Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly Duet Book 1)

LONDON

I’ve been buried alive.

Panic is a living being inside this tomb with me—the only thing telling me that I’m still alive in the pitch-black. I press my palms to the wood. My breaths bounce back at me from the lid, my chest on fire as the air is sucked away.

Splinters snag my skin. The pain sharpens my senses.

He can’t let me die.

But I’ve watched the videos. I’ve witnessed the lengths Grayson has gone to in order to deliver his punishments.

Dread rises within me anew, and I bang against the wood, desperate to taste fresh air. “Help!”

A creek from the wood sends dirt into my mouth and eyes. I wipe at my face in a panic. My elbows knock the sides of the crate. I feel those sides closing in. The box is shrinking, swallowing me. Shit. I push harder against the lid, my forearms burning from the strain.

More dirt rains down. I taste the grit between my teeth and turn my head to spit. Between anxious breaths, I hear the sound of things crawling alongside the box. Moving through the loose dirt, trying to find a way in. Waiting for their food to rot.

Oh, God. I can’t die like this.

The burden of an unfinished life is a dense weight bearing down on my chest. The painful compression heightens my anxiety until I’m hyperventilating.

Each rapid, labored breath is drawn with the knowledge that it could be my last. Every gasp is laced with less and less of the vital oxygen my lungs crave.

Calm down.

I chant this in my head as I hold a breath, forcing myself to relax—to still every muscle and organ clamoring for air.

Breathe.

I take in a shallow breath. Slow and steady, my lips trembling. Tears leak out the corners of my eyes, and my body tingles, adrenaline flooding my system. The lightheadedness transitions into a euphoric tranquility.

I linger this way for a while. Listening to my slow breaths. The blackness a thick and disembodying nightmare. Gauzy cotton webs my mind, detached. For what feels like hours, I alter between two stages. Panic and docile acceptance.

As my thoughts drift, all the things I’ve put off doing rush forward. Unfulfilled goals. Dreams. Happiness.

A weak laugh slips free. I coached my patients not to reach for something so flimsy and meaningless as happiness—it’s an idea, not a goal. And yet here I am, staring death in the face, wishing I’d been a little more frivolous and happy.

But there was never any answer to that question, either. The one everyone asks themselves: what will make me happy? A husband? A child? I scoff at myself. I don’t regret either, not really. I never could have shared myself or my time with something so demanding as motherhood.

Still, the fact that chance is being stolen away rocks through me, a vicious reminder that I chose Grayson. I chose this fate.

I draw in a breath to fill my lungs and blink against the darkness. Regret is a weakness. I can’t afford to be weak.

Besides, there are more frightening realities to contend with than my shallow regrets.

The buried bodies in the backyard of the land in my name, that I always planned to move, to dispose of…and now that, too, is being decided for me. The girls will be found. Someone will purchase my family home and tear it down. Rebuild. They’ll dig that dead garden up and my legacy will be remembered as a horror story, rather than the work I’ve devoted my short and vain life to.

With that realization comes a panic attack that consumes every sense. The blackness closes in, scrapes and sounds magnified, the feel of bugs crawling under my skin retches a fiery scream from my throat.

The calm waters of my acceptance rebels. A storm thunders through me as I crash against the boards. My arms flail, my feet thrash. My fingers claw at the wooden deathtrap, raking up splinters beneath my nails. I can almost scent the metallic tang of blood in the thin, musty air, and I become a rabid animal fighting for freedom.

Determined, I fight against my prison, and my foot kicks an object. It doesn’t register right away, my panic too far gone, gripping my body and mind in a constricting vise. I turn onto my side and brace my shoulder against the lid, then I stop moving. I listen to the sound of my breathing, amplified in the confined space. Think. Think. Think.

I’ve analyzed Grayson for months. I’ve gotten inside his head. I understand him. I have an advantage over the rest of his victims. He has rules, and his disorder demands that he abide by them.

With three deep breaths, I quell the dread and slow my breathing. Reserve oxygen. Then I calmly use my foot to push the small object upward. Once it’s near my knee, I reach down and grab it.

A phone.

Oh, my God. Relief pushes through my anxiety. I flip the device open, and the screen illuminates the inside of the box. I quickly use the light to look around, searching for a latch or loose nail or anything—a way out. “Dammit.”

I’m not clawing my way out of the earth. Even if I could, what then?

With shaky hands, I punch in 9-1-1 and hit Send.

Three long beeps answer me back.

“Shit—” The top of the screen flashes no service.

He’s toying with me. But no, it’s more than that. There has to be something…here. Grayson records his victims. He watches them. He gives them choices, dammit. Where are mine?

Static erupts from the device. Then: “You once said you disliked people because they’re selfish. I wonder if it’s more that their selfishness is a reflection of what you dislike in yourself.” Grayson’s voice fills the humid darkness. “Something you wish you could change but can’t. That’s a conundrum, an enigma. You’re full of these little puzzle pieces, London.”

I search the phone. It’s a radio phone with a button on the side. I depress the button. “The only thing I want to change is my view.” I swallow a weighty breath. “If you do this, Grayson…if you kill me, you won’t ever be satisfied. You know that it will torture you.”

A long pause follows, where I wait for his response. I squeeze my eyes closed. Grayson is too intelligent to be deceived so easily. He’s studied me these past few months just as I’ve studied him. He knows my tells, my lies. My truth. He wants me to play his game, but there’s some bigger part of him that wants me to win.

Where all his other victims failed, I have to succeed.

“You said you’d give me answers,” I try again. “I followed you here. I left everything behind to be with you. To get those answers. You can’t let me go without—”

“You wanted to see how far the rabbit hole went,” he says. “Did Alice enjoy her Wonderland adventure? No, she was terrified. And to think, it was all in her mind. The most frightening things in this world usually are.”

“Grayson, please help me…”

“I don’t have your answers, London. Just like Alice, it’s all in your mind. I’m simply giving you the means, the tools, to unearth them.”

Unearth…

I repeat his words, looking for the clue—the piece of the puzzle Grayson is feeding me. Unearth…unearth…unearth.

Dig.

I hold down the button. “Dig,” I whisper.

He waits for me to make the connection.

A tear rolls across my face. Adrenaline courses thick and hot through my veins. “Dig them up.” I beat on the lid. “Dig them up!” He wants me to free the girls.

Silence stretches. The dank air sticks to my skin, snuffing out my life. The meager light of the phone fades. The faces of the victims taunt me, mocking me for becoming just like them.

Then I hear scratching. The faint sound grows louder, pulling at the seems of my sanity, until a hollow thump detonates.

The lid opens. Dirt falls on top of me, but there’s a hand to pull me out.

Grayson wipes the dirt from my face as I gasp in clean air, starving for oxygen. “You bastard,” I swear. My hand flies toward his face. He stops it from making contact.

His hand circles my wrist, holding my hand outstretched. “Save your energy. The first test is always the easiest.”

First test.

Dehydration and sleep deprivation finally take their toll. My weak body gives in and I fall.