Page 1 of Your Devoted Monster
1
The problemwith fucking strangers who reminded him of his attempted killer was that none of them were actually trying to kill him.
Ezra stared at the bruises on his throat in his phone's camera, prodding them with one finger. Too high. Too even. No real intent behind them. The gym bro who'd just left had wrapped his roid-thick hands around Ezra's neck like he was squeezing a stress ball, all pressure and no art.
Pathetic.
His apartment still reeked of the guy's body spray and mediocre sex. Ezra hadn't even come, had faked it just to get the guy to leave. He'd seemed proud of himself too, smirking before pulling on his Under Armour shirt, completely missing how Ezra's eyes had gone dead the moment he'd said "you like that, baby?"
No. He didn't like that. He hadn't liked anything in three years.
Ezra pulled on boxers—didn't bother cleaning up, liked the filthy feeling of being used even if it hadn't been good—and collapsed on his mattress. 2:47 AM. Halloween night bleeding into theearly hours of November 1st. The worst time. The time when his skin felt too tight and his scars ached and his body remembered things his therapist said he should "process in healthier ways."
Dr. Martinez could go fuck herself. She didn't know what it was like to feel truly alive only once in your life, and to spend every moment after chasing that high.
He opened Grindr with the muscle memory of an addict reaching for a pipe. The grid loaded, showing the same disappointing options. DomTop4U (couldn't dom his way out of a paper bag). MascJock89 (had cried after Ezra bit him). ThroatGOAT (mediocre at best).
Ezra scrolled lower, past the profiles he'd already disappointed or been disappointed by. His standards were specific and impossible: someone actually dangerous. Someone who'd make his body remember what it was like to fight for survival. Someone who'd?—
His thumb stopped moving.
The profile was new. Had to be. Ezra had memorized every torso in a ten-mile radius, and he'd never seen this one. Pale skin, expensive sheets, lean muscle with a dancer's grace rather than gym bulk. But that wasn't what made his breath catch in his throat.
It was the scar.
Thescar.
Ezra's vision tunneled. The room went silent except for the rush of blood in his ears. His lungs forgot how to work, breath trapped somewhere between inhale and exhale, his body going into lockdown before his brain could catch up.
A defensive wound across the ribs, maybe four inches long, silvered but still visible against the pale skin.
The exact size and shape of the knife wound Ezra had given the Riverside Ripper three years ago when he'd fought for his life.
The memories slammed into him—the scramble as he’d snatched the knife from where it’d fallen, the weight of it in his hand, impossibly light. The resistance of flesh parting, the wet heat of blood over his fingers. He'd been on his back, nearly unconscious from being choked, vision starring at the edges. Had driven the blade up and in with the last of his strength, felt it scrape across ribs before sinking deep. His attacker had made a sound—not quite a scream, more like surprise, like betrayal. Like Ezra had broken the rules of their game.
The knife had saved him. That wound had saved him. His hands creating that exact scar had been the difference betweenvictim number sixandsurvivor.
And now it was staring at him from a Grindr profile in the middle of the night.
Ezra's fingers cramped involuntarily, curling like they were still gripping a knife handle that wasn't there. Even though his mouth was dry as bone, he could taste copper on his tongue.
Profile name:YOUR DEVOTED MONSTER
Distance:0.5 miles away
Bio:Come and find me.
Ezra's phone slipped from his hand, landing screen-up on the mattress, the scar glowing in the dark room. His heart was doing something dangerous in his chest, too fast and too hard, thekind of rhythm that came before passing out or throwing up or coming untouched.
He grabbed his phone again with shaking hands. Clicked the profile.
Created three weeks ago. One picture. No stats except?—
Looking for: The one who got away.
No.
The room spun. Ezra pressed his palms against his eyes hard enough to see stars, trying to think through the adrenaline flooding his system. Three weeks. This profile had existed for three weeks. While he'd been fucking his way through disappointments, while he'd been going to therapy, while he'd been pretending to recover—the man who had tried to kill him had been that close, waiting like a trap with its jaws open.
