Big Bad Wolf (A Miss Hyde Novella Book 3)

by Kindra Sowder

  “You’ve created what you were scared of. I wasn’t a willing monster before, but now,” I paused for effect, “I can’t wait to make good on the promise I made to you. And typically I wouldn’t want to harm something so,” I took a deep breath in, thinking of the right word, “I don’t even know the right word for it anymore.”

  I took my hand away from his broken arm and took the few seconds I needed to make my way into his jeans and boxers where his favorite organ was waiting for me to make good on what I had said. I took its soft warmth in my hand and pulled as hard as our combined strength would allow, pulling it away from him and dropping him to the floor as blood soaked his underwear and jeans. Johan pulled in ragged breaths as the blood rapidly left his body, leaving him an empty bag of only so much meat. I dropped what was now in my hand to the floor and leaned down to look him square in the eyes as the light inside of them began to fade away. I had one more thing to say before life left him for good.

  “I’m the wolf you shouldn’t have let in your door,” I whispered as he died, his body falling to the floor to land in the pool of blood that was continuing to spread out across the gray concrete.

  Once he was gone, I felt Hyde slip back into the darkness of my mind, falling away until I was all that was left and the pain came crashing back like a tidal wave. The room swam, tilting like I was on a boat being rocked by the violent ocean. Black splotches started to spread over my vision and, before I had a chance to stop it, I blacked out, and all I could see was the obscurity of the monster I had been turned into.

  Chapter 11

  My eyelids were heavy, and I was wrapped in warmth, the smoothness of sheets gliding against my skin in a comforting way. The grime and blood that had been covering my flesh was only a distant memory, but I could still feel the painful pull of the incision down my abdomen as I moved. Because of the stiffness and soreness in my muscles I didn’t move much, but enough so that whoever had moved me to this place knew I was now awake. I groaned as a painful pressure spread across my forehead. No doubt an effect of the Liquid X I had been dosed with on more than one occasion while I was locked away in that torture chamber. I didn’t even want to open my eyes for fear of where I was now. I was clean and warm, so it couldn’t have been too bad, right? I was fully dressed in a loose pair of sweats and a large, baggy t-shirt that I could easily get in and out of if need be and I wouldn’t hurt myself.

  “Good, you’re awake,” I heard a female voice say as heels clicked on what I could only assume was a hardwood floor.

  And that voice. I knew that voice, but couldn’t place it for some odd reason. Then the realization hit me like a tidal wave. My eyes shot open, and I tried to sit up, my body protesting with searing pain up my belly.

  “Cyra?” I attempted to sit again, pushing myself up with no progress being made. She was in front of me in an instant, a glass of water in her hand while the other slightly pushed on my shoulder trying to make me lie down.

  “You need to rest. You’ve been through a lot, and you need to heal,” she explained as I gave into her gentle nudges. I realized where I was as soon as my eyes adjusted better to the dimness surrounding me. My bedroom. I was in my apartment, but I wasn’t sure how I had gotten there. I turned my head just enough to see her sit in a chair next to my bed that had not been there before. Where did it come from?

  “How did I get here?” I asked as she set the glass of crystal clear water on my bedside table, placing a bottle of painkillers next to it.

  “I brought you here. Well, me and Jackson anyways.” She pointed to someone that was standing in the threshold of my bedroom door.

  I looked up just enough to see a rather large, muscle-bound man in a black suit standing in the doorway with his hands folded together in front of him, his bald head reflecting the minuscule amount of light filtering through the curtains from outside. If it weren’t for the strong set of his jaw and his dark eyes, I would’ve said he was Mr. Clean, but I kept that to myself. I let my head fall back onto the pillow and everything that had happened over what felt like an eternity crashed down on me with such force it caused me to gasp. Images of Johan above me, Mitch with a syringe filled with red liquid fire, and then both of them preparing to kill me. Johan with a knife raised above his head about to strike down for the final, killing blow. Anxiety gripped my chest, and sadness closed like a vice around my heart, strangling it as tears began to fill my eyes and sobs racked my body.

