The beast breeder

Nyla Pov

I woke up gasping, my bedsheets tangled around my legs, my body slick with sweat and that familiar ache settling low and insistent, the kind that made it impossible to pretend it was just another bad dream. The ceiling above my bed stared back at me, cracked paint and all, and I pressed the heel of my palm into my eyes while my breathing slowly evened out.

“Get it together,” I muttered to the empty room, my voice hoarse and irritated with myself.

Three months. That was how long the dreams had been happening, always vivid, always leaving me restless and tense, always featuring the same man whose face I could never fully forget even after waking. I told myself it was stress, the debt, the long hours, the weight of working somewhere I technically was not supposed to admit existed. Stress did things to people. That explanation had to be enough.

I dragged myself out of bed, showered, dressed, and checked my phone while eating a granola bar that tasted stale. No missed calls. No messages. Just the reminder from my loan app blinking at me with cruel punctuality.

“Yeah, I know,” I told the phone flatly. “I’m poor. Thank you.”

The drive to the Helix Institute passed in silence, my thoughts circling places I did not want them to go. By the time I cleared security and stepped into the main research wing, my professional mask was firmly in place.

“Morning, Dr. Vance.”

I turned to see Owen Graves approaching with two paper cups in his hands, his smile easy and practiced. He held one out to me before I could speak.

“Black, one sugar,” he said. “Just how you take it.”

My stomach tightened, not with gratitude but with unease that had been building for weeks now.

“You really don’t have to do this every day,” I replied, accepting the cup because refusing felt awkward and ungrateful.

“I know,” he said lightly. “I want to.”

“That’s what worries me,” I said before I could stop myself.

Owen laughed, though it sounded slightly forced, and waved a dismissive hand. “You worry too much, Nyla. Consider it appreciation for your hard work.”

I took a careful sip, the bitterness grounding me. “Fourteen months of appreciation all at once,” I said. “I should be concerned about my performance review.”

His eyes lingered on my face longer than necessary. “Your performance is exemplary. Which is why I need to see you in my office later this morning.”

There it was, the shift in tone that made my shoulders tense.

“About what,” I asked.

“A new assignment,” he replied. “Nothing to panic about.”

I watched him walk away, my instincts screaming that panic was exactly what I should be doing.

Two hours later, I sat across from him in his office, my hands folded in my lap, my spine straight. Owen leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

“I’m assigning you to Cell Block Seven,” he said calmly.

I blinked. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me.”

“I’m not qualified for that,” I said, my voice steady even though my pulse had picked up. “You know that. I’m a behavioral analyst, not a containment handler.”

“You are qualified,” he replied. “You just haven’t been utilized correctly.”

“Specimen Seven is feral,” I said. “He has killed three handlers.”

“In eight years,” Owen corrected. “And only during feeding.”

“That is not reassuring,” I said.

He sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Nyla, this is a controlled environment. You will not be alone, and your task is observation and delivery, nothing more.”

“I want this noted as a refusal,” I said carefully.

His expression hardened, the friendly veneer slipping. “If you refuse, I will have no choice but to terminate your contract.”

My throat tightened. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” he said. “The Institute cannot afford insubordination.”

“I have loans,” I said, hating the way my voice wavered. “You know that.”

“I do,” he replied smoothly. “Which is why I know you will accept.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

“When,” I asked quietly.

“Today,” Owen said. “This afternoon.”

I stood on unsteady legs, gripping my coffee cup too tightly. “You’re asking me to feed a monster.”

“I’m asking you to do your job,” he replied. “Dismissed.”

The elevator ride down felt longer than it should have, the hum of machinery loud in my ears. Each level dropped the temperature noticeably, the air growing colder, sharper, until my breath fogged faintly in front of me.

“Seven floors,” I murmured. “Of course.”

The doors slid open to reveal Cell Block Seven, sterile and silent, reinforced glass lining the corridor. A guard nodded at me without speaking, keycard already in hand.

“You ready, Doc,” he asked.

“No,” I said honestly. “But let’s get this over with.”

The glass wall came into view, and my heart stuttered.

He stood there, massive and still, scars mapping his bare torso, silver eyes lifting slowly until they locked onto mine. The world seemed to narrow, the air thickening in my lungs.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

He was the man from my dreams. Every detail matched, the sharp intensity of his gaze, the way his presence filled the space without movement.

The guard cleared his throat. “Specimen Seven.”

The werewolf’s lips curved slightly, his attention never leaving me.

“You brought me a new one,” he said, his voice deep and rough. “She smells different.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m Dr. Nyla Vance. I’m here to deliver your meal.”

He took a step closer to the glass, his palm pressing against it. “You already feed me,” he said. “Every night.”

“That’s not possible,” I said, though my body reacted traitorously to his words.

He smiled, slow and knowing. “You scream my name in your sleep.”

My breath caught. “You don’t know my name.”

“I do now,” he replied.

The guard shifted uncomfortably. “Doc, you just need to slide the tray through.”

I nodded stiffly and approached the slot, my hands trembling as I pushed the tray inside.

The werewolf crouched, muscles flexing, eyes never leaving my face. “You should not be here,” he said quietly.

“I don’t have a choice,” I replied.

His gaze softened, just a fraction. “Neither do I.”

The slot closed with a heavy clang, and I stumbled back, my legs weak.

“Assignment complete,” the guard said. “You okay, Doc.”

I nodded, though nothing about this felt okay.

As the elevator carried me back up, my reflection stared back at me, pale and shaken.

The dreams were not dreams and I had just met the man who haunted them.