Chapter 1
Dear Readers,
Welcome to Possess Me Whole by My Will, the second book in the Possess Me series.
Before starting this story, please make sure to read Possess Me Wrong first, as the events and characters continue directly from Book One. You can find it published on my profile.
Thank you so much for your support, your comments, and for giving my stories a chance. I hope you enjoy returning to this world as much as I enjoyed writing it.
With love,
Kyrin Brynes
Four Months Gone
By the time my shift ended, the smell of frying oil had soaked so deeply into my hair and skin that I felt as if I had been cooked in it myself.
The burger place was almost empty now. The bright plastic booths had already been wiped down, the floor mopped, the kitchen lights glaring too white against greasy metal counters. Somewhere behind me, one of the cooks laughed at something on his phone, his voice echoing through the half-closed kitchen door. The manager had counted the till twice already and finally waved me off.
I only nodded.
I didn't speak much at work unless I absolutely had to.
Speaking invited questions. Questions invited attention. And attention was the one thing I had learned to fear more than exhaustion, more than hunger, more than the dull ache that had settled permanently into my lower back these past few months.
Inside the tiny staff room at the back, I removed my cap and apron, folded them neatly, and shoved them into my locker. My hands smelled like onions, soap, and paper bills. For a moment, I leaned my forehead against the cold metal door and closed my eyes.
Four months.
Four months since I had run from Jack Barrett.
Four months since Alice had helped me disappear.
Four months since I had stopped being Eve in any official way that mattered.
No bank card. No old phone. No doctor. No familiar streets. No names spoken too loudly. No places downtown visited twice unless absolutely necessary.
I had become careful.
Small.
Invisible.
And somehow, I had managed to stay hidden.
The shower in the staff bathroom was old and unreliable, more like a metal pipe sticking out of stained tile than something meant for comfort, but I was grateful for it anyway. I locked the door, stripped out of my uniform, and stood beneath the lukewarm water until the smell of the kitchen finally began fading from my skin.
The pressure was weak. The towel rough. The little mirror above the sink cracked across one corner.
Still, for those few minutes, I almost felt human again.
Almost.
When I got dressed, I pulled on the loose gray sweater I had bought from a thrift store two months ago because it hid the curve of my stomach better than anything else I owned. My jeans were getting tight now, uncomfortable whenever I bent or walked too long, but I still hadn't been brave enough to buy maternity clothes.
Maternity clothes made things feel too real.
I placed both hands over my stomach.
For a second, everything inside me went still.
Then came the faintest flutter.
Barely there.
Soft as a secret brushing against me from the inside.
My throat tightened instantly. I pressed my palm more carefully against the spot where I had felt it and waited, but the baby didn't move again.
A fragile smile still touched my mouth.
"Hi," I whispered.
The word sounded ridiculous in the ugly little bathroom with its buzzing fluorescent light and cracked mirror, but warmth spread painfully through my chest anyway.
I was scared.
I was alone.
I was living in a basement suite rented from an old woman who asked no questions as long as the rent arrived in cash and on time.
But the baby was real.
The baby was mine.
And Jack Barrett didn't know where we were.
That thought had become the only prayer I had left.
Outside, the night had turned bitterly cold. Streetlamps cast pale circles across the pavement while the dark windows of closed shops reflected my passing figure back at me in warped flashes. I kept my head down and walked quickly, one hand curled around the paper envelope of cash inside my coat pocket.
The buses had already stopped running. It had to be close to eleven.
I hated walking home this late, but taxis were out of the question, and I couldn't afford to waste money anymore. Alice had given me enough to disappear, but not enough to survive forever. I still felt guilty every time I counted coins at the grocery store or stood debating whether I could afford fruit that week.
Alice had done more than anyone else would have dared.
She had hidden me.
Helped me leave.
Loaned me money when I'd been too terrified to touch my own bank account because I knew Jack would find a way to track it.
And Jack would.
I knew that now.
I knew too much about the kind of man he was to comfort myself with pretty lies.
Jack Barrett didn't simply search.
He hunted.
A shiver crawled down my spine, and I pulled my coat tighter around myself.
For four months, I had tried convincing myself that maybe he'd stopped looking. Maybe his pride had cooled. Maybe his anger had finally burned itself out. Maybe he had decided I wasn't worth the trouble anymore.
