by Ally Vance
About Cassia:
Cassia Brightmore is a Canadian dark romance author. She loves writing dark stories with twisted characters that she hopes will thrill the reader as well as make them fall in love.
She loves hockey, video games and online shopping. If she's not writing or editing, you can usually find her doing one of these things. Writing is her passion and publishing her first book as an indie author was truly a dream come true.
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Scent
A Psychological Dark romance
Ker Dukey
Copyright © 2021 Ker Dukey
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Occasionally, we’re touched by darkness, and it leaves a stain that grows like a seed within us.
Other times, the darkness is already there, waiting, dormant—until it’s triggered.
Prologue
Fifteen years old…
Lola
Blood has a scent—a metallic tinge that sits on the tip of the tongue, corrupting the taste buds. It lingers in the nostrils like ash from a fire, corroding. My breath quickens as reality rushes in, the sticky crimson splatter on my skin the only thing left of my brother. His vacant eyes stare up at me from the bedroom floor. An ache in my chest threatens to bring me to my knees. I will my feet to move. My pulse races with each step I take toward my parents’ room. Rain crashes against the house, splintering the deafening silence. I will never hear rain the same way after tonight.
My dress from the school dance sits in tatters on my body, its beautiful material damaged beyond repair. Tiny sequins litter my bedroom floor like fallen stars. Pain in my chest numbs the bruises to my jaw and throbbing ache below.
Nothing feels real.
My life will never be the same.
The girl who dreamed of a different future is now standing in the tomb of her reality. Lava pours into my brain, melting all sanity.
Seeing dead bodies isn’t like the movies. It’s so much worse. As the muscles in my mother’s body relaxed, her bowels emptied. She would have hated knowing how undignified her death was—that people witnessed her in such a way. Her silk nightgown sticks to her pale flesh, damp, coated in fluids. Brain matter mats her once blonde, pristine hair. Blood is her only makeup.
My father’s skull exploded like a watermelon dropping from a balcony, decorating the walls that once offered so much comfort and safety.
I wonder what’s on the other side for them.
Tears well and drop to my cheeks. A silent scream violently rips through me. Acid races up my throat, dispelling across the carpet. Will the new owners ever get the smell out? When something horrific happens in a house, it leaves an echo, the dark memory seeping into the foundations. Who cleans up a scene like this? Is there a special team dedicated to such a thing?
A cold chill tiptoes up my spine, dancing around my throat. Buzzing sounds in my head, fogging my thoughts. I can no longer, think, stand, breathe. Strength flees from my limbs, and I crash to the floor, my chest spasming with each sob that ruptures inside of me. My lungs seize. My airways close.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I’m dying.
Clawing at my throat, I will myself to take in air.
A phone.
I need to call the police.
The sound of footfalls from outside the window chills my blood. A silhouette peers inside, darkening the glass. My heart pounds frantic in my chest, fear washing through me. This is it. They’re coming for me. I huddle into the closet, pull the door closed, and try not to pass out. My knees come up to my chest as I try to make myself as small as I can. The darkness taunts me in here, phantom voices, phantom hands crippling me, plunging me into the depths of reliving the nightmare. The weight of his body above mine.
“No, stop.”
The cruel invasive entry, stealing my power.
“Stop, stop! Mama, help me!”
His breath on my cheek.
“No. No. No.”
It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.
I will my mind to come back to me, to leave the memories in the past. Time slows and eternity passes. A voice calls out from the nothingness.
“This is officer Adams. The door is open. I’m coming inside, and I’m armed. Identify yourself.”
Terror holds my voice hostage. My heart thunders. With every second that ticks by, I die a little more. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as the door slides open, stealing the air from my lungs. “Please,” I croak. Tears blur my vision before leaking down my face, offering a clear view of a man with the bluest eyes peering down at me.
With a creased brow, he says, “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” His hands reach out, and I startle backward. “It’s okay. I promise, it’s going to be okay.” The words are soft but hold conviction. “Trust me, please.”
Salty streaks sting my cheeks a shiver rattles my bones. Taking a deep breath, I reach out to take his hand. It’s warm and strong. He guides me out of the darkness, his cologne wrapping around me like a blanket of safety. I breathe him in, then exhale, allowing his scent to spread through me, wash away the pain, the torment, replace the nightmare.
Chapter One
Nine years later…
Detective Nick Adams
Rain punishes the crime scene, washing evidence away faster than the forensics team can unload their equipment. A man, maybe late thirties, lays on his back in an alleyway not far from the nightlife of uptown. Three gunshot holes in his face, what looks like scratch marks down his right cheek, a bloody lip, his slacks gaping open at the crotch, sitting low on his hips.
“Three shots, all to the face. This was personal,” my partner, Wade Snow, grunts, bending on his haunches to examine the injuries more closely. All murders are personal, doesn’t necessarily mean this was targeted. “There are defensive wounds,” he adds, gesturing to the scratches.
