Page 53 of No Asylum Here

Meanwhile, my mind spun out of control. I shouldn’t be enjoying this.

“You can relax, Dr. Beckett,” Mal hummed, as if he could read my mind. “You’re safe here.”

“I kn–know. This is just a dream⁠—”

“No,” he corrected, as he selected a set of large forceps from the surgical tray. “Dreams are dangerous here at Saint Bartholomew’s.”

I gaped blankly at the surgeon, unsure of what he was getting at.

He leaned so close, I could pick up every thread of color in his irises—details that shouldn’t have been possible in a dream. The lethal obsession dancing in his eyes utterly entranced me. “You’re safe from them while you’re with me. I’ve died a thousand times over for nothing. I’d gladly die a thousand times more for you.”

I didn’t need protection from him or anyone else. All my life, I’d been alone. I’d never fooled myself into thinking a knight in shining armor would come and save me, even when I was young.

And besides, Patient Seventeen was no knight in shining armor. Threats like him were the reason why princesses were locked in high towers in the first place. So, even if I were a damsel in need of saving, who would protect me from him?

The nurse propped the mirror on the surgery cart, positioning it so that I could see everything being done to me.

My legs were spread with the scalpel sticking out of me, the blade oozing with my arousal. The obscenity of it only drove my lust to dizzying heights.

That uneasy feeling from before had evaporated, leaving pain-laced pleasure and Mal’s purr-like growls as I writhed under the operating light, eating up every second like it was a spotlight and the surgery gurney was my stage.

“Look at that. Stick a knife inside you, and you turn into such a juicy little slut.” He chuckled, his finger swirling along the hilt where it met my entrance, making my body jerk at his warm touch. He popped the digit into his mouth, sucking my juices off his nitrile-wrapped finger.

Noticing my body's reaction, the tent in his pants swelled. He left the scalpel inside me while he took the first set of forceps in one hand and pinched my nipple in the other, plucking at it before securing the instrument’s teeth around the hard pebble of flesh. When he locked it into place, I bit back a yelp.

It hurt like a bitch, yet the pain was—good. It pushed my pleasure higher.

My body wouldn't stop squirming, making it hard for him to get purchase with the second set of forceps on my other nipple.

"Be still. Or I'll have to take extra measures to ensure you behave for me." His velvet-wrapped threat had the hairs on my nape standing on end.

Curiosity, braided tight with pain, had me thrashing harder.

"Shall I prepare her for sedation, Dr. Rook?" the nurse asked. Mal nodded.

Cruel laughter rang through the surgery as my eyes shot wide, my head snapping to the side to notice a cart filled with an assortment of prescription bottles and syringes. What kind of sedative were they referring to? More Treatment? No, he wouldn't. It wouldn't take effect here anyway.

Sensing my growing apprehension, his hand smoothed over my bare thigh, and it eased my nerves. "I've got you, Tuesday."

Goosebumps prickled my skin at the warmth in his tone. I've got you.

"Give me the pancuronium bromide, nurse."

That wasn't a sedative. Sedatives were numbing agents. The drug he'd chosen was a neuromuscular blocker, which paralyzed muscles while still keeping the patient—or victim—completely alert and aware of everything. Every pinch, every incision, whatever he chose to do to me, I'd feel.

"Nurse, oxygen," he barked.

"Wait, why do I need oxygen?" I sputtered.

His steely gaze dropped to meet mine. "Pancuronium bromide immobilizes everything, including your ability to breathe..." I knew that. I'd gone to medical school for fuck’s sake. I opened my mouth to explain that I was well aware of the drug's effects, as I was accustomed to doing with male doctors. Before I could interject, he continued, "As I am sure you are well aware of. But this isn't your average dream, Tuesday. In fact, your limbic system has little to do with what's happening right now. Pain is real. If I don't hook you up to an oxygen tank, you could suffocate. To me, you'd die. And trust me, I have no issues fucking your corpse. But you'd wake up. Do you really want this to be over?"

I shook my head.

Son of a fuck. What was wrong with me? Because, no. Hell no. I was having fun.

The nurse wheeled over an oxygen caddy and placed a plastic mask attached to a tube over my mouth.

My head was in a whirl. Without the limbic system, it would be impossible to dream. What was going on? All questions were thrust to the back of my mind when Mal picked up a syringe and pressed on the plunger. The needle tip bled with the drug, and he pushed it against my arm. "Ready for injection number one?"