Stay
A Stand Alone Dark Romance
By
USA Today Bestselling Author
Chelsea Camaron
Copyright © Chelsea Camaron 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Chelsea Camaron, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Thank you for downloading/purchasing this ebook. This ebook and its contents are the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download/purchase their own copy. Thank you for your support.
This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are adults over the age of 18.
All characters are fictional. Any similarities are purely coincidental.
1st Edition Published: August 2015
Editing by: C&D Editing
Cover Design by: Cover Me Darling
Formatting by: IndieVention Designs
Fair Warning … This isn’t a sappy romance. It’s not sweet. It’s far from anything you would want to imagine. This is a story to leave you feeling dirty.
Nothing about us is normal.
Nothing about us is natural.
Can love ultimately be defined in such ways, truly?
This is our story.
He is a hit man, the very one who took my family the night that changed us both forever. Something in my eyes stopped him from killing me. Something in my eyes called out for him to take me.
At ten, he captured me. At fifteen, he consumed me. And at eighteen, he owned me.
Outsiders think he’s my father … That is so far from the truth.
Our twisted desires fuel the darkness that lies deep inside us both. My innocence never existed, and he takes me as I am.
Note from the author
This book is meant to make your insides turn at times. It is not for the faint of heart. Truly, if you read for a happily ever after with a Prince Charming or some form of redeemable characteristic in your hero, this is not the book for you.
The book will conclude with an HEA, but I make no promises that you will get what you expect; nor is there anything redeemable, nice, soft, sweet, or remotely charming about the hero. There are two epilogues—you can choose your ending. My original thought was to end it at the last chapter; however, I don’t want to leave you with no hope, so there are two endings for you to decide Fallyn’s fate.
Please understand, this is a work of complete fiction. Nothing is meant to be believable as this is a truly dark and daunting story.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
-Choose Your Ending-
Epilogue Version One
Epilogue Version Two
About the Author
Other Works
Excerpt of Blood & Loyalties by Ryan Michele
Chapter One
The house made of glass will surely crack one day, was what I thought at ten years old. The safety of the gates was nothing more than a façade. Behind those walls laid an unknown hell. Upper-class America was no safer than the poverty-stricken ghettos because danger lurked in the most unlikely places. At least in the streets I would have had some control and a chance to run. If I didn’t come from the family I came from, maybe I would have had help; maybe I wouldn’t have been all alone, even when the house was full of people. No, there I had nothing except time.
That night, the darkness came again as I lay and waited.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
He would be here tonight. I knew it. I felt it. The red rim of his bloodshot eyes at dinner was the sign I had learned. It was my warning. It was the evidence of his overindulgence in what my mother called the occasional adult beverage. Only, with my father, it wasn’t occasional, and it was always more than one.
At ten years old, I had survived one moment at a time, always waiting and counting. Funny how they taught you to count the seconds of time in school, while I used it to count the seconds passing by at home.
Things had gotten worse as time passed by. The harder Father worked, the more he indulged. The happy possibilities of a little girl’s daydreams were long gone, and in its place was a reality nightmares were made of.
I had been waiting for my escape, even if it wouldn’t come for years. I had been counting on the future being better than the present. I used to count the stars on my ceiling from the nightlight I once had. However, I got older, and Father felt it was silly for me to have them, so to the trash it went.
Once I had gotten beyond the preschool stage where visitors would expect my room to have a theme, I was stripped bare of any color or any extravagances tied to me personally. My walls were plain white with nothing hanging, for we couldn’t give in to the whims of a child for decorations. Therefore, I lived in a room with four white walls, white bed sheets on my bed, covered in a white down comforter. My dresser was white, my nightstand white, and my headboard was a built-in bookshelf, done also in white.
Not given any freedom of expression, I wasn’t permitted to actually store any books on the shelf. No, personal effects must go inside the toy box that sat inside my overly large walk-in closet. Our house was large with a very sterile feeling. My room wasn’t allowed to look out of place. Like everything else in that house, it had to have clean lines and a contemporary feel, my mother always said. Personally, I found it to be just as stuffy as the rest of the house.
Mama and Father always told me not to share the secrets of our home. The special secrets of our family were our own. I tried to tell once when it first started. The doctor at my check-up said no one should touch me … down there—well, except him when he checked me. I whispered my truths, and he patted my leg like everything would be all right. Only, it wasn’t.
No, he called my mother to the room, stopping to tell her all about my creative imagination in the hallway. The door was cracked, so I had heard every word he said to her. He made it very clear this was the silly nonsense of a child wanting attention. Of course, a man such as my father—her husband—wouldn’t do those things.
