by Amy Cross
Broken Blue:
The Complete Series (All 8 Books)
by Amy Cross
Kindle Edition
Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved
Published by Dark Season Books
This edition first published: February 2013
http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The authors reserves all rights in respect of this work.
Coming Soon
Bandages (The Night Girl 1.3)
I Can't Do This Without Laughing (The Night Girl 1.4)
Affection (Broken White 1.1)
Awake (Sleepy 1.1)
Also available by Amy Cross
Dark Season: The Complete 1st Series - All 8 Books
Dark Season: The Complete 2nd Series - All 8 Books
Dark Season: The Complete 3rd Series - All 8 Books
Lupine Howl: The Complete 1st Series - All 8 Books
Lupine Howl: The Complete 2nd Series - All 8 Books
Asylum: The Complete Series - All 8 Books
Devil's Briar: The Complete Series - All 8 Books
Ghosts: The Complete Series - All 8 Books
Table of Contents
Prologue One
Prologue Two
Prologue Three
Book 1: Home
Book 2: Dancing
Book 3: Fusion
Book 4: Blood of a Billionaire
Book 5: The Challenge
Book 6: One Night
Book 7: Driven
Book 8: The Decision
Bonus
Lost (Devil's Briar 1.6)
Broken Blue
Prologue One
I gasp as I feel him slide himself deeper inside me. Squeezing him tight between my legs, I lean closer and kiss him on the lips, slipping my tongue into his mouth. As we continue to kiss, he reaches up and gently squeezes my breasts.
Prologue Two
Taking the whip from the side of the bed, he walks behind me. I don't dare to look back; I know what's coming, and I also know it's going to hurt. But without the pain, it wouldn't mean anything.
Prologue Three
"No," I say suddenly. "I didn't mean it. Don't stop".
"Are you sure?" he asks.
I nod. "Keep going. Please". I turn and stare at him, desperately hoping he'll give me another chance. I need Mark to know that I went through with this. I don't want to disappoint anyone. Not again.
Book 1
Home
One
1895
As a single candle flickers by the window, I slip her underwear down to expose the slight bulge of her pubic mound. Thick, curly black hair nestles in her crotch, and I slowly place my hands on her knees so that I can part her legs and see everything. I lean closer, my eyes drawn to the thin, slightly pink slit that glistens with moistness. She's ready for me, ready to feel me slide deep inside her tight passage. But she must wait a few seconds longer, because the moment is not quite upon us. First, I must taste her sharp, hot sweetness on my tongue. Only then will I be ready to treat her the way she deserves to be treated.
"Why do you wait?" she whispers, her voice barely audible above the quiet of the room. "Take me".
"In a moment," I reply, looking up for a moment. From down between her legs, I can see the twin peaks of her chest, and her hardened nipples poking into the darkness. Of her face, all I can see is the underside of her chin, but I can tell from her body that she is more than ready for me. Indeed, she raises her hips slightly, as if to better present herself for my attention, and I hear the chains around her wrist start to jangle as she strains at the ties that bind her to the table. It has taken quite some time to twist her into such a heady knot of anticipation, but now she is truly ready for me.
"Edward, please" she says, almost moaning with desire. Again, I hear the jangling of chains. "What more do you want?"
"Hush," I say. "Is the blindfold tight?"
"I cannot see a thing," she says breathlessly. "Edward, you must touch me. I can feel your breath on my skin, but it's not enough. I need to feel you touch me".
"Wait," I say.
"Edward," she whispers, trying to sit up but unable to do so. The chains are wrapped tightly around her wrists, and her ankles, and her neck. "Please..."
I pause for a moment, and then I turn to the left and look at Mr. White. He simply stares back at me and then, finally, he nods. I can begin.
Two
Today
"Paddington," says the man, nudging my shoulder as I open my tired, sore eyes. "End of the line".
For a moment, I can't work out what's wrong. As I stare at the back of the seat in front of me, I feel like my body is doing something it shouldn't. Milliseconds flash past, and I feel a rising sense of panic start to grip my chest and then my throat, before finally I understand the problem: I'm not breathing.
"You have to get off," the man says.
Taking a deep breath, I look up at him. He's an old, short guy in a train conductor's uniform, and he has owlishly long eyebrows.
"Are you drunk?" he asks sourly. "On drugs? Whatever, get off my train and don't forget your stuff". He starts walking along the carriage, before stopping and looking back at me. "Young lady, do I have to call someone to escort you off?"
"No," I say, standing up way too fast. I feel dizzy for a moment, and then a wave of nausea hits me. Taking another long, deep breath, I finally manage to steady myself. I look down at my seat and see the remains of a sandwich scattered all over the place. Brushing crumbs off my jeans, I reach up and pull my heavy backpack down from the overhead shelf, before shooting a daggered look at the conductor and shuffling along the carriage, finally reaching the door. I step down onto the platform and realize the journey's over.
I'm home.
I don't want to be here.
