by Trisha Wolfe
Born, Madly
Darkly, Madly Duet: Book Two
Trisha Wolfe
Contents
Quote
Prologue
1. Flesh of My Flesh
2. Wicked Game
3. Origination
4. Malicious Intent
5. The Pawn
6. Falling Under
7. Underbelly
8. Dissociation
9. Devolving
10. Dependence
11. Where I Want You
12. Duet
13. Russian Roulette
14. Nuance
15. Power of Suggestion
16. Ally
17. Devine Monsters
18. Oceans Apart
19. Epiphany
20. Folie à Deux
21. Fated Ruin
22. The Between
23. Look Upon Thy Death ~Romeo & Juliet
24. Corpus Delicti
25. Wherefore Art Thou
26. The End
Epilogue
FREE Book
Acknowledgments
Also by Trisha Wolfe
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Trisha Wolfe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
* * *
~William Shakespeare
Prologue
I, Monster
Grayson
Perfection.
The ultimate assumption that it can be attained if one works hard enough, sacrifices enough, is determined enough to prevail…is the very definition of insanity.
But what is this maddening thing we call perfection?
It’s different for everyone.
That one, blissfully high moment of utter and complete satisfaction, of achievement. It’s a sweet glimpse of heaven. A split-second where demons depart and the gates inch open, granting us a limited view of something holy.
We have reached the top of the mountain. We have conquered. We reap our reward.
Ah, that reward doesn’t come freely. There’s a price.
Fear.
Let me rip the Band-Aid off.
Fear governs our life—that soul-sickening dread of loss. Once we’ve obtained our perfection, anxiety creeps in like the demonic force it is to steal our light.
The truth is a nice dash of salt in a fresh, cavernous wound.
Once we’ve tasted the sweetest perfection, savoring it on our tongue, everything that follows can only be bland by comparison. Or worse; a sickly sour. Quickly becoming a rotten bitterness that roils our stomach.
The higher we reach, the further we descend immediately afterward. A crushing low.
A torrid pit of hell awaits us at the bottom.
Maybe that’s where London and I made our first mistake. Believing we could bottle our perfect piece of heaven. Immortalize it. Exist only for each other.
Maybe we still can.
But the higher we climbed, drugged on each other, ruling over a damned world that bowed and trembled before the god-like monsters we’d become, the harder our fall.
We are perfection.
And we are the fear that lurks beneath it.
We feast on each other and exist only for the highs…and even now as I kneel before my dark goddess and pray for her mercy, I regret nothing.
We truly were happy.
Maybe we still can be.
Locks and keys—the symphony of my life. A masterpiece, my design. My fear brought us to this moment.
The razor-sharp edge of the knife presses into my neck and splits my skin, and I release a hiss. I search her gold-flecked eyes for the spark that tells me she’s ready. Her eyes are wild, filled with loathing contempt, her chest heaving as glistening beads of sweat dot her smooth brow.
My beautiful angel of mercy, now my vengeful angel of death.
“Do it,” I command.
Her hand steadies. The cold steel a tantalizing tease to my heated flesh.
“Close your eyes, Grayson.” Her voice is throaty and raw, wrapping me in her cruel, loving embrace.
I push against the knife, drawing blood. “I want to see the satisfaction it brings you.”
Her delicate neck pulses with a strained swallow. I feel the force of it in my throat. My thirst for her never quenched. Even now, as she grips the weapon with both hands and begins to drag the blade across my skin, I yearn to taste her one more time.
Death at my lover’s hand. The ultimate reward and punishment for our perfection.
I couldn’t ask for a more perfect ending.
1
Flesh of My Flesh
Grayson
The beat of slow-pulsing music stirs my blood.
There’s an influence in it. An air of mystery. That which is too powerful, too ineffable, to describe—you have to feel it. That intoxicating rhythm. Coursing through your system. Adrenaline sliding against your veins. A lover’s caress that makes your body tremble, anticipation igniting your skin.
It’s the feeling only a truly free person can feel.
Alive.
The beat throbs inside my chest as I move through the club. Bodies pressed thick and undulating on the floor, exposed skin, sweat—the smell of lust and alcohol infuses the air. I watch the body of the crowd rise and fall like the swell of a wave. Crashing and cresting. A siren’s call beckoning me closer.
I weave through the dancing bodies, a prowling wolf. As if in slow motion, I walk among them, noticing every lick of the lips. Sway of the hips. Touch to the brow. Dilation of pupils.
It’s predatory, this gravitational pull that arouses their curiosity. Men and women alike turn in my direction, their eyes tracking my movement. Hypnotic sex appeal—it’s a lure. The hunter doesn’t need to stalk his prey. Like the bright, colorful flower that attracts the insect, then snaps its mouth around its meal…
I can feel their draw to me.
That power surges, emitting a pheromone to reel them in. The music choreographs our dance, the composition of hunter and prey. It’s electric.
