Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly Duet Book 1)

GRAYSON

Prison cell doors don’t clang shut like in the movies. Upgraded facilities like Cotsworth use a thick pane of Plexiglas over the single barred door to keep level three inmates like me from having any outside contact.

I’m ordered to stand inside my white cell and face the cot. With my back to the officers, one of them unshackles my cuffs, then the cell door slides into place with a beep and hollow click. Once the door is locked and I’m sealed inside, I turn around.

Cotsworth did away with solitary confinement. It’s now referred to as enhanced security confinement. I’ve had this six-by-eight room all to myself for the past year. My space is sparsely decorated with the only things I hold of value in this life.

I don’t need many possessions. Too much tends to clutter a life, detract from what’s essentially important.

Puzzle boxes are stacked on the one mounted plastic table. The most recent one completed, a scenic view of the Maine coastline. Sent to me by one of my fans. I have a number of those. Killer groupies is what the guards call them.

In the middle of my cell, a precast pull-up bar extends from the ceiling. Specially designed to prevent inmates from harming themselves. And along the longest wall, two large posters: Kells Castle and a labyrinth. I got the labyrinth myself. The other was a gift from the groupies.

Lights blink out, and the dim overhead track illuminates the cell in an eerier orange glow. Downtime for an hour before the pitch-black. I pull off my jumpsuit, toss it in the corner, and push up my thermal sleeves. I lie back on my cot and stare at the swirls of orange along the ceiling.

Prison is all about schedule and order. Most inmates come from a place of chaos, making prison time a painful punishment. Strict rules don’t affect me the same way; I grew up being told when to eat, when to sleep, when to shit. Being here is like being back home, and I’m biding my time just like I did there.

Nothing stays the same.

Change is the one constant you can depend on.

You either adapt or you don’t. That choice is what sets inmates apart. Those who wait, and those who rebel. A smart man once told me the wait for something to happen can drive a sane man mad. And this place is full of madness.

Since I don’t have to worry about going crazy, I’m waiting.

The guard passes my cell on his round, giving me thirty minutes to myself.

I spring off the cot. The labyrinth poster is easily removed to reveal the true treasure beneath.

The collection of images and articles I’ve amassed over the past nine months are arranged in a spiral collage on the wall, starting from when I first began my research, to her most recent trial. The newspaper clipping of her attack on the courthouse steps. The first day we met, and my confirmation that London needs me.

I run my finger along London’s cheek, the image so lifelike I can recall the feel of her soft, warm skin. The flesh of her palm marred by a scar she tries to conceal, and the ink that peeks through at times to taunt me with its secrets.

The outer ring goes back farther, sparse information sourced from the deepest waters of the Web. A girl with dyed blond hair. A decorated officer of the law. And the wreck that changed the outcome of the girl’s life.

I pluck the most recent picture of London with her hair down from the wall and bring it closer, inspecting every gold fleck I can discern in her eyes. Before the blackness takes the meager light, I paste the image in the middle of my collage and back up a few paces until I’m under the pull-up bar.

I’m a man obsessed. I knew she would test me. When she first demanded an interview, I questioned her intent, her reasoning, as to why she wanted it so badly. The other bottom feeders gave up easily, but not her—she persisted. I didn’t consider her endeavor desperate at the time, but it still made me curious. The more I looked into her, the more I saw her franticness, and then I scented it on her in her office.

I can smell her now, that sweet scent of lilacs mixed with her arousal.

Anyone that desperate for answers has demons to feed.

And oh, her demons are alive and kicking in our sessions. It’s almost cruel to continue provoking her, but she needs to be broken from her trained thought pattern in order to accept the truth.

If I’m obsessed, then she’s infatuated—an explosive combination.

I lower my boxers and kick them aside, then grab the bar above. I pull my body up, curling my arms until my chin taps the bar. I repeat my reps three at a time: up, up, up and hold. I stare at London, her bottomless brown eyes, curvy hourglass figure that she can’t censor with her expensive suits. I see her crossing her legs right in front of me, applying pressure to the ache that pulses between those soft, inviting thighs.

With each chin-up, my dick gets harder. The tension in my muscles travels down my body until it reaches the tip of my cock, begging for release. A fiery burn sears every sinew beneath my flesh as I speed the reps. Adrenaline races through my bloodstream, quickening my pulse. I can almost hear her…taste her…envisioning her struggling against the binds as her frantic voice calls my name…

A deep groan rumbles out as I complete another rep. I hold my body up, chin pressed hard against the cold bar as the release takes me. My cock throbs, my stomach flexed taut, as I thrust my hips forward to drive the freeing sensation down to my calves. The sound of my ejaculate hitting the cement mixes with my heavy breaths, heightening the orgasm, before I let go.

I drop to my knees, palms flat against the cool floor. She’s already fading from my mind as I heave in breaths. I reach behind my head and pull my shirt off to cover my mess, eyes squeezed tight, then settle back onto my heels. I claw at my head.

Every scar on my body is aflame.

My flesh demands punishment, but I grasp onto the lingering wisps of London’s face until the compulsion eases. Lightheaded and tingling, I savor this feeling before it’s torn away. With her, I don’t crave the abuse. I’ve enforced it for so long, it’s damn near impossible to stop—but she’s my answer. She’s my salvation.

My blood runs hot. The frigid air touches my slick skin like a cruel caress, and I welcome it. I run my hands over the raised scars along my chest, feeling each life I witnessed being taken. Every one of them is carved into me, a brand that cements my fate, a penance I inflicted on myself for the pleasure I experienced during their suffering.

I’m not alone.

That initial realization was the first broken link in my chains.

I won’t accept anything less than her; she’s my other half.

I replace the poster, not bothering to dress. Before the light is gone, I bring her picture to the cot with me. I trace her features, memorizing them all over again.

The cell goes dark, and I slip the image under my pillow. I run my hands over my forearms, tracking ink that cannot completely disguise the scars. My reminder that secrets can’t stay buried.

London wants answers, I can give them to her. The only question is how far she’s willing to go to get them.