But deep down, I had never truly believed it.
Not really.
Jack had looked at me too many times as if the entire world had narrowed to the shape of my body, my breath, my pulse. He had touched me as though I already belonged to him. He had spoken in that low, terrifying voice that made promises sound like threats.
A man like Jack Barrett didn't let go because a woman ran.
He tightened the leash.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep walking.
Then the baby moved again.
This time, stronger.
I stopped right there on the sidewalk, breath catching as one hand flew to my stomach.
The street around me was empty. A car passed at the far end of the block, headlights briefly sweeping over brick walls and dark windows before disappearing around the corner.
I stood completely still, my palm pressed beneath my sweater.
There it was again.
A tiny movement.
A little push.
Something alive.
A strange, helpless happiness rose inside me so suddenly it hurt.
"Oh," I breathed softly, a shaky laugh escaping me. "You're awake now?"
The baby didn't answer, of course.
Still, for one brief second, I forgot the cold. Forgot the fear. Forgot Jack's name like a bruise buried somewhere deep inside my mind.
I only stood there beneath the flickering streetlamp, holding my stomach and loving someone I hadn't even met yet.
Then the fear returned.
I needed to see a doctor.
The thought had been growing louder for weeks, but tonight it suddenly felt impossible to ignore. I was six months along now. I could feel movement constantly. I needed an ultrasound. Bloodwork. Advice. Anything.
I had been pretending that feeling fine meant being fine.
But what kind of mother did that?
I started walking again, slower this time.
Maybe I could find a small clinic somewhere farther away. Somewhere that took cash. Somewhere that wouldn't ask too many questions.
But hospitals had records.
Doctors had forms.
Names had to be written somewhere.
And Jack had money. Influence. People. Patience.
I hated him for making even the thought of caring for my baby feel dangerous.
A small shop on the corner was still open, its sign glowing weakly against the darkness. I hesitated before crossing the street toward it. The place stayed open until midnight and sold almost everything in cramped little aisles - bread, batteries, cheap coffee, fruit, medicine, instant noodles, cigarettes behind the counter.
The bell above the door jingled tiredly when I stepped inside.
Warm air smelling of dust, sugar, and old cardboard wrapped around me instantly.
The man behind the counter barely glanced up from his phone. I preferred it that way.
I went straight to the fruit stand near the back.
Oranges.
Just seeing them made my mouth water.
Lately, I wanted orange juice constantly. Not the bottled kind. Not the artificial sweetness from the burger place. Fresh juice, squeezed by hand with the tiny glass juicer I had found at a thrift store for two dollars.
It had become one of my few comforts.
My little ritual.
Five oranges, cut in half and twisted down until bright golden juice collected beneath them.
I chose them carefully, turning each one in my hand.
Ripe.
Heavy.
Fragrant.
Five oranges.
At the counter, I paid in cash. The man handed me my change without even looking at my face.
Good.
That was good.
Outside, the cold hit me again immediately. I tucked the paper bag against my chest and headed toward the narrow side street leading to the basement suite.
The neighborhood was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Most of the houses were dark, only a few porch lights glowing faintly. Bare tree branches scratched against the night sky. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and then stopped.
My steps quickened.
I told myself I was being paranoid.
But paranoia had kept me hidden for four months.
Still, Emily's last message pressed heavily against my ribs.
A month ago, she had contacted me to say the baby was coming soon. I had cried in the bathroom at work while reading it, overwhelmed by happiness and grief at the same time. I wanted to be there for her. I wanted to hold her hand and see the baby.
But I couldn't.
Then she messaged me again after the birth.
Not with pictures first.
Not with joy.
With a warning.
There were men at the hospital.
Men she didn't recognize.
And one of them...
One of them looked familiar.
From the shopping mall.
My bodyguard.
Even now, the word made my stomach twist.
My bodyguard.
Jack's man.
Watching Emily.
Waiting for me to make the mistake of showing up.
That was all the proof I needed.
Jack Barrett was still searching.
Not only searching.
Thinking like me.
He knew Emily mattered. He knew I might risk everything to see her after the birth. So he sent someone there to wait - patient and silent among maternity wards and newborn cries - because he understood something about me that made my blood run cold.