I settle against the back wall of the nightclub. All corners and the entrance in view. I’m dressed in dark clothing. Concealing the tattoos that have been circling the news and Internet. I’ve changed the color of my eyes from blue to brown with contacts. My hair’s grown out enough not to match the description of me.
But here—among the other predators—I don’t have to hide.
They welcome me.
This is my hunting ground.
The beat changes. Faster. Harder. And my gaze captures the blonde entering the Blue Clover.
My whole body is lit on fire.
Like a moth to the flame, I only see her; her brightness eclipses the dark corners. The club fades away. The music a distant and muted backdrop to the loud thump pulsing in my ears. Every muscle in my body tenses. My chest aflame with a scorching ache that sears my throat; my mouth watering to taste her.
Six weeks on the run, and this is the first time I’m endangered of being caught.
She glides around the room like an immortal goddess before her worshipers. She’s a sinner and a saint; her short black skirt a tease for the senses; her angelic brown eyes circled with flecks of gold—her halo to lure you into her gauzy web with the promise of salvation.
And I am lured. Completely. She owns my entire being. Flesh and bone. My black soul belongs to her. With one look, she takes me down. If she demand
s I kneel right here, I’ll drop to my knees. Offer penance for my sins as I plead for her to devour me.
She moves closer, keeping me in her sights, and I’m clawing out of my skin to reach her. I press my back into the wall to ground myself. My shoulders ache from the pressure. I’m hard in anticipation as I watch her slender legs eat the distance between us.
With three words I come undone:
“I found you.”
My eyes close at the sound of her voice. I capture her neck and pull her to me, teasing a length of brunette hair from beneath the wig. I lower my head to her shoulder and inhale. Lilacs.
London’s petite body molds seamlessly against mine, making me whole. My other half. Two puzzle pieces sliding together. A perfect fit.
I drag my palm up her thigh, memorizing the feel of her soft skin all over again. “God, you’re real.”
Her breathy whisper teases my ear. “In the flesh.”
I burned my fortress to the ground to set her free. She’s innocent in the law’s eyes. The fire provided me time to escape, authorities burdened with the task of combing through the ashes as they sifted for my remains.
And for London? It put her above reproach. She’s a victim.
Only I know how truly lethal my psychologist is, and feeling her now, her scent swimming all around me…into my veins…I’m under her spell. She’s a seductress. Seducing me from miles away, just as she does now.
My thumb finds the beating pulse of her neck. “You did this,” I whisper harshly to her. “You brought me here.”
Her glossy lips twist into a sultry smile. “I had to.”
My heart thunders under her hand. “This is dangerous. You’re dangerous.” I’m risking everything to be here—but existence means nothing without her. I roam my hands up her body, feeling every inch of her. “No purse.”
She narrows her eyes. “No identification. Are you searching for a wire?”
I stop and pull her against me once more. “I would be stupid not to.”
“You’re paranoid.”
I smile. “Is that a diagnosis?”
“It’s a fucking observation.”
“I’m on the run from the FBI,” I say, trailing the pad of my finger across her bottom lip. She melts beneath my touch. “That tends to make one a little paranoid.”
“Not about me,” she stresses. “Don’t ever question me. I’m risking just as much as you are, Grayson.”
“Noted, doc.” She’s fire and life. She brings color to my world. I’ve been waiting a lifetime for her without even realizing she was the missing part of me. Flesh of my flesh. “But you’re still dangerous.”
Her silky lips find my neck. Her mouth opens to taste me, her tongue slips over my skin, and a hard shiver rocks through me. “That didn’t stop you before.” Her breathy declaration heats my skin.
I soar under her touch. “It won’t ever.”
“Grayson,” she says, her voice filled with raw emotion. “I found a way for us to be together.”
My body tenses. “It’s not time.”
The music changes beat, a provocative melody, forcing a shift in atmosphere around us. London pushes onto her toes and links her arms around my neck, speaking into my ear. “You have to trust me.” Her body sways, and I follow her lead as she guides us off the wall and into a slow dance. “You gave me a choice once, now I’m offering you one.”
Her body is so delicate in my hands; I could break her. But I let her lead. “Down the rabbit hole,” I say, remembering the moment on the hospital roof when I offered her my hand.
She lays her head against my chest. “Together.”
The music swells, taking me with it. Ascending higher as I tuck her close, knowing that I’ll never be able to leave her now. The choices have always been London’s to make. I might’ve designed the traps, but she guided us there.
She guided me here…
She traces something soft along my throat, and when she pulls back, I glimpse the dried clover. A smile curls my lips. The gift I left for her in her childhood dungeon. I gave her one small clue, and she took that frail hint and used it to direct my course.
When she next appeared on the news, she had the clover pinned to her suit. In a newspaper article, she was shown distraught, gripping a blue bar napkin in her hands. To anyone else, these objects would be meaningless. But to me, they didn’t belong.
