abusive madness.
I can’t say it though. If I say those words, this will be over. It will undo the hard work I did to be here. I can’t give up now.
Do I belong here though?
I shake my head. I don’t belong here, but I have to survive a little while longer. Otherwise, I can’t kill Dr. Ambrose.
He snickers, then steps back and adjusts his erection. My breath is lodged in my throat.
He motions to his assistant. “While Oliver finishes the exam notes, I will discuss your diagnosis with your boyfriend and determine your treatment plan.”
My eyes dart around the room. Is he going to leave me here? Alone? With his assistant?
Why does that upset me?
“What about me?” I ask. “Why am I not involved in the?—”
“You will wait here.”
My head flinches back slightly. Wait here. That’s what he wants.
Follow the rules. Obey. And then…
“What about my clothes?” I ask. “Oliver put them in a bag. Where?—”
Dr. Ambrose raises his hand. I fall silent. His smug smile gleams.
“You don’t need your clothes anymore. As far as your body is concerned, you like being exposed like this, don’t you, freak?”
I quake, my feet stuck on the floor. I hate that word.
“I am not a freak,” I say harshly. I brace my shoulders. “I’m not a freak,” I say again, though this time, the tone fades, and that word—that awful fucking word—becomes a whisper, as if I know I’m lying.