  I curled into a ball, barely even noticing the pain that seared a path through my belly as I rolled onto my side and pulled my knees up to my chest. Every shadow around me was sinister, threatening to take over everything. I could see their faces within them. I squeezed my eyes shut and gripped my legs so hard I felt my nails dig into my skin through the fabric of the sweatpants as I poured my pain and sorrow into the atmosphere to soak the satin sheets. Tender fingertips caressed my hair, pushing it back from my face as Cyra made a comforting sound to attempt to calm me. My chest heaved, and my heart was breaking. I didn’t want her to have to comfort me. That wasn’t her job. She wasn’t even responsible for helping me. She had nothing to do with the torture that John and Mitch had forced on me.

  “It’s okay. They can’t hurt you anymore,” she whispered as she continued to caress my hair that was now slightly damp with my tears. Another thought struck me, and I was shocked I hadn’t thought about it before having a complete breakdown.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Does that matter right now?” she replied as she continued to run her fingers lightly through my hair. “Just rest. We can discuss everything after you’ve had some sleep.”

  And she was right. My eyelids felt heavy once more, my eyes burning with the fatigue of the sadness inside of me and the events of the last couple of days. Of course, I was assuming as far as the timeline. Cyra pulled away from me long enough to pick up the pill bottle on the bedside table. The only reason I knew that was what she was doing was because I could hear the pills rattling in the plastic as she dumped some into her open palm. I opened my eyes slightly to watch her, only seeing her through small slits. Her pink hair was loose around her shoulders, the half-moons underneath her eyes only more pronounced by the minuscule amount of light that outside provided. The white shirt she was wearing had small stains of my blood on it in different places, one of those splotches being my hand print from where I possibly grabbed her while I was blacked out. Jackson was a silent observer from the doorway, not making a single noise as Cyra worked to take care of me. She closed the bottle and set it back down on the table, picking up the glass of water and motioning for me to sit up just a little, so I could take the pill she was offering me. I did as she asked without so many words, pain rippling through my belly as I moved. It took all I had to stifle the gasp of agony. I swallowed down the pill as soon as she put it in my hand, the relief the narcotic could offer me a welcome feeling.

  “How did you get me in here?” I asked as I began to feel the quick effects of whichever narcotic she had given me.

  “It’s a good thing, so many of your neighbors are willing to look the other way when handed a couple of hundreds. I’m just happy not too many people saw us, or I would’ve paid out more than a few hundred bucks,” she chuckled, pulling the thick red comforter over my legs and stopping just below my navel to avoid putting any pressure on my stomach. “Now,” she commanded as she rested her hand on mine, “get some sleep. We’ll talk more when you wake up. Hopefully, you’ll be healed by then. Your kind usually heals really quickly. By the way, your friend has been blowing up your phone, but you may want to speak to her after we’re done here.”

  I would have protested if my body wasn’t already beginning to feel like a lead weight at the bottom of a pool, taking me to a dreamland where Johan and Mitch didn’t exist. Where the torture I had endured didn’t exist. Where it was all a horrible nightmare and all I had to do was wake up. As my eyes closed I barely saw Cyra stand and walk away from the bed, whispering to Jackson as she left
the room, her think heeled boots thudding against the thick wood of my floors. Before I took my next breath, I was swimming in the darkness that only unconsciousness brought, it wrapping me in the warm cocoon just like when I was drugged and abducted. The thought didn’t pull me from the solitude of my drug induced sleep. I was enveloped in it, letting it take me deep into its crevices where the ache, terror, and sorrow could no longer reach me. Johan and Mitch’s hungry hands could no longer touch me.

  I let it take me until there was nothing left, not even the beating of my own broken heart.