Sometimes it’s what’s wrong with the picture that captures our attention. And London and I…we’re very, very wrong. A portrait of the wicked and sinful. She’s the artist and I’m her canvas, waiting for her to complete our story.
Then recently, a broadcast on the Internet revealed the date: Her announcement that Agent Nelson was traveling to Mize for the reveal of the dead girls’ identities.
I followed her story like she knew I would. I followed her to the Blue Clover because we belong together.
And I’ve waited long enough.
While she was unveiling the horror story of her life to the world, unearthing dead girls from the soil of her childhood home, I was pretty diligent myself, setting up false leads across the country. Dropping little breadcrumbs to keep the FBI taskforce busy.
We’ll come back to that later.
Right now, I’m famished. Starved to taste what I’ve been denying myself for far too long.
London pushes close to my ear. “You’re hungry,” she whispers. “Ravenous. I can feel your need.”
Teeth gritted, I grab the skimpy material of her skirt and bunch it in my fists. I find her eyes—those bottomless browns shimmering with gold—before I take her mouth. I groan into the kiss, the taste of her a drug injected into my deprived system.
The music returns with a roaring crash to my senses. I’m drunk on her and swaying beneath her spell. Only one other indulgence compares to this sublime feeling, and I’m unable to deny myself any longer. I break away and turn her around to face the club.
Securing my hands to her hips, I bring her back against my chest. My eyes shutter as she snakes an arm around my neck, welding her body along mine.
I dip my head low and whisper, “Choose.”
Enticing me isn’t enough. London thinks she’s going to poke the beast with no implications…let’s test that theory. If she’s ready to bring the manhunt to an end, then she’s ready to take lives.
I feel the quake roll over her body. “You don’t think I’m ready.”
“I think if I’ve come all this way, placing myself right in the path of bloodhounds, you’re going to prove it.”
“Didn’t I prove it when I dunked a pedophile in a tank of acid?” Her words seethe with righteous anger.
I smile at the memory of our first kill. “Your hands still look clean,” I say in a hushed tone. “I want to see them dirty. I want to see them red.”
Her body responds to my challenge with a hard shiver. Then her hips rock into me, daring me all the same. London and I have been battling for control since I first entered her therapy room. If she only realized just how much control she has over me…the damage she could do.
“This isn’t your selection process,” she says, a tremble in her voice. “It’s too impulsive.”
“No…it’s new. It’s us. This is our selection process.” And it’s sexy as hell. I drag my hand up her thigh, her thin, little skirt nearly ripping under my palm. “You’ve been selecting your victims for a long time, London.” I guide her head with my cheek, our eyes scanning the crowd. “Trust your instincts.”
Like a radar, my soul recognizes other black souls. I can spot them in a crowd. Zeroing in on that indefinable thing that makes us alike. Same.
The damned.
Killers.
London has this ability, too. It’s what makes her so damn good at her job. Sensing the dark thread woven through a killer’s being. Pulling that thread until it unravels. Fraying the end until she has him wrapped around her finger…
She’s an artist.
I take her hand in mine, running the pad of my finge
r over hers as I seek the groove marks that wrap her flesh. They’re deeper now. As if she’s spent hours twisting her little string around and around, tightening it until her finger throbbed.
My jaw clenches. Our time apart hasn’t just been torturous for me.
Her shoulders tense. “Some things never change.” She presses back, sending a thrill through my whole being.
I slip a hand beneath her skirt. Her thighs squeeze together as I roam up her inner thigh. She rolls her head across my chest, entranced. As London grinds against me, setting my senses aflame, I tease her panties aside, seeking the proof of her arousal.
Her approval is felt in the heat rolling off her body—the wetness soaking the material of her panties. “Fuck.” My teeth damn near crack under the pressure of my clenched jaw.
Self-control is what’s kept me hidden this long.
Another reason I had to leave London cuffed to the trap as my lair blazed into the early morning sky.
She makes me fucking reckless.
My erection pushes painfully against my dark denim. I’m tempted to dig the switchblade out of my pocket and trail the steel blade up the curve of her ass, cut her panties away. Become a loosed animal. Wild and feral. I want to drag her over the nearest table and fuck her in front of everyone here.
My adrenaline careens painfully against every artery. Blood roars in my head. As her hips expertly roll across my restrained cock, she raises her hands above her head and dips low, sinfully sliding her body down mine like the seductive goddess she is. Proving I’m just a mere mortal in her divine presence.
A heady groan works its way free. She’s breaking me.
I’ve never danced with anyone before. Never had the chance. Never craved the experience.
Until her.
London makes me desperate to taste everything I’ve missed…taste it all for the first time with her.
“Touch me,” she whispers, taking my hands and bringing my arms around her slim waist.
The raging fire within smolders into a slow burn as I relax against her. My dark lover, and yet, still my sound psychologist. This is why I chose her; she knows what I need.
