Driven Collection

by K. Bromberg

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  About the Author

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS

  OF K. BROMBERG

  “An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

  —# 1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Captivating, emotional, and sizzling hot!”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author S. C. Stephens

  “Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans

  “K. Bromberg is the master of making hearts race and pulses pound. Colton and Rylee will forever be one of romances sexiest and most passionate couples.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jay Crownover

  “Romance and connection explode from K. Bromberg’s books and every story is full of love, emotion, and true life that makes the fantasy even more poignant. Plus she has the most delicious heroes in the book world! A master storyteller!!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Pepper Winters

  “Colton and Rylee are back - hotter, sweeter, and more passionate than ever. I loved this new chapter in their epic romance. K. Bromberg writes the perfect romance, packed with steam, sizzle, and soul.

  —USA Today bestselling author Ella James

  “The more I read, the more I want. . . . Your emotions will be taken on one hell of an angst-filled, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, mind-blowing, and wickedly sexy, beautiful journey.”

  —Book Crush

  “[A] highly emotional yet satisfying series, oh, and let me not leave out SEXY.”

  —Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews

  “An emotionally charged, adrenaline-filled, steamy, and passionate read. . . . K. Bromberg deliver[s].”

  —TotallyBookedBlog

  “This series is everything a true fan of romance would want or need.”

  —Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews

  “An intense, emotional, riveting ride [that’s] sexy, romantic, heartbreaking, and uplifting. This is the kind of book you don’t want to put down.”

  —Aestas Book Blog

  “K. Bromberg has created wonderful characters that you just can’t help but fall in love with . . . beautifully written and a very emotional read.”

  —Ramblings from This Chick

  “K. Bromberg is nothing short of an absolute genius . . . so real and raw that you truly feel every single emotion.”

  —Romance Addiction

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 – Driven Boxed Set by K. Bromberg

  Containing the novels:

  Copyright © 2013 - Driven by K. Bromberg

  Copyright © 2013 - Fueled by K. Bromberg

  Copyright © 2014 - Crashed by K. Bromberg

  Copyright © 2014 - Raced * by K. Bromberg

  *Note: The Raced chapters are placed in their respective places within the other three novels in this version.

  All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at kbrombergwrites@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, in investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Cover art created by: Tugboat Design

  Formatting by: Champagne Formats

  Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in the novels Driven, Fueled, Crashed, and Raced are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Also by K. Bromberg

  The Driven Series

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  Raced

  Driven Novels

  Slow Burn

  Sweet Ache

  Hard Beat

  UnRaveled

  FOREWARD:

  To My Readers:

  Just a quick note on how to read the boxed set. If you are new to the series, welcome. I truly hope you enjoy the journey into Rylee and Colton’s world. I look forward to watching you feel every emotion as you become lost in the roller coaster ride of ups and downs and sighs and screams that this series takes you on. After writing Driven, Fueled, and Crashed, readers often asked what Colton was thinking in certain scenes. After much thought, I decided to write a collection of chapters from the trilogy told in his point of view and titled it Raced. After Raced was released, readers started telling me that they were flipping between books (i.e. reading Driven then switching to Raced to read Colton’s point of view and then back to Driven) and at some point they’d really like me to integrate the Raced chapters into the trilogy. That request has resulted in this boxed set.

  In combining these novels, I wanted to keep the integrity of the original chapter numbers in the trilogy. As you can imagine, this task proved difficult since some of the chapters in Raced are of the same scene, just told from Colton’s point of view. So here is what I did: I kept the original chapter told from Rylee’s point of view as is and then inserted the alternative point of view chapter right after it with the same chapter number, but denoted by ‘Colton – Raced’ beneath it. In addition, some of the chapters in Raced take place in between chapters in the original book. In those instances, I used half chapters to indicate the time frame that the scene was taking place. I know that sounds confusing but I assure you, it’s not.

  If you have previously read the Driven series and are buying this because you want all of the chapters from Raced integrated into Driven, Fueled, and Crashed, thank you. I hope this collection makes it easier to read in its entirety instead of having to flip between books to read Colton’s points of view.

  Once you finish Crashed, make sure you keep reading for two bonuses. The first is an exclusive excerpt of Hard Beat, the upcoming spin-off novel about Rylee’s brother, Tanner Thomas. The second bonus is the complete prologue of Aced, the unexpected continuation of Rylee and Colton’s story.

  Happy Reading!

  Kristy

  To my readers …

  This one’s for you.

  Thanks for taking this ride with me. It’s been crazy, chaotic, emotional, exhausting and fun but more than anything it has been with you and that has made all the difference.