After that, I decided I would wait. My time would come … I prayed.
As the bed dipped, I closed my eyes tight. The bed in which I should drift safely to the land of dreams and fairytales had been nothing more than a prison of its own making.
Fingers moved through my hair as I concentrated on counting my breaths.
One Mississippi, exhale.
Two Mississippi, inhale.
Three Mississippi, exhale.
Rough, calloused fingers ran down the back of my neck then traced my shoulder before trailing down my arm, all the way down until the hand found the hem of my nightgown.
&nb
sp; I tensed. He laughed.
“Fallyn, don’t tease me, baby girl.” His voice was gravely and not hushed.
He didn’t have to hide his presence in my room; my mother wouldn’t stop him, so I supposed there was no reason for him to be quiet. She was supposed to protect me; only, she didn’t. The staff always left promptly at seven nightly and didn’t arrive before eight in the morning. Privacy was what my mother said we needed. Really, it was another way to keep the darkness from being seen by any outsiders.
There were many secrets we hid from the world, but none amongst that house. If only the walls could speak for me back then...
Squeezing my eyelids, I forced them to remain closed.
Four Mississippi, I went back to mentally counting.
His hand moved to my butt, tracing the edges of my little girl, cotton panties. Why my cotton? Mama wore the silky, soft ones. I had seen them in the laundry. Why did he touch mine? To this day, I still questioned that.
Count, Fallyn, don’t think of the hands moving, just count. Five Mississippi … Six Mississippi … He will finish sooner rather than later.
His fingers edged closer to the spot, and knowing it would hurt, I braced myself. It would burn, so I would squeeze my eyelids more, trying to remain unmoving, unnerved, and unresponsive. If he was drunk enough, he would believe I was asleep … If I was asleep, I didn’t have to participate.
I exhaled deeply as if in dream.
Seven … Oh, it stung.
When his finger pushed between the curves of my girlie parts, I tried to think of the two walls they represented. Mama had bought me a book about little girls, explaining my parts. Why didn’t he understand they were to cover and protect the opening—my opening?
His thumb circled my middle, his finger pressing inside my tiny portal, and I gritted my teeth as I clinched my whole body tight.
“My baby girl, always so greedy.” He leaned over, licking my neck as bile rose up my throat.
By some miracle, I remained steadfast in my breathing and maintained control of my body. Inside, I wanted to jump out of my skin and hide my soul from the world. Then, just as the fire hurt and the burn built, something inside me twisted, and I became removed. Sick, screwed up, seriously drowning in disgust, I lay completely still, forcing myself not to throw up as he continued. I didn’t want him to touch me. I didn’t even want to share the same space, the same air with him. He was there, though. He wasn’t going anywhere until he’d had his fun, and I was left covered in his filthy, sticky mess.
His breathing came in pants, and I was certain, if he knew I was awake, my hand would be working or my mouth. At least that night, I was saved the humiliation of an audience. He was always rougher when he made Mama watch. To this day, I didn’t know if it was a power play or a sick game between them. Either way, I was thankful for the break that night, even if it was only once.
The shrill scream of my mother filled the air, yet the man over me didn’t move. Then there was silence. Unfazed, he continued to slide his finger in and out of me.
Removing his finger, I thought for a moment he might be done early because of the commotion outside my room. I was wrong.
Slowly, as if not to disturb me, he rolled me to my back then moved his hand down the front of my panties as he lay beside me.
Eighty five Mississippi, I tried to count silently, failing at reaching the next number when the burn hit me as he shoved his finger inside me harshly.
Thud, thud, thud. The pounding of someone walking sounded through the hallway.
My father tensed over me, his finger still inside as he moved my hand to his crotch. He was hard.
I blinked my eyes open as he slid my hand over his covered length. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the light coming from the hallway and my bathroom. There was a shadow in the doorway, and it moved to my bed.
My father was so drunk he didn’t even realize there was a man behind him. A large, powerful man, covered from head to toe in black was standing behind him with a knife that was dripping with something as it was raised high in the air. In the darkness of my room with only my bathroom light giving some visibility, I wasn’t able to make out anything more.
The finger kept plundering in and out sloppily while I absently stroked his manhood out of habit. The stranger grabbed my dad by the hair, and his eyes grew wide. A gasp escaped his lips as I watched the knife come around in front of his neck. Like every other night he visited, I continued to stroke, knowing I couldn’t sleep again until he finished what he had come in here for. Until the big mess came, I wasn’t allowed to stop, and I couldn’t sleep, which meant I couldn’t escape into the land of my dreams.
