Page 129 of Wicked Little Nightmare

As I spoke, I could feel Cam's eyes boring into the back of my skull. He knew me too well, could probably sense the desperation clawing at my insides. But fuck it, I needed answers, and I needed them now.

Sarah hesitated, her internal struggle playing out across her features. I almost felt bad for her. Almost. But the itch beneath my skin, the burning need to know, overrode any semblance of empathy.

"Please," I added, layering on the charm. "I promise to be a good little patient." My fingers twitched at my sides, itching to grab her, to shake the answers out of her if necessary.

I could see the moment Sarah's resolve crumbled. Her shoulders sagged slightly, a barely perceptible nod signaling her acquiescence. Victory surged through me, dark and intoxicating.

As Sarah began to prepare for the session, I caught Cam's eye. The knowing look he gave me sent a shiver down my spine. He saw right through my act; knew the lengths I'd go to uncover the truth.

I snatched a fuzzy blanket off the back of the couch, wrapping it around myself like armor. The soft fabric was a stark contrast to the razor-sharp focus in my mind. I plopped down, cross-legged, a picture of childish eagerness that masked the predator lying in wait. I had something I needed to confirm. A nagging in my gut.

"Comfy?" Sarah asked, her voice strained as she fumbled with her notepad.

I grinned, all teeth. "Oh, absolutely. I feel like a kid at Christmas. You're Santa, and my memories are the presents."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cam, Kyle, and Rose slink towards the kitchen. Cam's casual swagger couldn't hide the tension in his shoulders. He knew something was brewing, and it made him uneasy to leave me.

"You sure you don't want to stay and watch, baby?" I called out. "Might learn something interesting."

Cam's dark chuckle made me smile. "I'll catch the highlights later, doll. Try not to break our therapist, yeah?"

As they disappeared into the kitchen, I turned my full attention to Sarah. Poor thing looked like she was about to face a firing squad instead of leading a hypnosis session. Must have been something on my face.

"Shall we begin?" I asked, settling back into the cushions. My mind was already racing, hungry for the truth that lay buried in my fucked-up psyche. Whatever nightmares were waiting for me, I was ready. Bring on the monsters, doc. I've got a few of my own to unleash.

Sarah's voice faded into a distant hum as I slipped under, the world around me melting away like cotton candy in the rain. Suddenly, I was floating in a sea of white, sterile and cold. I was lucky I landed back in this same room.

"Patient X shows remarkable progress," a crisp voice cut through the haze. "Genetic modifications are holding steady."

My eyes snapped open, but I wasn't in control. I was looking through the eyes of a younger me, strapped to a metal table, surrounded by faceless doctors in pristine lab coats. Their voices echoed around me, clinical and detached.

"Heart rate stable, brain activity within optimal parameters," another voice chimed in. "The emotional suppression techniques are functioning as intended."

I wanted to scream, to lash out, but my body remained motionless. Inside, though, a darkness was brewing. These fuckers were talking about me like I was some kind of science experiment. Well, newsflash assholes, your little girl grew up to have some sharp fucking teeth.

"Aggression levels are off the charts," a third doctor noted, sounding almost gleeful. "We've never seen such a perfect blend of controlled violence and emotional detachment. She feels nothing at all."

A warm glow of pride bloomed in my chest, battling with the rage and disgust. I was their perfect little monster, wasn't I? Bred for violence, raised in hell, and polished to a deadly shine.

"The subject's capacity for focused brutality is unprecedented," the first voice continued. "With proper conditioning, Patient X could become our most effective asset yet."

Asset. That's all I was to them. A weapon to be aimed and fired at their discretion. But they forgot one crucial detail – weapons have a nasty habit of turning on their masters. And I became their worst fucking nightmare. My pride was quickly replaced with rage.

As the doctors droned on about test results and genetic markers, I felt a familiar darkness rising within me. It was the same well of fury and pain I'd drawn from every time I'd put a knife to someone's throat or watched the light fade from their eyes. But this time, it wasn't just anger. It was purpose.

These memories weren't just nightmares anymore. They were blueprints for revenge. And I was going to paint this whole fucking world red.

Without warning, a new voice cut through the clinical chatter, deep and authoritative. I turned my head, my gaze landing on a man in an impeccably tailored suit. His presence commanded attention, and even the doctors fell silent.

"Gentlemen," he said, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and something darker, "what we have here is perfection."

I felt a shiver run down my spine, equal parts pleasure and revulsion. His approval shouldn't have meant jack shit to me, but some small, twisted part of me preened under his gaze.

"Patient X is everything we've worked towards," he continued, circling me like a shark. "We must submit her DNA for future subjects. Along with Patient Y, who exhibits remarkable levels of intelligence, brutality and strength. The things these two could do together…"

I wanted to spit in his face, to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until that smug look of satisfaction disappeared forever. But my body remained motionless, a puppet awaiting its master's command.

The scene shifted abruptly, and I found myself staring at a grainy ultrasound image. A doctor's voice, clinical and detached, filtered through my consciousness.

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