  Chapter 12

  Blood dripped, and screams tore through the air as I slept, pulling my violently from the silent dream world I had been pulled down into by the pain medication Cyra had given me. My eyes shot open, and I sat up with a strangled cry, my throat as dry as the Sahara and causing my voice to crack and break. My heart was hammering against my ribs, my hand flying to my chest in an attempt to slow it down. Anxiety crept up my throat in choked cries that I could barely swallow in time to stop them, breathing past the building nausea in my gut that was threatening to spill over. I took a deep breath in through my nose and pushed it out through pursed lips, my heart finally beginning to slow to a steady, rhythmic beat.

  The searing pain I would’ve felt in my belly before with such quick movement was now barely a dull ache and the soreness in the rest of my body was nothing more than a little stiffness in my joints. Cyra was correct in the fact that those like me healed quickly, which was something I had never noticed before because I had never once been severely injured. A paper cut healed within a matter of hours, but a paper cut was small in comparison to what I had just been through. My eyes adjusted to the gloom in my bedroom, no light whatsoever shone through the thin curtains. It was night time. That I was certain of. The only light coming into the room was the light making its way under the closed door that led out into the hallway. I was the only one in the apartment, correct? How the hell was supposed to know? Did Cyra and Jackson leave? Or were they still here to watch over me? Then I heard the male voice from beyond the door and my heart rate picked up again, unease growing in my belly as I turned to place my feet on the cool floor. A shiver crept up my spine.

  I reached out without taking my eyes off of the sliver of light coming from underneath the door, opening the drawer of my nightstand to find what I had hidden there. My hand wrapped around the handle of the Beretta 950 Jetfire I had owned since I was twenty-one and obtained my Concealed Weapons Permit for the state of New York. The magazine lie next to the gun, and once I removed them both from the drawer I slid the magazine in with ease like a pro. I did have to take classes to learn how to handle one for the test to get my CWP and continued the lessons for a while after I had earned it. I was as good, if not better than most with a CWP and I knew it. My cluster was so scarily accurate I impressed even the most seasoned shooter from day one.I just never thought I’d have to use it. The gun wasn’t intimidating. Of course, it was only a twenty-five caliber that took twenty-five Automatic Colt Pistol rounds, but it was great for close range which, when dealing with a home invasion, is most likely to take care of business with a well-placed shot. Hyde surfaced, letting me have control over my body and faculties despite the fear licking its way up through my gut. I wasn’t sure who was in my apartment now, but they were about to get a rude awakening. And, if it were Cyra, I would have a lot of apologizing to do. Some may wonder why I didn’t have it locked away in a case. My answer was simple. If someone busted into my bedroom would I actually have time to get to it without getting myself killed in the process? Probably not and my life was too important to me to risk in such a way, the most recent events notwithstanding.

  I moved towards the door, holding the weapon as I had been taught in my CWP classes. Both hands were on the handle, one resting just beneath the butt of the gun and my finger ready to pull the trigger but not touching it. My hand was shaking when I reached for the doorknob, and I stopped, taking a deep breath to try to steady myself just enough so I could leave the room as quietly as possible. The adrenaline running through me was causing me to be hyper-focused, hyper aware, and so shaky that I felt like a cell phone on vibrate. Opening the door as slowly as possible, I made my way into the hallway, rounding the corner with my back pressed up against the wall in an attempt to remain unseen until I wanted to be seen. My breath hitched in my chest, holding itself there until the danger was gone. I had to force it out, pushing my lungs to do their job as I silently slunk down the hallway towards the living room, which I could see now with perfect clarity. A slight tingle of warmth moved through my belly and licked behind my eyes. Hyde felt the danger, and she felt my terror. I was only hoping it wasn’t for nothing.

  “You don’t think she’ll be angry you’ve been keeping all of this from her?” A male voice floated through the hallway, profound and resonating as it echoed off the walls.