He understood my heart.
And he was using it against me.
By the time I reached the basement entrance beside the house, my fingers had gone stiff around the paper bag. I stopped at the top of the narrow steps and looked over my shoulder.
Nothing.
Empty street.
Parked cars.
Dark windows.
A trash bin tipped sideways against a fence.
No black car.
No broad-shouldered man in a suit.
No familiar silhouette standing beneath a streetlamp with terrifying stillness.
No Jack Barrett.
I let out the breath I had been holding.
Then I hurried down the steps, unlocked the basement door, and slipped inside.
The suite smelled faintly of damp concrete, laundry detergent, and the lavender candle I sometimes lit to make the place feel less like a hiding spot. It was small - really just one bedroom with a worn loveseat pushed against the wall, a tiny table, a secondhand armchair, and a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in.
The ceiling was low.
The little window near the top of the wall showed only a thin strip of the outside world: the house owner's shoes passing by, rainwater sliding down concrete, snow during winter, shadows crossing late at night.
But it was mine.
For now.
I locked the door.
Then the second bolt.
Then I shoved the chair beneath the handle even though I knew it wouldn't stop anyone truly determined.
Especially not him.
Only then did I set the oranges on the table.
My hands were shaking.
I stood in the middle of the room and listened carefully.
The refrigerator hummed softly. Pipes clicked somewhere above me. A television murmured faintly upstairs.
Nothing else.
Slowly, I removed my coat and hung it over the back of the chair before washing one orange and cutting it in half.
The scent burst open immediately.
Bright.
Clean.
Sweet.
For some reason, it nearly made me cry.
I pressed the orange down onto the little glass juicer and twisted until juice collected beneath it. One half. Then another. Then another.
By the time I finished, I had one small glass of fresh orange juice, pulpy and golden.
I carried it into the bedroom, sat carefully on the edge of the bed, and drank it slowly.
The baby moved again.
I closed my eyes.
"I know," I whispered softly. "You like it."
My fingers settled protectively over my stomach.
A strange ache filled my chest, love and fear tangled together so tightly I couldn't separate one from the other.
"I'm going to take care of you," I promised quietly. "I swear I am."
But even as I said it, Alice's warning echoed through my mind again.
Men at the hospital.
Barrett's man.
Waiting.
Watching.
I opened my eyes and stared toward the bedroom door.
For four months, I had been running from the devil.
But now, with my baby moving beneath my palm and the need for a doctor growing harder to ignore every day, I understood the truth with cold, sick certainty.
I could not stay hidden forever.
Still, one thought brought me a small, guilty sense of relief: by the time Jack Barrett found out about the baby, there would be nothing he could do except let the child be born.
Sleep had become strange since my second trimester started.
Not impossible.
Just fragile.
Some nights, I would lie awake for hours listening to the old pipes knocking softly inside the walls, the groaning wood of the house settling against the cold, the muffled footsteps of the old woman upstairs moving from one room to another long after midnight. Other nights, I would finally drift off near dawn only to wake an hour later with my heart racing for no reason I could explain.
And sometimes...
Sometimes I dreamed about Jack Barrett.
His hand wrapped around the back of my neck.
His voice low against my ear.
The overwhelming weight of his attention.
I hated that my body still remembered him so vividly.
Tonight, though, exhaustion sat heavily in my bones after the long shift. At least the burger place scheduled me for afternoons instead of mornings. My shifts usually started around one and stretched late into the evening, but it allowed me to sleep in whenever the nausea or sleepless nights became too much.
The basement suite was quiet around me now.
I had turned on the television mostly for the sound of another human voice. The volume stayed low enough not to disturb the old woman upstairs. The house itself was ancient, probably decades old, with thin floors and creaking pipes that carried every movement from one level to another.
Still, the woman had been kind.
Kind enough to rent the basement cheaply without asking endless questions.
Kind enough not to pry into why a pregnant young woman lived alone with no visitors and paid everything in cash.
The suite itself was tiny - barely more than a cramped little living room attached to a bedroom with an ensuite bathroom - but I had come to think of it as safe. It was within walking distance of work, close enough that I didn't need buses or taxis, and most importantly, I could afford it.
That mattered more than comfort.