“We have a female in the ambulance. Looks like an attempted rape. She shot him with his own gun,” an officer informs me, pointing to the ambulance at the back entrance to the alleyway. “We’ve bagged it for evidence, sir,” she says, like she wants praise for doing her job.
“We’re losing vital evidence by the second. Keep everyone away and let forensics do their job. Get me a name of the deceased and find out for sure who the gun was registered to.” I gesture toward the growing crowd at the other end of the alleyway. “And get rid of the reporters. We don’t need his face on the news before we know who he is,” I grunt, taking off in the direction of the ambulance. If this was self-defense, the fucker deserved the bullet holes.
Rain soaks through my jacket into my skin, and I want nothing more than to get home for a hot shower and glass—no, fuck that, a bottle of bourbon. The lights from the ambulance dance up the buildings, illuminating the shithole this place is.
My feet falter when I round a paramedic and see inside the ambulance. Heat spreads through my chest like a raging fire as my eyes devour the woman before me. A mop of blonde locks stained with crimson streaks, large brown eyes seeking me out, blood speckling pale skin like freckles. It’s a blast from the past—someone who slipped away from me. “Lola?” I breathe, anger and relief fighting for dominance in my head
. Where have you been?
Her thick lips part, a whoosh of a gasp fleeing. She’s on her feet, leaping from the truck and into my arms, almost knocking the breath from my lungs on impact. The scent of wildflowers envelops me as small arms cling around my neck. My eyes close as I soak her in.
“Officer Adams,” she cries. Images of the girl she used to be wash through my memories, and I embrace her tighter. Weak, broken, only survivor.
“You remember me?” I find myself asking, bewildered. I was a uniform back then, and it was one of the worst crime scenes I’d ever witnessed. The trauma of what she endured still keeps me up at night.
Seeing her again, at such a disturbing scene, is cruel. That motherfucker tried to rape her. She’s already been through so much. Life can be a harsh bitch. That cunt in the alley didn’t know his prey was a survivor. Going through what she did changes a person. She can change a person.
Slipping from my grip, she sniffles and dips her brow. “Of course I do,” she says, like it’s a stupid question. Maybe it is. I met her on the worst day of her life and spent countless hours trying to track down family members, hoping she had someone who would take her in. She’s the reason I became a detective. There was something about finding her hugging her body, blood coating her skin, trauma evident on her thighs. She looks so grown up now, the willowy teenager replaced by a woman. How long has it been? Eight years? Nine? She would be twenty-four now. Damn.
Bruises mar the delicate skin of her throat. Black streaks of mascara lay thick under her eyes. She’s still breathtakingly beautiful. I want to take her back into my arms and never let go—do now what I promised then: to keep her safe.
“Sir, we need to get her to hospital.”
She reaches out, clasping my hand. “Come with me.” There’s a pregnant pause before she adds a low, “Please?” Her plea strikes out at me like a weapon, wounding, infecting, rooting within me. I tried to keep tabs on her after the incident, tried to keep her out of the foster system, but I had no power. She was put into the system, and just like she promised, she ran away the first chance she got, disappearing like smoke in the wind. I checked every homeless spot I knew of and some I didn’t. All brothels and strip joints—as fucked up as that is, a lot of runaway teens end up in those places, and like Lola, many vanish. I had images of her on a cold slab at the morgue, but here she is: grown and alive in such vivid detail, blossoming in the horrors of sin.
“I’ll follow behind.” I assure with a soft smile and nod of my head. I watch as she’s helped back inside the ambulance. The doors close, and her eyes stare out at me through the small square window. Why the fuck is my heart racing so fast?
“You know the victim?” Snow asks, joining me at the ambulance, the red lights whirling in the darkness of the night.
“Sort of.” I frown, turning to him. He has an umbrella now but still looks like a drowned rat. “She was the only survivor of a home invasion,” I bite out, livid she went through something like this again. My hands clench and teeth grind together.
“Shit, what the hell happened? Was is random?” he asks as the ambulance pulls away. I turn back to see Lola’s gaze still fixated on me. A pit opens in my stomach the farther away she gets. Heat pours into my chest. I need to get to the hospital. She needs me.
“Adams?”
“What? Oh, an intruder. We believe someone they knew. The weapon was taken from the owners—her father’s gun cabinet. The front door was open, and there was no sign of forced entry.”
Shaking his head, his brows pinch, creating lines around his eyes. He looks older every day—a hazard of the job. Every case takes a part of you, slowly stripping away your soul, your faith in humanity.
“Why kill everyone but her?” he questions, looking back in the direction of the dead guy.
A shot of rage floods my bloodstream thinking back to Lola in her ruined dress, living a nightmare.
“From what we could gather, Lola was the intended target. Her brother and parents were killed. She was raped.” My tone darkens. The doctors said she had sustained injuries from forced sexual acts, but the real gut punch was this wasn’t the first time. Doctors examined her and had said she had past trauma scars from previous sexual assaults. Lola refused to talk about it, and with nothing to go on, our hands were tied.
Brushing a hand through his hair, Snow hisses a string of cusses. “Did they catch the guy?”
