Chapter Thirty-Six
Mal
Dig up my grave and fuck my corpse. She wanted to keep going, knowing—at least, in part—what I was about to make her do.
That’s my filthy girl.
I watched in unholy reverence as she stepped from the chair, her perfect tits bobbing with the movement. She picked up the speculum like it was a loaded gun and slid me a dubious look. “Before we use this, I have to ask, when was the first day of your last menstrual cycle?”
“Well, I bleed all the damn time, does that count?
Instead of the laugh I was going for, her face twisted, and tucked in the grooves of her expression was something that had my heart stirring with emotion. The kind I hadn't felt in decades. I'd forgotten that I was even capable of it at all.
"Don't do that," I clipped.
Her brows drew in. "Don't do what? Feel bad for everything that's happened to you? You might like pretending you don't have a heart, but I can't do that."
She'll learn. She'd have to, at least with everyone but me, if she were going to survive this place.
"Don't pity me."
"I don't. My heart breaks for you." Her throat visibly bobbed with her gulp. "I want to protect you. And I don't think I can."
The wobble in her voice and the stark conviction in her eyes had an uncomfortable pang pulling under my gut.
She wanted to protect me? She was the one who needed protection.
My life had been destroyed ages ago. There'd be no getting it back, and I'd made my peace with it.
But now that she was here, the first kind soul to enter this strange and barbaric reality in years, I had a new purpose. New meaning.
And craziest of all, she gave me hope.
For that, I'd lay down everything for her.
“Go sit down on the couch,” I instructed, the bend to my tone telling her that I was done talking for now. She’d get answers to all her questions soon.
For a moment, I thought she'd press the matter, her mouth parting to fire off her protest, but she closed it again and walked to her office sofa with a huff.
There was something deeply stimulating about a fierce, independent woman who submitted like this.
Sure, this had started as a “you scratch my back” situation.
Now it was more than that. Tuesday Beckett was showing me a vulnerable side to herself, one that wasn’t a part of our arrangement.
That shit was earned, and I wasn’t sure what exactly I’d done to deserve it. But fuck me if I wasn’t grateful.
“Sit down, Dr. Beckett. Spread your legs.” My voice came out gentle, catching me by surprise. The corners of my mouth lifted with the ghost of a smile. This girl was softening me up in all the right ways, and hardening me in all the others. “Show me that pretty little hole I just fucked.”
Perched on the edge of the cushions, she spread her legs in a wide stance that parted her center enough to see my cum inside.
It was a familiar scene, similar to the last time we were in this position. Only this time, she was wearing fewer clothes, dripping with my cum, and doing a far worse job of hiding how much pleasure she was deriving from this.
The problem with this position was that her pussy wasn’t spread enough for my preference. I wanted it gaping, to see her walls twitch and flutter as she heated with embarrassment, while she leaked cum all over her couch.
"Take the speculum, the part that will be inserted inside you, and cup it in your hands."
She cocked an inquisitive blonde brow but did as told, wrapping her hands around the steel duckbills. "Wait. Are you having me warm this for myself?"
"No one likes cold metal shoved inside them," I said with a kind of certainty that only came from personal experience. "Despite what you might think, I want you to enjoy this."
"I am," she whispered.
"Good. Is it warm enough for you now, Doc?"
"I think so..."
My lips spread with a salacious smile, and my cock, which was still out of my pants and present for the show, thickened in appreciation. "Slip it in and see. Slowly, now. I want a show.”
Turning the instrument in her hand so the bills were pointed toward her, she carefully inserted it inside herself with all the confidence of a skilled physician, and the uncertainty of a woman exposing herself to a monster such as myself.
Fucking beautiful.
“That’s it, Doc. Just like that,” I praised. “You’re doing such a good job for me.”
A low, desperate growl rumbled from my chest as I watched the tool penetrate her—wishing like hell that it was my own rock-hard steel parting her folds. My gaze flicked up her body, and fuck me, the slutty little face she wore was nearly enough to make me come a third time.
