Page 57 of Cruel Cravings

I half rise to my feet, still bound by the chains, and then I snap my arms apart as far as they go. The wood cracks, splintering, breaking off from itself. The back of the chair tips over to the ground while I stand the rest of the way, only the chained arms and legs attached to me.

Good enough for now.

The sharp crack startles them on the porch. Both look up mid-struggle as if trying to place it. Dudley recovers first, throwing his fist at Jael and striking her across the jaw. He uses his new advantage to grab her by the front of her jacket and slam her to the ground in a wrestling-like maneuver.

He’s dripping sweat and blood as he scrambles for the gun they’ve lost hold of. The same gun that had once been holstered to his hip.

My legs ache taking their first steps in days. I approach the door, my gait stiff and unnatural, appearing first as a shadow on the floor to the deputy.

He’s stretching out his hand to reach for the gun, then notices how the floor darkens in front of him. He looks up at the realization he’s not alone anymore.

I glare down at him from behind my minotaur mask. Horror unfolds on his sweaty face, his brows furrowing in question as he peers up at the large figure looming over him that’s more monster than man.

“What’re—” he starts and then screams.

I fist his hair, fingers clenching shut in his damp strands, as I raise him up like a doll. He swings at me, his weak fistsconnecting with air. I rattle him, shaking him, making his head snap back and forth to show how easily I can exert myself over him.

Then I toss him away. I send him tumbling halfway across the porch, where he connects with the banister and slumps down to the ground.

That’s nothing compared to what I can really do.

My steps are slow and heavy as I approach him. He’s pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his whole body trembling. He’s sweating so profusely, it clings to the edges of his face and drips from his matted hair.

“L-look,” he stutters, “I d-don’t know who or w-what you are, but I’m a sheriff’s d-deputy?—”

“Shut up.”

I snatch him up a second time, dragging him to his feet. My massive hands grab the sides of his head, snapping it left, then right. The crunch his neck makes is gruesome, pure agony that draws a feeble grunt from him.

He can’t even release a real scream. The pain is that instant and debilitating.

Neck broken but still very much alive, I drive him face first into the wooden banister. I bash his face in again and again until the wood is decorated with his blood. Even once it is, I’m not satisfied.

He’s still breathing and rage still surges through me.

I let out a howl that rumbles for miles as I throw him to the ground. I beat my fist into him, smashing in what little remains of his face.

Breaking whatever’s left.

Eye sockets are fractured. Teeth fly. His flesh rips open.

I make a mess of him until there’s nothing left but misshapen bits and pieces.

Finally someone more pulverized than I am. Except he’s dead as his pulse gives out and he goes still.

My chest heaves from the ragged, animalistic breaths I draw in. I rise to my feet with clenched fists dripping blood, coming to my senses some. Some semblance of thought and rationale as I survey the gory scene.

The sheriff died minutes ago in a pool of his own blood. The deputy has joined him. His gun remains where he left it, just out of reach on the porch floor.

And then there’s the object of my obsession—she’s still paralyzed with shock that I’ve broken free from the chair. I’m standing before her a monster ready to do what he does best. Smash and kill things.

When I turn toward her, she scoots away, her arms trembling even as they hold her up. She barely manages to push herself to her feet, stumbling back as she does. I take a step toward her, and she throws herself a few more back.

“Don’t be afraid,” I grunt.

But everything about the moment says otherwise—the crimson blood that drips slower than honey. The dead men laying at our feet. The chains and broken pieces of chair still attached to my hulking frame. My slow steps toward her.

Jael scrambles for the pistol she’d used against the sheriff and deputy and tries yet again to fire it in vain. It clicks and clicks, signaling the chamber’s still stuck.

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