Whirr. Click. Whirr. Click.
The vent above me rattles. A thin, grey dust filters down, coating Miller’s hair like ash. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy enjoying the sound of my gasping breath.
But I hear it. Behind the hum of the light. Behind the pounding of my own heart.
A new sound.
A whistle. Low. Off-key. And utterly, terrifyingly familiar.
The whistle is a ghost, a haunting melody that dances through the vents, mocking the absolute filth of the reality I’m trapped in.
Miller’s hand isn’t on my throat anymore. It’s lower. It’s heavy, a damp, leaden weight that makes my skin crawl even through the thick, viscous fog of the Thorazine.
“You’ve been a bad girl today, Hallow,” he murmurs, and the sound of his voice is like sandpaper on an open wound.
I’m drifting, my mind floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching the wreckage of my body from a distance. The green haze is pulsing now, turning the room into a swamp.
I see vines creeping up the white walls—vines made of barbed wire and velvet—and I think I see a pair of glowing eyes in the corner, watching us.
Watching me.
Then I feel his fingers.
He doesn’t rip the gown. He slides his hand under the thin, scratchy cotton, his palm rough and calloused as it drags over my ribcage.
I want to scream, but my throat is a desert, and all that comes out is a low, jagged whimper that sounds far too much like an invitation.
“Such a waste,” he huffs, his breath hot against my neck.
He finds my breast, his hand closing around the small, firm mound of flesh with a brutal lack of tenderness. He isn’t worshiping me; he’s claiming a piece of property.
His fingers find my nipple, and he pinches—hard. A sharp, electric bolt of pain shoots through the chemical numbness, a white-hot spark that makes my back arch against the mattress. The leather restraints creak, the sound echoing in the silence like a gunshot.
“Does that hurt?” he sneers, his thumb rolling over the sensitive peak, crushing it between his nail and his finger.
I gasp, my head lolling to the side. In the hallucinations, the ceiling begins to rain blood—fat, heavy drops of crimson that splash onto my skin, mixing with the sweat. I can feel the wetness of it, a slick, warm coating that makes everything feel visceral.
He moves his other hand, his fingers fumbling with the hem of the gown between my legs. I try to pull my thighs together, but the straps hold me open, a humiliating, forced vulnerability that makes my stomach flip. He laughs, a wet, guttural sound, as he pushesthe fabric up, exposing me to the predatory hum of the lights.
“Look at you,” he whispers, and I can feel his eyes on me, voyeuristic and foul. “So wet for a girl who claims to hate it here.”
“I… hate… you,” I slur, my tongue feeling like it’s been coated in lead.
“Sure you do.”
He slides his fingers down, pushing past the curls until he finds the slick, sensitive heat of my pussy. The contact is a shock—a cold, invasive invasion of my last sanctuary. He’s rough, his fingers digging into the soft tissue, searching for the core of me with a clinical kind of cruelty that mimics the doctor’s.
I’m so wet, and it’s a betrayal. My body is responding to the friction, to the sheer, terrifying reality of being touched after ninety-six days of nothing but cold metal and sterile glass.
It’s not desire; it’s a biological reflex, a desperate attempt to protect itself from the damage he’s doing.
He finds my clit, his thumb hooking under the hood and flicking it with a sharp, rhythmic aggression.
“Is this what you wanted, Hallow?” he asks, his voice thick with a sudden, desperate hunger. “Is this what the ‘myth’ was supposed to do to you?”
I can’t answer. The world is spinning too fast. The green vines are wrapping around Miller’s neck, their thorns digging into his skin, but he doesn’t feel them. He’s too busy buried in me, his fingers working my pussy with a frantic, clumsy pace that makes my hips twitch in a rhythm I can’t control.
“Fuck,” he groans, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his stubble scraping my skin raw.