“Part that cum-filled pussy for me, Dr. Beckett."
She squeezed the handle, the steel duckbills parting her heated flesh. Just as I hoped, the moment she was wide-open, a fresh torrent of milk-white ropes oozed onto the sofa upholstery, thick and fragrant. I could scent her from where I was chained.
It occurred to me that my masculine aroma wouldn't fade from her anytime soon.
There would be select staff members demonized by the Treatment with senses sharp enough to detect that I'd fucked her.
My father wasn't among them. While he endured the mutation brought on by his drug, it hadn't given him any useful abilities other than slightly increased strength.
Like him, I had a monster inside me. At least that monster was good for something. Killing. I didn't need to have a team of test subjects doing my dirty work for me.
“Let them scent us on her,” the mad thing hissed in my ear.
“They won't touch her. Anyone with two brain cells to push together will know better.” The voice in my head didn't reassure me in the slightest. It wasn't the other staff that worried me—except for Fredrick.
But Tuesday knew better than to willingly enter the same room as that creepy fuck.
“All this, just to watch your jizz dribble out of me?”
My attention dropped back to her pussy. Fuck. Her patch of blonde pubic hair, all gunked up with my cum while it slowly drizzled over her exposed clit was a sight I’d never forget.
“Just?” I scoffed. “I have a front row seat to the best show in this corner of Hell.”
“Coming from a guy whose only form of entertainment for the last decade has been watching paint peel.”
“I paint,” I retorted, feigning offense.
“You mean like what I saw last night on your cell walls? Do you always use blood as your medium?”
I shrugged both shoulders as much as I was able in my restrictive straitjacket. “Don’t have many other options.”
“So, you cut yourself open just so you can paint?”
“No. I usually use rat blood. And when I can get it, an orderly or nurse’s blood. Most of them know to keep their distance, though, so that’s rare. Last night was the first time I used my own.”
She stared at me with stooped brows. “What was so special about that number?”
My mouth flattened at her question. I hated that I didn’t know the answer. It was that other part of me that had painted it, and even then, I got the vague sense it didn’t know either.
“The number was a mistake. A knee-jerk reaction during a manic episode. Before that, I was painting you. Just you. Before, I had nothing worth painting to bother using my own blood. Rat blood, nurse blood… None of it was good enough for the angel in my nightmares.”
At that, she dropped the speculum. Through her surprise, she might have kept her grip if it wasn’t for the bucket-load of demon cum pouring from her used hole.
The speculum fell to the ground at her feet with a wet smack.
Leather restraints pulled taut as my head kicked back with an evil laugh.
Straightening, she pushed her legs together and cleared her throat.
I smirked at the renewed blush burning her cheeks.
“The Treatment… It’s almost like a split personality disorder, isn’t it?
One moment, you're the book-loving, calm, educated, level-headed man. And the next, you’re like the Joker.
” Her nose crinkled. “You had Batman in the ‘60s, right?”
The medical talk—and the mention of my favorite television show—instantly sobered me. “Only with me. With everyone else, the monster seems to devour the soul, as far as I can tell, and replace the person they were before.”
“Are you implying you still have your soul then, Doctor?”
“You tell me, Dr. Beckett. What’s your professional conclusion?”
Electric silence stretched between us as she considered the question. “Undecided.”
That made two of us. My opinion on that was a recent development. Before she came along, I was convinced that the Treatment, regardless of what mutations occurred—it varied subject to subject—destroyed the soul in the process.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
Tuesday more than made me feel alive again. Simply being near her gave me purpose. She was a bright light in my dark world, and I’d fight all of Hell’s demons if it meant keeping that flame of hers burning.
I loved her to the point of pain, true visceral pain. The kind Rook and his cruelty could never hope to create.
How could anyone without a soul feel the things she made me feel?
“Alright, Doctor. I believe I’m ready to tell you the rest of my story.”