Page 41 of Devoured
“Fuck you.”
He marched me toward the examination table. My feet dragged, trying to slow our progress, but he was stronger.
“No,”I said, panic creeping into my voice. “No, you can’t—”
He shoved me forward. My stomach hit the edge of the table hard enough to bruise. I was bent over it, face down, trying to push back, but he had both my arms pinned.
“Hold still,”he grunted.
He grabbed the back of my scrubs with one hand, keeping my wrists pinned with the other. I heard fabric tear. The sound froze me for a second—just long enough for him to yank harder. The cheap material split down the middle. Cool air hit my back. He let go of my wrists to grab the sleeves, and I tried to twist away, but he was faster. More tearing. The top fell away in pieces.
“Stop!”My voice cracked. “Please—”
He went for the pants next. I kicked backward, caught his shin, heard him grunt. But his hands found the elastic waistband and pulled. The fabric gave way with a sound like surrender.
“Subject shows significant resistance,”Dr. Alan said from somewhere behind me. I could hear her pen scratching on paper. Taking notes like this was just another procedure. “Elevated stress response. Visible trembling.”
Varnar flipped me over, lifting and turning me so I landed on my back on the cold metal. I tried to sit up, but he planted a hand in the center of my chest and pushed. My head hit the table hard enough to make my vision swim.
Now I was on my back, exposed, with Varnar standing at my right side. He grabbed my wrists with one hand and pinned them above my head. The position made my back arch slightly—made me even more vulnerable.
“Observe the physical response,”he said, though his professional tone was slipping. His eyes tracked over my body with something hungry.
“Accelerated breathing. Pupil dilation.”
“Get clinical distance. You’re repeating what happened with Helena Wolfe,”Dr. Alan warned. She’d moved to stand at the foot of the table where she could see everything.
“Oh no, she’s no Helena Wolfe. She’s better.”His free hand moved to my throat—not squeezing, just resting there.
“She’s different from the others.”
Helena Wolfe? Who was she? Another patient? The way Dr. Alan said the name made it sound like a warning, like something had gone wrong before.
“They’re all different until they break,”Dr. Alan said coldly. “Continue the examination.”
His hand started moving down from my throat, tracing over my collarbone. I turned my head away, staring at the wall, trying to disappear inside my own skull. But every touch registered. Every inch of skin he claimed with his fingers.
His hand moved lower, over my hip. “She’s fighting even now.”
“Of course she is.”Dr. Alan sounded bored. “They all fight at first.”
His fingers reached between my legs. I clamped my thighs together, but he used his knee to force them apart—his hand still pinning my wrists above my head.
“Don’t.”The word came out small, broken.
“Shh.”His fingers found me, touched me in ways that made my whole body go rigid.
“Let’s see what you’re really made of.”
I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood. I tried to think of something else—Marion’s laugh, the way morning light looked through the rec room windows, my mother singing in the kitchen years ago. My dad watching TV and doing his running commentary on the game.
But my body betrayed me. He knew exactly what he was doing, where to touch, how to move his fingers. Each stroke built something I didn’t want. My breathing changed.
“There we go,”he breathed, leaning closer. I could feel him watching my face.
“Your body knows the truth, even if your mind won’t admit it.”Varnar breathed, enjoying seeing me twist.
“She’s responding,”Dr. Alan noted from the foot of the table. “Involuntary muscular contractions. Increased lubrication.”
