Page 4 of Your Devoted Monster
Gabriel had been there. Had watched every degrading moment. Had been so close Ezra might have felt his breath if he'd turned his head at the wrong moment.
The violation of it should have terrified him. Should have sent him running to the police, to anyone.
Instead, his cock throbbed, his body going hot and cold at once. He'd been that exposed, that vulnerable, and hadn't even known. Had been performing without realizing he had an audience of one—the only audience that mattered.
The thought made Ezra dizzy. Made his hand shake so badly he could barely type.
Why didn't you finish it? That night?
Who says I'm not finishing it now? Just taking the scenic route.
Where are you?
The old Murphy warehouse.
Door's unlocked.
Stop overthinking, Ezra. You've been dying slowly for three years.
Let me make you feel alive again.
Ezra stood on shaking legs. His phone was still in his hand, screen glowing in the dark room. He could still call someone. Could still make the smart choice.
Instead, he grabbed jeans from the floor and yanked them on commando, the denim rough against his sensitive cock. Threw on the first shirt his hands found, some band tee with holes in it.
If he stopped, his brain might catch up to what he was doing. Might make him hesitate. Might make him a coward forever, always wondering what would have happened if he'd just been brave enough to walk out the door.
No wallet. No ID. No phone. No keys.
If he died tonight, he wanted to make them work to identify his body.
He paused at his door for half a second, hand on the knob. This was insane. This was suicide with extra steps. This was?—
No. This was the first choice he'd made in three years that felt likehis. Not his therapist's. Not the detective's. Not society's idea of what a good survivor should do.
His.
For three years, he'd been living someone else's version of recovery. Taking their pills, saying the right things in therapy, performing healing he didn't feel. For three years, he'd let other people tell him what he needed, what he should want, how he should process what had happened.
Did you want me to be?
Gabriel was the only one who'd ever asked him whathewanted. And Gabriel already knew the answer.
Ezra left his apartment door unlocked and walked into the October night barefoot, the cold air biting into his skin. The streets were still littered with Halloween debris—crushed candy wrappers, a discarded witch hat, toilet paper in a tree. A woman walking her dog crossed the street when she saw him—some guy in ill-fitting jeans and a ratty shirt stumbling along at 3 AM like the walking dead, like another Halloween costume that hadn't quite made it home.
He barely noticed. Felt disconnected from his body, floating somewhere above it, watching himself make the worst decision of his life.
Or maybe the best.
He couldn't tell the difference anymore.
2
Halloween decorations leered from windows—plasticknives, fake blood, manufactured fear. None of it compared to the real adrenaline flooding his system as he walked barefoot down the street at 3 AM toward his would-be killer.
Every shadow could hide Gabriel. Every footstep behind Ezra could be him. But the street was empty except for the occasional car passing, illuminating Ezra in headlights like stage spots, presenting him to an audience of one.
Half a mile had never felt so long. Or so short. His feet carried him to the industrial district. Warehouses and abandoned buildings, the kind of place where screams wouldn't carry.
