Born, Darkly: Darkly, Madly Duet: Book One

by Trisha Wolfe

Rain hammers our tin roof. The plinks come faster, harder, creating a sonogram of vibrations against my eyelids. I try to drift away, but the storm outside won’t let me go. It reminds me that he’ll be home soon.

  The creek of pines whispers from my past. Voices float through the thin branches to taunt me. You know.

  I shake my head against the floor. The motion tips my body over a cliff, and I’m spiraling down, nowhere to land, nothing to catch me. “Stop.”

  The creek grows louder. It’s no longer coming from the trees. I see his boots come down the steps, his weight bowing the boards. I hear the clink of the key entering the lock, then the squeak of the door opening.

  She’s panicking. Asking me what to do. What are we going to do?

  I look to the girl beside me. “Be good girls.”

  My eyes open with a start.

  No. no, no, no.

  I crawl away from the memory, toward that sliver of light. Where is it? God—where the fuck is it?

  The fall jarred something inside me. One of the sealed doors came off the hinges.

  I hear Sadie’s voice: once you break the locks, there’s no going back.

  How far down does the rabbit hole go?

  It’s Grayson’s voice guiding me toward that light now as my fingers claw the floor. Each push forward sends a fire-hot whip of pain across my spinal cord. I absorb the lashes, even welcome them, because the pain is real. I know it exists and why.

  But the memories flooding my mind are streaming too fast. Overwhelming. My mind fractures, trying to separate truth from fiction.

  He drugged me. Grayson had to have drugged me. I cling to that hope, desperate for the images assaulting my head to dissolve back into the abyss. But where there was once darkness, a light shines, illuminating those haunted corners.

  I reach the bars and hold on tight as I tunnel down.

  I’m not my father’s daughter.

  Not by blood. Not by a nameless, faceless woman who died after I was born. That’s not her garden. That’s not our home. I was born the day he stole me. Brought me into his world of locks and keys and bars. I was born into a dark world—after I was ripped from the light.

  “He stole me.”

  Even as I delve deeper, the psychologist in me denies it all. Repressed memories aren’t credible. They’re rarely ever accurate. They’re the mind’s way of reshelving memories, sorting too many moments that we’re unable to catalogue. I want to continue to deny it, but it’s as if a shroud has been lifted. Everything so clear, so vivid.

  So real.

  And I’ve never felt more alone.

  You know.

  I do know. I’ve always known about the girls, because I was once one of them. Until he pulled me from the cell and kept me for his own. He was a cop. He was the fucking sheriff. Of course, he was also my protector. I stayed in his asylum willingly, and left the other world behind, locking it away forever.

  The man I killed was not my father. But the patients I tortured to understand who I am, what I am…suddenly, there are too many of them. The doors crack down the middle, light splintering through the shadows, and the overload flips the kill switch.

  I shut down.

  26

  Till Death

  Grayson

  Forty-six hours in the cage and London loses the fight.

  The mind is a fucked up place.

  I push Stop on the recorder, then log the time with my notes. The first half was spent cursing me, blaming me, listing the ways I should die—I enjoyed that part. She doesn’t realize how talented she is—and waiting for the twist. I smile as I jot down her assumption on the drugs. Not a bad idea. Maybe next time.

  Her last four hours… Those were her most trying. And the most revealing. Even a strong-willed woman like Dr. Noble can’t keep the demons locked up forever. I watch her on the computer screen now, her arms cradling her body as she sleeps.

  Denial is a strenuous mental exercise. You have to be completely, utterly delusional not to bend when faced with veracity in its barest form. Regardless of her behavior, London doesn’t suffer from idiosyncratic beliefs. She’s not delusional. Mastering the art of lying was a survival mechanism to protect herself, to enable her to pursue greatness in spite of the hurt, the harm, to others.

  Just had to pull at her thread until the spool unraveled, revealing the truth. I’m pleased with the analogy as my hand flies over the journal page. I want to remember our moment. It will be important later.

  Can I claim I knew all the answers before I first entered her therapy room? No, not at all. Not like I typically do. Mounting extensive research on a subject before introductions. But with her—she was different, special. There was only a feeling.

  Something I discredited as bullshit my whole life. I work with facts and evidence, not gut instinct or intuition. I trust what great minds before me have tested and studied and produced concrete proof of.

  But like I said; she’s different. I sensed that kindred connection to her, and it became a compulsion to tease our relationship apart, dissect it and layer the pieces together in a way I could analyze and understand.

