A Monstrosity Series

The echo of her footsteps seemed to chase her down like a pack of ferocious hounds. Olivia kept looking over her shoulder every few steps, her breath catching in her throat. She had the distinct impression that she was being followed. The streets, on the other hand, were practically deserted.

The Laguna sky was gloomy, lit only by artificial lights and a sliver of the old moon, which was gradually fading into obscurity.

Olivia could tell she was sobbing because her hasty footsteps were accompanied by hiccupping noises every now and then.

"Get home!" she chanted to herself, her hands clasped together on her chest.

As her apartment building came into view, the terrible humming in her ears that she'd been experiencing since rushing out of Mr. Santos's house seemed to get louder.

It stood there, warm and welcoming, promising security and protection, and all Liv could think about was whether the locks would hold.

Against what, specifically? You've gone insane! You're walking down the street alone!

Was she, however, truly alone?

She wiped her brow with the back of her left hand after feeling something drip down her brow. The bloodied hand washed away, and she wondered for the first time that evening whether it was her blood or someone else's.

The thick globs of drying blood on her hands stood out against her dark skin, creating a stark contrast.

Without a doubt, she realized that with her hands covered in blood, she would have only spread whatever was on her brow.

Everything seemed so far away now. When he called, she dashed into her boss's house, his breath ragged and his words jumbled. He was discovered on the floor of his massive library, gargling his last breaths. Libby chin trembled as she remembered collapsing next to him and helplessly attempting to assist when it was clearly too late. He had told her not to call an ambulance. She did it, regardless. It never came. She pushed through the glass doors into the foyer and dashed to the elevators, expecting a hand to reach out and grab her. Libby took a deep breath as the doors closed in front of her, and the foyer was still devoid of any living beings, only bathed in warm orange lights. It was accompanied by a loud wail, and she had to fight the urge to cover her mouth with her hand and hush herself.

She pushed through the glass doors into the foyer and dashed to the elevators, expecting a hand to reach out and grab her. Libby took a deep breath as the doors closed in front of her, and the foyer was still devoid of any living beings, only bathed in warm orange lights. It was accompanied by a loud wail, and she had to fight the urge to cover her mouth with her hand and hush herself.

As the key slipped soundly into the lock and the tumblers undid themselves with an encouraging clink, Libby let out the breath she had seemed to be holding since entering the place.

Her house was right around the corner. Her spacious couch, flat-screen TV, and kitchenette. Her bedroom door remained wide open, exactly as she'd left it. All she could think about was going inside and soaking in a bathtub. But she knew she couldn't do it. She'd sprint into the bedroom, grab a suitcase, and flee. She was unable to stop herself. No, not right now.

As she was about to walk through the door, a strong hand clamped over her mouth and violently pulled her back. She couldn't even bring herself to scream.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Movement in the bedroom," Tim said, the earpiece in Jerome's ear making an irritating buzzing sound in addition to the information.

"Movement in the left stairwell," Mitch added.

His team was dispersed, with everyone holding their positions while he was tasked with the actual pursuit. And he was well aware that he wasn't the only one who had backup. Something about professional jobs smelled bad and could punch you in the face from a mile away. That's probably why the woman was so alarmed-it was too obvious to ignore.

With a hissing snarl, Jerome turned around on his heel and charged down the other side of the building. His heart rate increased, and he knew his muscles would begin to prepare for the impending fight or flight. He couldn't see anything except the gray, fluorescent walls of the right-side stairwell leading up. His steps had become heavy and hurried, rather than silent.

Jerome accelerated to the fifth floor faster than any other man. That's what ten years in the Army does to a man. It didn't hurt that he was a werebear capable of outrunning most top-tier sprinters. When he opened the door to the corridor, a low growl thrummed in his throat as the stench hit him square in the face.

Wolves.

Those fucking wild dogs were always the culprits.

He'd never been inside, but he knew his way around like the back of his hand. A left turn, a straight, narrow corridor, the elevators, and her apartment were all ahead of her. It had two adjoining rooms, she preferred the color lavender, and her home was always immaculate. And she was in so much jeopardy that it took his squad to save her.

As he pounded down the corridor, the carpets on the floors softened his steps, his black pants, combat boots, and long-sleeved T-shirt making him look like something out of a bad action movie in an upper-class apartment building. He was half expecting a doorman to appear out of nowhere and make a snide remark about the dress code of the building.