Counting again, I moved my hand up and down as I watched the fear in my father’s eyes.
My father choked on his words as the knife began to slice him. The blood splattered my face, yet I continued stroking. My eyes came up to meet the stranger’s through his black mask as the finger inside of me pulled out. I watched intently as the man cut my father—my life source—from one ear to the other.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t yell. I didn’t move except to continue stroking my dying father’s cock, as he called it. I merely continued on with my task as I had done for many months now; only, instead of being covered in his sticky residue, I was covered in his blood.
The mess is here. My job is done, I thought to myself.
I stilled my hand then looked up to the man who had most likely killed my mother and was then holding my father as the life drained from his body, and I smiled.
Seriously sick and twisted, I met his dark brown eyes and smiled.
Chapter Two
Angelina Diamante, five years old, I read then flipped the photograph back over. There was another one at seven then yet an even more beautiful one with the writing age twelve on the back. I continued to look through the pictures in the box before me.
The pink and white room reminded me of cotton candy. In a normal situation, it would have made me want to giggle, but given my circumstances, I found a peace in the frill and formality of the room in which I had been stuck in.
I had lost count of the hours, the days, the weeks, or whatever it might have been. The man who had taken me had brought me here. I didn’t remember everything; my mind was racing too fast.
That night, everything felt like I was floating above my surroundings and watching below as I allowed myself to follow the man hidden behind the mask into his van. At first, I was too nervous, scared, and dare I say, relieved to rest. Then, as the miles dragged on, I found myself drifting. I slept for I didn’t even know how long as the darkness of the night allowed one mile to pass into another seamlessly. I couldn’t keep up with my surroundings, and by the time I woke up, an unmasked man was sitting in a chair at the end of the pink and white canopy bed I now occupied.
His features were strong. His tight jawline, dark hair, and dark eyes all carried an air of confidence and slight menace that made me feel protected and scared at the same time. Instinctively, I knew nothing would happen to me. However, natural insecurities allowed me to feel true fear of what could happen to me at the hands of such a strong male. After all, look at what I had already endured. My life was a whirl of shame, terror, and secrets. How much did this man know? More than that, what did he want from me?
The room I now occupied brought me a false sense of security. I could easily become entranced by the serenity of the atmosphere. The white lace curtains, the white dressers, and walls covered in pastel pink were beyond what any little girl could dream of. I had never been given such luxuries in my paltry existence. Even with the extravagance of our home, my parents would never have dared to spend their money on anything fancy or overly girly for me. No indulgences, self-control, my father had always said, making my insides churn at knowing he lacked the latter and totally believed in the first for himself only.
I had been taught to act with respect and trained to behave like a miniature adult. School had been my only interaction with chil
dren my own age. Only, with all the shadows from home following me everywhere I went, I hadn’t dared to make friends and share secrets.
This new room bathed me in soft lighting every dawn, and the moon seemed to fall in just the right place to give enough illumination to keep the darkness at bay as I drifted into slumber each dusk.
The man, the stranger, came in at dawn and left a tray. Breakfast was always cereal and milk. The tray contained lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a piece of fruit. There were always three bottles of water and crackers, as well. Every day, he discarded the tray on the bench at the end of the bed and exited swiftly.
He didn’t engage me in conversation. There were no casual pleasantries shared between us. We didn’t even exchange a nod, a grunt, or good riddance. Day in and out, he set the tray out and left me to the room until he returned with dinner in the evening. The attached bathroom was my only place to roam as all the doors were locked, and unfortunately, the window sills were painted shut.
Having only time on my hands, I scoured the belongings of Miss Angelina Diamante, a girl who seemed to have left this room being not much older than me. In the beginning, I had wished for her return. I had prayed for some company, for some sign of life. I was left with disappointment each day that passed. One after the other, the time ticked by as I merely existed.
Even though she wasn’t there, I had decided to make her my friend. Her dark brown curls fell just below her shoulders, much like my hair. Her golden eyes danced with a vibrancy I only wished would be reflected in my own. I often wondered if her daddy touched her like mine had me. I saw the pictures of her with the stranger and a beautiful woman. They appeared to be very much the happy family.
Having posed on more than one occasion for my very own portraits, I knew it could easily be faked. Smile on cue, Fallyn Nicola Valencia—it was a practiced art and one I had become very accustomed to even at a young age.
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