Page 10 of Your Devoted Monster
But Ezra's eyes. Those were still sharp, still aware, still fighting despite the exhaustion etched into every other part of him. Still the same eyes that had looked up at Gabriel three years ago and chosen survival over submission.
The rapid flutter of Ezra's pulse hammered visibly beneath pale skin. His throat worked when he tried to swallow. The exposed vulnerability of his windpipe, carotid arteries, all the delicate mechanics that kept him alive laid bare…
Allhis.
Gabriel's hand found Ezra's throat again, thumb pressing against his pulse. The other hand gripped Ezra's hip, keeping him in place.
"Tell me," Gabriel said, holding that eye contact even though it felt like staring into the sun, "what they did to you. Every disappointing thing. Every failed attempt to make you feel."
“Fuck off.”
The hand on his neck tightened. "That wasn't a request."
Ezra's breath hitched. "Kyle. Tonight. He choked me."
"Too high on the throat," Gabriel said, his voice tight with frustration. "All windpipe, no arteries. Amateur."
He shifted his grip to the correct position—lower, precise, exactly where the carotid arteries pulsed under his fingers. Gabriel knew the exact pressure needed, had practiced on five different necks before Ezra. He applied it now, felt Ezra's whole body jerk, the sharp intake of breath followed by that telltale feeling that meant the blood flow was properly restricted.
Gabriel watched Ezra as his eyes went unfocused, his mouth fell open, his body went simultaneously rigid and pliant. Beautiful. This is what it was supposed to look like. This is what those others had denied him.
"What else?" he asked, loosening his grip just enough to let Ezra speak, to let blood flow back to his brain.
"Someone—fuck—" Ezra had to swallow twice. "Someone tied my wrists. Last week. But the knots came loose."
Gabriel actually laughed at that, the sound harsh in the empty warehouse. These amateurs with their rope and their negotiations and their pretend danger. Without warning, he wrenched Ezra's arms behind his back, brutal and efficient. The zip tie went on in one practiced motion—zzzzip—that distinctive sound echoing off concrete walls.
No safewords here. No quick release. Just commitment.
He felt Ezra test the restraints once, a reflexive pull that only made the plastic bite deeper into his wrists. Then Ezra went still with something that looked like relief.
This was real. The plastic couldn't be negotiated with, couldn't be undone with a word. This was what Ezra had been searching for in all those disappointing beds—genuine loss of control.
And Gabriel—Gabriel's hands were shaking slightly as he ran them down Ezra's restrained arms, as he tested the zip tie's hold. Because this was it. Ezra was helpless now, completely at Gabriel's mercy, and instead of fear Gabriel felt something like reverence.
He shoved Ezra to his knees, hard enough that the impact against concrete would bruise. Then he grabbed a fistful of Ezra’s hair, wrenched his head back to force eye contact.
The sight made Gabriel's breath catch in his chest.
Ezra on his knees, arms trapped behind him, looking up at Gabriel with pupils shot wide—fear and want and deep recognition in those dark eyes. Like he was finally seeing Gabriel clearly. Like he was finally being seen.
This. This was the masterpiece Gabriel had been trying to create all along without knowing it.
"What else?" Gabriel asked, keeping that painful grip in his hair, unable to look away.
"The bartender," Ezra's voice was already wrecked, rough. "Three months ago. He slapped me."
Gabriel remembered. Had watched from the closet as that pathetic attempt at dominance played out. The bartender had telegraphed every hit, pulled his punches, hit like he was afraid of leaving marks. Like violence was just a way to play pretend, of instead of the gift it was.
Without warning, Gabriel's palm connected with Ezra's cheek, sharp, precise. The sound echoed in the warehouse like a gunshot.
Ezra's head snapped to the side. A sound escaped his throat—not pain, not protest. Relief. Pure, desperate relief.
Before Ezra could recover, Gabriel backhanded the other side. Then again. Alternating, putting real force behind each one, watching Ezra's face blossom red, watching tears spring to his eyes and stream down his cheeks.
And Ezra's cock—Gabriel could see it jerking with each impact, flushed and leaking. Finally getting what he needed. The real thing, not theater.
Gabriel's palm stung. His control was slipping further with each hit, with each broken sound Ezra made. This wasn't about punishment or dominance. This was abouttruth. About stripping away every layer of pretense until only raw need remained.