  Terror seized my heart, and I could swear it skipped a couple of beats as the emotion took hold. It was a voice I didn’t know. One that I had never once heard in my life. I adjusted my hands on the gun’s grip as sweat caused my palms to become slick against the black carbon fiber. I took a deep breath and prepared to round the corner that led into the living room, knowing that a possible assailant could be on the other side to take me again. To take me into the darkened room with just one single light to shine down on me. To take me and to hurt me. Again. But who was he speaking to and who had been hiding what from me? There was only one way to find out.

  Before another word could be uttered, I turned the corner, the Beretta pointing at the dead center of a broad male chest. My eyes met those of Jackson, who I was assuming was Cyra’s bodyguard for whatever reason she needed one. His eyes were a light blue, almost like the ocean, and his jaw was strong, set in a frustrated manner as his eyes took me in. I didn’t know Jackson, but I did trust Cyra. Well, about as close to trust as I could get at this point. There were so many unanswered questions. As I looked at him, I could see my wild expression reflected in his eyes. He reached up and placed his hands over mine, flipping on the safety but not attempting to do any more than that.

  “Don’t you think this is a little extreme, Miss McAlister?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in a mixture of curiosity and amusement. There was a hint of a Southern accent hidden underneath the words. He had been trying to stifle it, but it came straight through.

  “No,” I paused, “I don’t.” I let the irritation fill my voice, so it was audible. His eyebrows rose even higher, and a smirk crossed over his lips.

  Cyra came around him with hands out, beseeching me to stop, and said, “Blythe, he’s okay. He’s not here to hurt you. He’s with me.”

  I watched him skeptically, the gun still pointing at his chest and my finger lightly grazing the trigger. He had turned the safety on so I knew I couldn’t shoot him, but feeling like I held the power in my hands felt good. Hyde was still moving slightly under the surface, but I could tell even she knew now that he wasn’t a threat. Not to us, anyway. If she felt he was alright she had to be correct. She always was. My eyes shifted to Cyra, who was standing beside Jackson, her beautiful brown eyes begging me to put the gun down, and then I looked back at the man in front of me. He was a looker for sure, but dangerous? Maybe, but not towards us from what I could tell. He had plenty of chances already and hadn’t taken a single one of them. But could I trust Cyra?

  “Miss McAlister?” Jackson implored.

  I heard Hyde slither in my mind and murmur, You have to stop this before it gets out of hand. It’s all in your head. Put the gun down.

  I listened, lowering the gun towards the floor and even going as far as to let Jackson remove it from my grip. He removed the clip and slid it into his suit jacket, placing the weapon on the small table, not even five feet away. My body sagged with relief, the anxiety leaving me just as quickly as it had appeared. I slumped against the corner of the wall and stood there staring at the floor. Cyra gingerly touched my arm, and I had to suppress a
startled jump.

  “You need to sit down, and I’ll get you something to eat,” she said as she attempted to lead me over to the couch. I didn’t move.

  “No, I want answers, and you’re going to give them to me.” I looked up at her, searching her stern expression for even a hint of compassion. It was there, but barely. “Right now.”

  She nodded. “Alright. Jackson, can you call something in?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered from behind her. I could no longer see him because I couldn’t tear my gaze from her.

  “Looks like I’m all yours.”

  Only then did I walk with her to take a position on the couch while she sat in the plush armchair that I would’ve normally sat in. We were silent for an awkward moment and then one of the million questions I had popped into my head and I just had to ask.

  “Who the hell is that?” I asked, lazily pointing towards the kitchen behind us. I could hear Jackson speaking in the kitchen as he ordered from one of the many takeout places New York was known for.

  “That’s Jackson. He’s my bodyguard.”

  It was time for my eyebrows to rise in amusement.

  “A bodyguard? Really?” I laughed.

  “Yes,” she paused, thinking over her next words carefully. “My line of work can be,” another pause, “dangerous.”

  I scoffed at that. “Cyra, you’re a painter. Exactly how dangerous can that be?”

  “As you could’ve guessed by now that’s not all I do.” Her eyes studied me as I took everything in, confusion one of the primary emotions I was feeling at that exact moment.