Still kind of waking up, I wander along the platform. The whole station stinks of petrol fumes and dirt; pigeons hurry around, pecking up pieces of food left behind by passengers. I struggle to get my backpack onto my shoulders, and then I reach into my pocket and pull out my mobile phone. Unfortunately, it's dead, which means I've probably missed about a million calls from my mother, asking what time I arrive. Sighing, I see the ticket barrier ahead and realize I have no idea where I've put my ticket. I start going through my pockets as I walk, desperately hoping for some luck, but I still haven't found the damn thing as I reach the barrier and look over into the face of an unimpressed-looking inspector.
"Ticket," he says flatly, as if he already knows how this is going to unfold.
"Hold on," I mutter, still checking my pockets. Coming up blank, I haul my backpack off my shoulders and drop it onto the floor, before crouching down and starting to go through the various zippered compartments. I have this horrible feeling that my ticket is long gone, but I guess I have to go through the motions of looking for it.
"If you don't have a ticket," the inspector says, his voice blank and monotone, "there's a ninety pound fine".
"Hold on!" I say, trying not to sound annoyed. I must have bought a ticket before I got on the train, because otherwise the conductor would have thrown me off. Unfortunately, I got totally drunk last night and I don't remember much of the past twelve hours at all; frankly, I don't even remember catching the train last night, and I can only assume that Jess helped me to the station in Bristol. She probably made sure I had my ticket when the train pulled out of the station, but God knows where it's got to now. "I think I left it on the train," I say, zipping my backpack up. "Do I have to go back and look for it?"
He shakes his head, and at that moment I hear the engine fire up. I turn to see the train slowly pulling out of the station. "Where's it going?" I ask, shocked.
"Refuelling and maintenance bays," the inspector says. "Do you have your ticket or not?"
"I think it's on the train," I say, praying for a miracle. I mean, sometimes people are just nice even when they don't have to be, aren't they?
"So you don't have your ticket," he replies dourly, pulling out his little hand-held machine. "Like I said, there's a ninety pound fine, on top of the standard cost of a ticket from your destination. Where did you board the train, M'am?"
M'am? Did he just call me M'am? I've never been called M'am in my life. Hell, I'm only twenty-one years old! "I'm a student," I say, my heart racing. "I don't have very much money".
"Then you should be careful with your ticket," he says. "If you can't pay, I'll have to call a police officer to come and get your details, and the cost will rise to one hundred and eighty pounds, with a -".
"You're joking," I blurt out, interrupting him.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" he asks.
"I -" I start to say, before thinking better of it. Pausing to work out how much money I've got on my debit card, I realize I probably just about have enough to pay the fine. "The thing is," I continue, "my Dad died. Like, yesterday. And I've had to come for the funeral, and I'm totally spaced out, and I guess that's why I lost my ticket so..." I smile, leaving a pause in case he wants to jump in and waive the fine.
"Everybody's Dad dies," he says. "Don't mean you get to ride around without a ticket".
"Fine," I say, pulling my wallet out of my backpack and handing him my card. "Just so you know, this sucks".
"Please don't be abusive," he says as he runs my card through his little machine. "I can have you arrested if you're verbally or physically abusive towards me". He pauses. "Where did you get on the train, M'am?"
"Bristol," I say reluctantly. I figure there's no point lying; this asshole would probably call up CCTV of every station from here to the West Country, just to check my story.
"Bristol Temple Meads?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes," I reply, still fighting to stay calm. "As if it matters," I add, under my breath.
"The total charge to your card will be one hundred and seven pounds and seven pence. Are you happy for me to -"
"Just do it," I say.
He presses a few buttons, before printing out a small receipt, which he hands back to me along with my card. "Please look after your ticket in future," he says. "You're now free to continue on your journey. Have a nice day, and I'm very sorry to hear about your father".
"Thanks," I mutter, struggling through the narrow gate before emerging on the station concourse. I don't look back at the inspector as I carry my backpack over to the nearest wall and sit on the filthy ground. Thanks to the search for my ticket, half my backpack is unzipped and untied, so it'll take me a few minutes to get it all sorted. To make matters worse, my hangover is starting to ripen nicely, and my head is pounding. Whatever I drank last night - and I honestly have no idea what happened after the party got going - it's really done a number on me. I have to call Jess later, find out what I was on, and make sure I never, ever drink it again.
"Fucking fuck!" I mutter, struggling to get the backpack zipped up again. As if from nowhere, a tear slips from my left eye and runs down my cheek, taking me completely by surprise. I wipe it away, but I feel a sense of shock at the fact that I seem to have started crying for absolutely no reason. What the hell is wrong with me? When did this become a thing that I do? Taking a deep breath and trying to affect some kind of emotional reset, I tug on the zipper and try desperately to get the damn backpack to close. Finally, just as I think I'm going to get some luck, the zip breaks in two and I fall backwards, landing hard on the ground. "Fucking cunt!" I hiss, kicking my backpack across the floor in frustration.
"Hello, Elly," says a familiar voice with perfect, perfect timing.