Though lately, I had started worrying about what would happen after the baby came.
A crying infant in an old house with paper-thin walls...
The old woman upstairs probably wouldn't tolerate it for very long.
I drew my legs beneath me on the narrow twin bed, one shoulder resting against the wall while some reality show flickered across the television screen.
I barely followed any of it.
My thoughts kept circling the same things.
Doctors.
Money.
The baby.
Jack.
Always Jack.
A movement outside the bedroom window suddenly darkened the pale glow of the streetlamp.
I froze.
My gaze slowly lifted toward the narrow basement window.
A shadow slipped past it again.
Quick enough to make my stomach tighten.
Maybe a cat.
But the thought vanished almost immediately.
There were no stray cats here. I had never seen any. And the basement window sat well away from the sidewalk, tucked along the side of the house nearly twenty meters from the road itself. Nobody casually walked that close unless they intentionally came onto the property.
The television voices blurred into meaningless noise.
Slowly, I stood from the bed.
My heart had already begun pounding hard enough to hurt.
Quietly, I crossed the room toward the window.
The old wooden floor creaked softly beneath my foot.
I stopped breathing.
Nothing moved outside now.
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe-
Another shadow.
Closer this time.
My stomach tightened violently.
I approached the little basement window on tiptoe and carefully lifted myself just enough to peer outside.
At first, I saw only darkness.
Then my gaze shifted left.
And I saw boots.
Large black boots planted in the dead winter grass beside the house.
Above them were worn brown wool trousers.
Whoever stood there was leaning slightly forward, trying to peer into the upstairs bedroom window belonging to the old woman.
I jerked backward so fast I nearly lost my balance.
My heart slammed wildly against my ribs.
Without thinking, I rushed to the bedside lamp and switched it off.
Darkness swallowed the bedroom instantly except for the dim glow leaking in from the television mounted on the wall.
The baby moved suddenly inside me.
A sharp little kick.
As if sensing my fear.
"Oh God," I whispered shakily.
I could hear blood roaring in my ears.
Who was outside?
A thief?
Someone drunk?
Why would someone be spying on the old woman?
Or-
No.
No.
Jack would never find her here.
Not to a place like this.
Still shaking, I forced myself back toward the window.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I rose onto my toes again and peered outside.
And gasped.
A man's face suddenly appeared near the glass, squinting into the darkness of my basement bedroom.
I stumbled backward with a strangled sound, one hand flying to cover my mouth.
For one horrible second, all I could think was that someone had been watching me through the window.
It was only because I had turned off the lamp that he couldn't properly see inside.
The television still cast faint shifting light from the living room though, and panic flooded me instantly. Could he see me? Could he tell someone was here?
Outside, the man remained bent toward the window, trying to peer into the darkness.
I stared at him, breathing hard.
Grayish hair hung almost to his chin in greasy strands. His face looked older than I remembered - rougher somehow, deeply lined around the mouth and nose. Dark moles marked the skin near his nostril and beneath his lower lip.
Then recognition hit me like ice water.
Ted Smith.
My father's lawyer.
I stepped backward again.
Then another step.
My entire body had gone cold.
"No..." I whispered.
I turned and rushed out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me as if that thin piece of wood could somehow protect me.
My thoughts scattered wildly.
How?
How had he found me?
This neighborhood was practically forgotten by the rest of the city. Rows of aging houses lined cracked streets where half the porches leaned crookedly and several homes sat boarded up entirely. There were no expensive apartments here. No wealthy families. No polished restaurants.
Only tiny shops, rusted fences, old cars, and people too tired to pay attention to anyone else.
What would a rich lawyer like Ted Smith even be doing here?
Unless-
Unless he had been searching for me.
The baby kicked again.
Harder this time.
I wrapped both arms protectively around my stomach and sank into the old weathered armchair near the bookshelf.
I could feel the movement inside me.
Restless.
Agitated.
Almost as if the baby sensed my terror.
Tears burned suddenly behind my eyes.
I couldn't move again.
Not now.
I had barely managed to save enough money to survive as it was. Another apartment deposit, another disappearance, another job under another fake explanation-
And even if I ran...
Would it matter anymore?
Ted Smith finding me meant the world was already closing in.
A horrible realization slowly settle