  -Kristy

  To B, B & C-

  May you always follow your dreams.

  The path will never be easy and you might have to chase them for years.

  There will be obstacles to overcome and criticisms to ignore.

  There will be periods of doubt and moments of insecurity.

  But you will reach them.

  And when you finally touch those dreams,

  No matter how old you are or where life has taken you,

  Hold on tight—savor that feeling of accomplishment—and never let go.

  Ever.

  I SIGH INTO THE WELCOMING silence, grateful for the chance to escape—even if only momentarily—from the mindsuck of meaningless conversations on the ot
her side of the door. For all intents and purposes, the people holding these conversations are my guests, but that doesn’t mean I have to like or even be comfortable around them. Fortunately, Dane was sympathetic enough to my need for a reprieve that he let me do this chore for him.

  The clicking of my high heels is the only other sound accompanying my categorically scattered thoughts, as I navigate the vacant backstage corridors of the old theater that I’ve rented for tonight’s event. I quickly reach the old dressing room and collect the lists that Dane forgot in our chaotic, pre-party rush to clean up. As I start to head back, I run over my mental checklist for tonight’s highly anticipated date auction. The niggling in the back of my mind tells me that I’m forgetting something. Reflexively, I reach for my hip, where my cell phone with my always-compiled task list lives, but instead, I come up with a handful of my cocktail dress’s copper-colored silk organza.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself as I stop momentarily, trying to pinpoint what exactly it is that I’m overlooking. I sag against the wall, the ruched bodice of my dress hindering my ability to inhale a deep sigh of frustration. Even though it looks incredible, the damn dress should’ve come with a warning: breathing optional.

  Think, Rylee, think! With my shoulder blades pressed against the wall, I shift inelegantly back and forth to try and alleviate the pressure on my toes, which are painfully crammed into my four-inch heels.

  Auction paddles! I need the auction paddles. I smile widely at my brain’s ability to remember, considering I’ve been so overwhelmed lately as the sole coordinator of tonight’s event. Relieved, I push myself off of the wall and take about ten steps.

  And that’s when I hear them.

  The flirty, feminine giggle floats through the air, followed by the deep timbre of a masculine moan. I freeze instantly, shocked at the audacity of our party’s attendees, when I hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper, followed by a breathless but familiar feminine gasp of, “Oh yes!” in the darkened alcove a few feet in front of me. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I become aware of a man’s black dinner jacket lying carelessly across an old chair shoved askew and a pair of strappy heels haphazardly discarded on the floor beneath it.

  You couldn’t pay me enough money to do something like that in public. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a hiss of breath followed by a masculine, exhaled, “Sweet Jesus!”

  I squeeze my eyes shut in a moment of indecision. I really need the auction paddles that sit in the storage closet at the end of the intersecting hallway. Unfortunately, the only way to reach that hallway is to walk past Lover’s Lane alcove. I have no choice but to go for it. I send up a silent yet ludicrous prayer, hoping that I can skate past unnoticed.

  I scurry forward, keeping my blush-stained face angled to the wall opposite them while I walk on my toes to keep my heels from clicking on the hardwood floor. The last thing I need right now is to draw attention to myself and come face to face with someone I know. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when my clandestine tiptoe is successful.

  I’m still trying to place the woman’s voice when I reach the storage closet. I fumble clumsily with the handle, having to aggressively tug on it before finally yanking it open and flicking on the light. I spot the bag of auction paddles on the far shelf as I walk inside the closet, forgetting to prop the door open. As I grab the handles of the bag, the door at my back slams shut with such force that the cheap shelving units in the closet rattle. Startled, I whip around to reopen the door and notice that the arm on the self-closing hinge has disconnected.

  I immediately drop the bag. The sound of the paddles hitting the concrete floor and spilling out causes an eruption of sound. When I reach for the handle, it turns but the door doesn’t budge an inch. Panic licks at my subconscious, but I suppress it as I push again on the door with all of my strength. It does not move.

  “Shit!” I chastise myself. “Shit, shit, shit!” I take a deep breath and shake my head in frustration. I have so much to do before the auction starts. And of course I don’t have my cell phone to call Dane to get me out of here either.

  When I close my eyes, my nemesis suddenly makes its move. The long, all-consuming fingers of claustrophobia slowly begin to claw their way up my body and wrap themselves around my throat.

  Squeezing. Tormenting. Stifling.

  The walls of the small room seem to be gradually sliding closer to each other, closing in on me. Surrounding me. Suffocating me. I struggle to breathe.

  My heart beats erratically as I push back the panic rising in my throat. My breath—shallow and rapid—echoes in my ears. Consuming me. Zapping my ability to suppress my haunted memories.