Looking up, I see my mother standing next to me, smiling benevolently in a way that lets me know she heard what I said but would rather pretend that she didn't. In my mother's world, people don't say words like 'fuck' and 'cunt', they say things like 'darn' and 'gosh'. I'm not even going to begin to tell her about the problem with my ticket, because she'd totally take the inspector's side and give me hell for being irresponsible with money. She'd be right, of course, but that just makes me feel even worse.
"Sorry I didn't call," I say, getting to my feet and feeling kind of embarrassed. I glance about, avoiding making direct eye contact. "Dead phone".
"I assumed," she replies. "Don't worry, I didn't take it personally. Would you like me to carry your bag for you?"
"No," I say, reaching down and hauling the backpack into my arms. Unfortunately, at that moment there's a distinct clinking sound from within the depths of the bag, as if two bottles have banged together. Fuck, what have I got in this damn bag? I wish I remembered packing it...
"We should probably get going," my mother says sweetly, clearly deciding to ignore this latest sign of my debauchery. "The car's on a meter," she adds, "and you know what the prices are like round here. We'll have to re-mortgage the house if we're parked for too long".
"Yeah," I mutter, and we start walking toward the side exit. With my backpack still open at the top, I feel like a total mess, and I can't decide what's worse; the fact that my mother can clearly see that I'm hungover and screwed up, or the fact that she's very politely and tactfully trying to make small-talk in an attempt to skirt around the subject. Sometimes, I wish she'd just say what she thinks, rather than acting all prim and proper; it feels like she has a judge, jury and executioner all locked up in her head, and I have to guess the sentence based on how she treats me.
"We shall probably have a few visitors this afternoon," she says as we walk through the light rain of this dreary, noisy Thursday morning in central London. "You know how a death tends to bring people out of the woodwork. I'd appreciate it if you could help me sort out some refreshments, and just generally sit around and smile and be pleasant. Some of these people can be awfully stuffy. And please change into something a little more presentable. You know how I feel about jeans".
"Dad liked jeans," I say as we reach the car.
"You'll have to sit in the back," she replies, completely ignoring what I said. Fucking typical. "I'm afraid the front seat is full".
Looking through the window, I see a set of cardboard boxes piled up in the front passenger seat. I don't see why she couldn't have put the boxes in the back, but I guess she's probably making some kind of not-so-subtle point. Sighing, I open the back door and throw my backpack in before climbing inside. This week is already shaping up to be an emotional minefield.
"Don't forget your seat-belt," my mother reminds me as she gets into the driver's seat.
"Give me a chance," I say, arranging my backpack. Damn it, I feel like a child again, being made to sit in the back and being told to remember my seat-belt. She might as well see if she can shoe-horn me into one of those baby seats we used to have when I was younger.
"Please don't be difficult," she says, starting the engine. "I have an awful headache already".
"Join the club," I mutter.
"Heavy night?" she asks piously.
"In what way?" I reply. "The gravity in Bristol is exactly the same as the gravity everywhere else on the planet, so I don't see how my night could have been any 'heavier' than anyone else's". I pause, waiting for her to snap back with some pithy put-down. "Or is that not what you meant?" I add finally.
"Don't forget your seat-belt," she says again after a pause, and then she waits until I've buckled myself in safely. "Thank you," she continues as she eases the car out of the parking spot and we join the endless London traffic. It's barely ten miles as the crow flies to my parents' house, but it'll take us at least an hour; a whole hour trapped in this metal box, making small-talk with my newly-widowed mother. Surely this is the absol
ute definition of Hell. "The funeral will be on Monday," my mother says suddenly. "The will is going to be read on Tuesday".
I wait for her to continue, but after a few seconds I realize she's waiting for me to say something. "Okay," I say.
"Will you be able to stay that long?" she asks.
"Yeah," I reply.
"Are you sure?" she says. "I don't want you to miss too much college. The last thing your father would have wanted would be for you to lose ground with your studies".
"I can stay," I tell her, hoping to end the debate.
"Did you tell your lecturers what happened?" she asks, watching me in the rear-view mirror.
"No," I say, before realizing my mistake. "I mean, yeah. I did".
"And they understood?"
"Of course," I say. "They told me to take as long as I need. It's not like I want to use it as an excuse, though". Damn it, I can be such a hypocrite.
We drive on in silence for a couple of minutes, but I can tell my mother is mulling something over. She's not satisfied with my responses, and any moment now she'll come back at me with a barrage of new questions. It's always been like this. "Your studies are very important," she says eventually. "These modern teachers are very understanding, but sometimes I think it would be better if they were much harsher. When I was at secretarial school, my aunt Bessie died and I was refused permission to miss a day for her funeral. At the time -"
"It's different now," I say, trying (and failing) to keep the tension out of my voice. "Besides, an aunt isn't the same as a father".
"I know," she replies, "but my point is valid, Eleanor". Damn it, I hate when she uses my full name. She thinks it makes her sound more authoritative, but it just makes her sound more like a bitch. "The world is still turning. Other people won't wait while you put your life on pause just because your fa -"
