Page 31 of Devoured
“Good. Be scared,”she said, her eyes wild now, wide and shimmering with something unspoken. “For real though, trust me on this. Find an excuse. Any excuse.”
“But why? What does he—”
“Marion?”
Isaac stood beside our table. His face was open and kind, a contrast to the plastic warmth the other staff wore like masks.
“Art therapy’s starting. Don’t want to be late,”he said gently.
Marion changed the moment she saw him. The fear melted from her like fog under sunlight. She even smiled. A real one.
“Coming, Isaac,”she said, her voice softer.
“Wait.”I reached out and grabbed her sleeve. “You didn’t answer me.”
She looked at Isaac, who stepped back a little to give us space. Then she leaned in, her breath warm against my ear.
“Just don’t go. Please. I’m begging you,”she whispered.
She straightened before I could ask more.
“Ready,”she told Isaac.
Isaac placed his hand on her shoulder—gentle, guiding. Protective. They walked away together, his body subtly shielding hers, like he could feel the danger I’d only just begun to sense.
I sat alone with my cold food. Marion’s words kept playing in my head. The cafeteria noise faded into a low, buzzing hum.
Whatever happened in Varnar’s office at night, Marion had been through it. And whatever it was, had scared her so badly that she was begging me not to go.
Chapter 11
Evening came too fast, curling its fingers around the asylum like a tightening fist. The dayroom emptied slowly, patients shuffling back to their rooms in hunched silence, moving like they’d forgotten where they were going. Some muttered nonsense under their breath, others stared into empty corners as though something was watching them.
Back in my room, I sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, spine straight as a wire, Marion’s warning playing in my mind on a loop—like a song I couldn’t stop humming no matter how much I hated the lyrics. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I pressed them into my thighs, but that only transferred the shaking to my arms, my shoulders. I felt hollowed out.
There was no clock in the room—no way to measure the time leaking by. Could’ve been an hour since dinner. Could’ve been three. The room had gone heavy with that muffled, weightless quiet that always came before something bad happened. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with dust, but I couldn’t make myself drink the lukewarm water beside my bed. Something was wrong. The air knew it before I did.
Then I heard footsteps.
Heavy boots on the tile. Slow. Deliberate. A predator’s rhythm. Each step landed like it was being savored. Whoever was coming wanted me to hear them. Wanted me to wait.
Tobias.
The door clicked open, and he filled the frame with his bulk. His hand was already moving at the front of his uniform pants, adjusting himself like he’d been waiting for this moment all night. His eyes, small and slick like oil, crawled over me and stalled at my chest. When he smiled, I saw teeth the color of old corn—yellow, irregular, like something that should have been pulled out years ago. This was a man who probably had to pay women to touch him. Or worse.
My skin prickled, every nerve suddenly too close to the surface.
“Time to go, princess. Doctor’s waiting.”
“I’m not feeling well.”I forced the words past the dryness in my throat. Somehow, my voice sounded steady. “I think I might throw up.”
“Save it.”His hand gripped himself through his pants with more intention now, like the threat turned him on. The bulge was clear and disgusting. “Unless you want to puke on my shoes. I’ll get the reason to punch your face. That’d be fun.”
This man was diabolic.
I rose on unsteady legs. The floor was ice beneath my bare feet, a cold that climbed up my ankles. Tobias’s eyes dropped instantly, and a new hunger darkened his face.
“No shoes tonight,”he muttered. “Good. Doc likes them barefoot. Says it helps with the therapy.”He laughed—an ugly, wet sound like something caught in his throat.