  I pound on the door, fear overwhelming the small hold I have left on my control. On reality. A rivulet of sweat trickles down my back. The walls keep moving in on me. My need to escape is the only thing I can focus on. I pound on the door again, yelling frantically, hoping someone roaming these back corridors can hear me.

  I lean my back against the wall, close my eyes, and try to catch my breath; it’s not coming quickly enough and dizziness surfaces. Becoming nauseous, I start to slide down the wall and accidentally hit the light switch. I’m submerged in pitch-black darkness. I cry out, frantically searching for the switch with my trembling hands. I flick it on, relieved to have pushed the monsters back into hiding.

  But when I look down, blood covers my hands. I blink to try and snap out of my reverie, but I can’t shake it. I’m in a different place. A different time.

  All around me, I smell the acrid stench of destruction. Of desperation. Of death.

  In my ears, his thready breathing is agonizing. He’s gasping. Dying.

  I feel the intense, blazing pain that twists so deep in your soul, you fear you’ll never escape it. Even in death. My screams shake me out of the memory, and I’m so disoriented that I’m not sure if they’re from the past or the present.

  Get a grip, Rylee! I rub the tears off my cheeks with the backs of my hands and think back to my previous year in therapy to try to keep my claustrophobia at bay. I concentrate on a mark on the wall across from me, try to regulate my breathing, and slowly count. I focus on pushing the walls out, pushing the unbearable memories away.

  I count to ten, gaining a scrap of composure, yet desperation still clings to me. I know Dane will come looking for me shortly. He knows where I went, but the thought does nothing to alleviate my surmounting panic.

  Finally, I surrender to my intense need to escape and start pounding on the door with the heels of my hands. Shouting loudly. Cursing sporadically. Begging for someone to hear me and open the door. For someone to save me again.

  In my ragged state of mind, seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like hours. I feel like I’ve been locked in this ever-shrinking closet forever. Feeling defeated, I yell out once more and rest my forearms on the door in front of me. Bracing my weight on my forearms, I lay my head on them and succumb to my tears. Large, ragged sobs shake violently through me.

  And suddenly, I have the feeling of falling.

  Falling forward as I stumble into the solid body of a man in my path. My arms encircle a firm torso while my legs lie awkwardly bent behind me. The man instinctively brings his arms up and wraps them around me, catching me, holding my weight and absorbing my impact.

  I look up, quickly registering the shock of dark hair spiked haphazardly, bronzed skin, the slight shadow of stubble … and then I meet his eyes. A jolt of electricity—an almost palpable energy—crackles when I meet those guarded, translucent green irises. Surprise flashes through them fleetingly, but the intrigue and intensity with which he regards me is unnerving, despite my body’s immediate reaction to him. Needs and desires long forgotten inundate me with this one, simple meeting of eyes.

  How can this man I’ve never met make me forget the panic and desperation I felt only moments before?

  I make the mistake of breaking eye contact and glancing down at his mouth. Full, sculpted lips purse as he studies me intently,
and then very slowly, they spread into a lopsided, roguish grin.

  Oh, how I want that mouth on me—anywhere and everywhere all at once. What in the hell am I thinking? This man is way out of my league. Like light years away out of my league.

  I draw my gaze back up to see amusement in his eyes, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I can feel a flush slowly spread over my face as embarrassment for both my predicament and my salacious thoughts registers in my brain. I tighten my grip around muscular biceps as I lower my gaze to avoid his assessing eyes and try to regain my composure. Bringing my feet back under me, I accidentally stumble farther into him, my balance compromised by my inexperience with sky-high heels. I jump back from him as my breasts brush against his firm chest, setting my nerve endings ablaze. Tiny detonations of desire tickle deep in my belly.

  “Oh … um … I’m so sorry.” I hold my hands up in a flustered apology. The man is even more disarming now that I’m able to drink in the whole length of him. Imperfectly perfect and sexy as hell with a smirk suggesting arrogance and an air exuding trouble.

  He raises an eyebrow, noticing my slow inspection of him. “No apologies needed,” he responds in a cultured rasp with just a hint of edge. His voice evokes images of rebellion and sex. “I’m used to women falling at my feet.”

  My head snaps up. I can only hope he’s joking, but his enigmatic expression gives nothing away. He watches my response, bemusement in his eyes, and that cocksure smile widening, causing a single dimple to deepen in his defined jaw.

  Despite having taken a step back, I am still close to him. Too close for me to gather my wits, but close enough for me to feel his breath over my cheek. To smell the clean scent of soap mixed with his subtle, earthy cologne.