I address Violet next. “Your boyfriend tells me you were recently fired from your job due to sexual compulsions.” I scrutinize her down my long, hooked nose. “You will follow my assistant to the exam room. There, you will undress and wait for the initial examination.”
“Undress?” Violet squeals, her high-pitched tone slicing through the air as she sits up in her seat. “Why?”
My cock twitches, and a hint of disgust snarls across my face. Surely, she should have expected something like this in her case, but perhaps she is shocked by the immediacy. Only seconds after meeting, I’m already ordering her to undress.
She squirms in her seat, ready to bolt. I stifle a grin; this restless behavior is simply a symptom of repressed desire.
I clench my jaw. “All inpatients undress for their physical exams,” I state. “You must go through a series of exams to ensure the safety of yourself and the staff. You don’t want to hurt anyone, do you, Violet?”
Her lips twist, her forehead furrowed. “Inpatient? Who said anything about staying?” She stands and crosses her arms. “My condition isn’t about my body. It’s about my mind. I’m not undressing for an?—”
I swiftly grab her arm, maneuvering her like a puppet. She shrinks, and her fear and arousal swirl in my head; now, it reminds me of berries at the first sign of rot. There are so many possibilities when it comes to someone as bottomless as Violet, and this resistance and surrender is a part of the foreplay she craves.
Benji cowers in his seat, and my assistant waits by my side. Violet bares her teeth at me, hatred practically leaking from her bones. It’s laughable. I grit my teeth and lean in closer to her.
“Even if you do not plan to hurt yourself or me,” I say, my tone biting, teasing her with the potential, “you will soon understand mental apprehensions like yours often exhibit in the physical exterior. Our examinations of these perversions are part of our protocol here. We must endure these recalibration techniques if we wish to heal your behavior.”
Violet’s breathing hitches, and her putrid scent stinks up the air even more. Fear. Arousal. Need.
In my periphery, I catch my assistant smirking. I hide my amusement, and instead, I adjust my shoulders, which bolsters my expression of irritation and disgust. I’m not disgusted though. In fact, I’m quite pleased with this verbal interaction with Violet. Her resistance will be entertaining, and it will teach me more about conditioning others like her.
At the center of her being, the parts of her she ignores and denies, Violet knows who she is: a disgusting little freak desperate to be used. My goal is to help her find herself.
Then, I’ll fully transform her.
“But—” Violet begins, then stops short. Her gaze falls to the floor. She swallows, then rubs her hands down her leggings. “Dr. Ambrose,” she tries again. “Please. I’d prefer it if Benji were present for this. If he could?—”
This time, I can’t help it. A hint of a smile pulls at my lips. Please? She thinks she can simply be polite and agreeable to get what she wants?
“Right now, Benji is not my patient,” I say firmly. “You are, Miss Ward. And any activity from here on out will determine your treatment, and that includes your sexual behaviors as well as everything else.” Her cheeks darken, embarrassment coloring her skin. I raise a brow. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”
Her eyelids flutter. “Of course,” she whispers.
Good.
“Then you will do as I command,” I say in a low voice. I nod toward my assistant. “We’ll begin the physical examination at once. Please go to the exam room now.”
Chapter 5
Violet
“Now?” I squeak. “Wait!”
My pulse races in my ears, each thump whooshing through me. I press my hands against my chest to calm my heart, but it’s no use.
This is it. If I don’t do this, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to be this close to Dr. Ambrose. As long as my mother’s murderer dies, then everything will be worth it.
Right?
Tension fists my throat. Benji’s warnings burst through me.
Most people don’t leave the asylum alive, he had said. Most of them die there. And the ones that die? They’re probably better off. A lot of the doctors don’t care who you are; they do what they want to supposedly heal you. Your mom was probably lucky to die in childbirth.
My knees loosen as weakness flutters through me. I steady myself, lift my chin, and stare up at Dr. Ambrose. Most of the doctor is professional: his bleach-white lab coat, the staff badge hanging from his collar, his striped tie. The dirt stains are gone; he must have changed his clothes before meeting with me. But there are white marks, what look like old scars, patching his hands, with small black and brown spots dotting those scars. He’s older, between fifty and sixty. His receding hairline exposes his scalp in an M pattern, and the long, smooth strands are pulled into a low ponytail at the base of his neck. Tinged gray teeth fill his mouth, and his stature is tall, his shoulders wide, his stomach lean, like he doesn’t eat much and he works out. A scent, both dusty and wet, expels with his breath.
He raises his bulbous, hooked nose. Yellow circles burrow underneath his eyes, his blackish-brown irises inspecting me.
Shivers plow down my skin, an ache pinching my lower back. I fidget with my hair. He’s a horrible, unattractive man, but my brain works faster, seeing the things he could do to me.
