Page 2 of Your Devoted Monster
His logical brain—the part that had kept him functional enough to hold down a job and maintain the facade of recovery—screamed at him to screenshot everything, call the cops, lock his doors. This was evidence. This was proof the Riverside Ripper was still alive, no matter what they’d told him. Stillhere.
But…
But.
The profile had been there three weeks. If Gabriel wanted him dead, why advertise? Why wait? Why give Ezra the chance to call for help?
Gabriel.
The name came with the memory, sharp and intrusive: hands around his throat, the world going dark at the edges, a voice inhis ear, intimate and gentle. "I'm Gabriel. I want you to know who's killing you." Like it mattered. Like giving Ezra his name was a gift, something precious offered in the final moments. The reverence in his voice had been worse than the pain, worse than the fear—like Ezra was special, chosen, beloved.
Gabriel had worn a mask that night: black, featureless, like an old-fashioned death's head. Ezra had never seen his face. Only his eyes through the mask's holes, gray-green with rings of amber that had burned into Ezra's memory. Only heard his voice, cultured and soft even while killing. Only felt his hands, his weight, his presence.
Then the knife, and Gabriel's sharp intake of breath that might have been surprise or might have been something else entirely.
Come and find me.
Not "I'm coming for you." Not "you can't escape."
An invitation. A challenge.
Ezra's cock was fully hard now, had been since he'd seen the scar. His body's wires were so crossed that fear and arousal were the same circuit, had been since that night. Dr. Martinez called it a trauma response, gave him six different pills for it that he didn't take. Ezra called it the only time he felt real anymore.
Everyone had told him that he was safe now. That the Ripper was probably dead. It had been three years since Ezra had stuck a knife into him, and the killings had stopped. Whoever the Ripper had been, it was over.
But that felt wrong in a way Ezra hadn’t been able to explain to the detective or Dr. Martinez or anyone who hadn't felt Gabriel's hands on them.
Gabriel was alive. Ezra had known it in his bones, in his scars, in the way he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And now here it was, three years later.
He could call the detective. Could do the right thing. Could be the good survivor who helped catch the bad guy. Ezra knew what everyone wanted from him.
Witness statements in sterile rooms. Crime scene photos he'd have to identify. Forensic psychologists asking him to relive it in excruciating detail while they took notes. Press conferences. A trial, maybe, if they caught him. Sitting in a courtroom while lawyers dissected the worst night of his life, argued about whether Ezra had fought hard enough, questioned why he hadn't screamed louder.
And through it all, that soft careful pity in everyone's voices when they talked about histrauma, hisrecovery mindset, hishealing process.
The performance of being a good victim made him want to claw his own skin off.
He could go through all that again. He could.
Or.
His fingers moved without his permission.
I found you.
The typing indicator appeared immediately. Like he'd been waiting. Like he'd been watching Ezra's profile, knowing exactly when he'd be desperate enough to look, horny enough to make bad decisions, empty enough to?—
I've been watching you.
All those disappointments you bring home—none of them are what you really want, are they?
Ezra's cock twitched traitorously in his boxers. His scars burned. He should be terrified. Should be disgusted with himself for getting hard. Instead, he was aching like a teenager, his body screamingyeseven as his brain tried to remember why this was wrong.
He was disgusted with himself. The self-loathing was there, hot and acidic in his throat, but it just made him harder. Made him want it more. He was getting off on being stalked by the Riverside Ripper—the serial killer who'd murdered five men before him, who'd had his hands around Ezra's throat and whispered his name like a prayer while choking the life out of him. And Ezra's cock was so hard it hurt, leaking into boxers still filthy with another man's come.
Fucking broken. Fucking ruined. And too far gone to care.