The knot in my stomach that’s been dormant twists, coming alive. Every muscle coils as a hot anger sweeps through me. She didn’t recognize him. Said he wore a mask, gloves, condom. We had no evidence. He even took the murder weapon with him. It was never recovered. I’d hoped it would show up in a pawn shop somewhere—it was a rare gun, distinguishable—but it never surfaced. There was one suspect, but he had an alibi. He was a real smug cunt, joked about what he would have done if it had been him. It was him. The alibi was made up by a stupid woman he was fucking. He was a real fucking prize. Liked to drink and cause fights in bars for sport. Meeting him in a dark parking lot after a night of hell raising and puncturing his lung a couple times with a pocketknife, then leaving him there to die, slow and painful, had given me a sense of validation. I couldn’t save her from the past—but I could rid her of the demon who caused the trauma.
“Adams?” Snow barks when I get lost in thought. “Did you catch him?”
“No. He’s still out there.” Technically, he’s is—somewhere in a shallow grave.
Pushing into the hospital room, Lola’s head turns, her legs pulled up to her chest, her hands cradling them—the exact position I found her in nine years ago. She was covered in someone else’s blood then too. Speckles of crimson paint her delicate features, her once blonde hair is muddied with red, yet she looks utterly beautiful in her torment. The room feels like it shrinks around us as I move toward her. The fury of what she’s been through closes in and coils my muscles. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but it’s important to get the details while they’re fresh in your mind.” I frown, hating myself for having to make her relive it.
“I know.” She nods, her forehead pinching. “Am I in trouble?” She grimaces, looking down at her nails, still broken and bloody from fighting off her attacker. The claw marks on his cheek now make sense, the story coming together to paint a picture. She’s a fighter. He probably thought she’d be easy prey because she’s small, but he underestimated her will to survive—to take back the power. It gives me a rush knowing she killed that son of a bitch. I would have liked him to live long enough to understand what happened—to watch it register on his face that he fucked with the wrong girl. “Adams?” she murmurs.
“No. You defended yourself against an attacker, you feared for your life. Right?” I don’t know why I say that. She’s supposed to tell me that, but an overwhelming urge to protect her beats within my chest.
“Yes. He had a gun.” She jerks her head in a nodding motion. “I did what I had to to stop him.” Her words are firm, matter of fact. “He was an animal.” She shivers, her lips pursing like she tastes something bitter. He was an animal—and she put him down like one.
“Am I free to leave?” Her eyes dart to the door behind me, legs dropping and hands twisting together in her lap.
Offering her a small smile, I move closer. “I think the nurse still needs to examine you and we’ll need your clothes for evidence.”
She nods slightly, her blonde curls tumbling across her face, shadowing her from my gaze. The need to reach out and tuck it behind her ear makes my hands jerk. There’s an unfamiliar tightening in my chest when she looks up at me through her thick lashes. She holds up a folded gown and shrugs her shoulders. “Why did this have to happen to me?”
I fucking hate that it did. It literally aches my heart. Reaching out with one hand, I hover it near the flesh of hers, centimeters from touching.
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. I want so bad to take her in my arms. Despite all my training and knowing I’m too close to the investigation and
should hand it to someone else, I’m determined to make this as painless as possible for her—put an end to it and let her heal and move on. “Do you think you could answer some questions for me?” I fold my arms to prevent myself from sweeping her up and offering her protection in my embrace. The last thing she needs is a man touching her or forcing her into his arms.
“Sure.” Her throat is raspy and raw, no doubt from screaming or crying or being fucking choked out.
“Did you know the man—?”
“No.” She shakes her head adamantly before I can finish. “He followed me from a bar.”
My gaze drops to her attire. A barely-there sparkly top hangs on two pieces of string from her neck, dipping at her cleavage, her navel bare. A short strip of material covers the tops of her thighs, forming a mini skirt. She looks like she was out at a club and must be freezing. There are tiny white lines on the tops of her thighs. Scars. “Were you alone at the bar?”
“Yes.” Her eyes flare with annoyance. “Is that a crime?” she snaps, tears swelling at the corners of her eyes. She thinks she’s to blame…or feels that I do.
“I’m just trying to get a picture of everything,” I assure her. “This wasn’t your fault or something you did, Lola. This was a predator on the prowl. You were unlucky.”
Scoffing, she swipes at her eyes. “Me, unlucky? He’s the dead one.” She sniffles, raising a brow. Silence hangs in the air, the atmosphere thickening. My heart skitters proudly as the deadly fighter inside her peeks out from behind the curtain.
“I like to go out to bars, blow off steam. This guy was staring at me. I got uncomfortable and left. He followed and attacked me, and I panicked. I thought I was going to die.” She raises a hand to her throat, a reddish blue bruise there showing her fight. “I managed to pull his gun from his hand and shot him.” She shrugs before untying the strings around her neck. The material falls away from her skin, baring her breasts. I swallow audibly as dark thoughts cloud my mind. I hate myself for them, for looking at her, for feeling my cock awaken. Turning away, I shake my head to clear it.