  I went against my nature by relying on instinct in this instance. Trusting this strange new sensation that warms my blood whenever I think of her. Love—if that’s what it truly is—decided we were a match, and she’s offered proof. Finally.

  I flip the page, resting the ballpoint to the journal as I click back on the footage. Hair in beautiful disarray over her face, she whispers it over and over, rocking against the floor. “He’s not my father.”

  I move closer to her image, an anxious thrill squirming inside me. This moment is too visceral to be an act. The admission too specific, explicit. It’s her truth—and her truth matches my own. It’s what called out to me, and why we belong together.

  We are the stolen children raised by monsters.

  And now she knows it, too.

  “I want out.” London’s voice is barely audible. I turn up the volume. “Let me out of this fucking trap.”

  She’s so close, but she doesn’t understand it all fully yet. This isn’t a trap. The burial, the cage…it’s preparation for her trap. She can’t go in until she’s primed, her mind open and ready to accept our reality—to accept us.

  She’s so close.

  I close out the footage and return to the live feed. I crick my neck, working out the kink, then stand and stretch. My body is just as taxed as London’s. She hasn’t gone through this alone. I’ve been with her. And when she enters the trap, I’ll be with her still.

  I glance out the window, excited for her to see our masterpiece.

  Before her, countless hours have been spent in this room designing, crafting. Modeling. It’s my home away from home, and when it’s gone, I’ll mourn—but I’ll rebuild. Bigger, better, more intricate. With her.

  I roll up my sleeves and reach behind my back, trace the tattooed equations between my shoulder blades. Then I pull out my plans, the ones I sketched from the engraved ink on my skin. The design of her trap began nine months ago in a six-by-eight cell. With a few custom tweaks modified for the upgraded specs, it’s now nearly complete.

  I put every last bit of myself into this. It’s my heart and soul, if such a thing exists. I built it for her, out of some foreign emotion that consumed me, plagued me, until I was forced to relent. There’s a fine line between passion and obsession—and I crossed that line the moment I saw her.

  I haven’t heeded my own warnings, though. Over the course of our entanglement, I’ve become dependent on her success. How much can the mind endure? Even when you know the disaster is coming, you can’t look away. We’re a little sick like that.

  This trap will test us all.

  I envisioned the moment at sunset. Something about the twilight suits the scene. With the dusting of stars scattering a pale sky, the chirr of crickets in the backdrop. Of course, we’ll have our own orchestra of screams and pulleys, a soundtrack for the perfectly choreographed ballet. London’s danc
e.

  I hook the last key, give it a flick to watch it spin. Shiny silver glints in the setting sun.

  When I’m satisfied that every detail is in place, I turn the laptop screen toward me and enable the mic. “It’s time to wake up, love.”

  London stirs, then her head snaps up and she looks around. “You twisted bastard. Let me out of here!”

  Still so much fight in her. Good. Having her completely broken wouldn’t work. “Are you ready?”

  Her hand raises to flip me off. I suppose that’s answer enough.

  I’m like a kid in a candy store as I head toward her room. I twirl my key ring, my steps hurried, impatient. At least, I assume this is how a normal, healthy kid would feel awaiting his special treat. I have little to compare this feeling to, dread having been my prominent emotion during my youth.

  I flip on the light. London’s demeanor is unsettling as I near the cell. I can’t keep the smile from curling my lips; I’m that eager. “It’s only been a couple of days,” I say, looking over her disheveled appearance. “You look like hell.”

  Her glare lacks that certain defiant spark I’ve come to adore. “I’m sick, Grayson. I need a doctor.”

  I unlock the cell door with a groan. I thought by now we’d be past the lies. “We’ve already established your sickness, baby. What you have…there’s no cure.” I brace my hand on the bar, blocking the opening. “I’m the closest thing to a doctor you’re ever going to get.”

  She stands on shaky legs, her arms hugging her waist. “I have a fever, you asshole. I need a—”

  “I have antibiotics.” I step inside and hang the dress on a bar. London notices the black satin gown for the first time. “I have an assortment of medicine for any and all ailments. It’s getting late. We need to get you cleaned up and dressed.”

  Her gaze doesn’t stray from the dress. “What the hell is that.”

  “Your dinner gown. You are hungry, I assume.”

  She drops her hands into fists by her sides. “I’m not your fucking play thing.”

  “London, I’ve been exceedingly patient. Let’s go.”

  She cranes an eyebrow. “Make me.”

  I scrub a hand through my hair. Two days wasn’t enough. But we’re running short on time. For all intents and purposes, the dress isn’t a requirement for her trap. But she uses her expensive suits and pencil skirts to shield herself like armor. I want her out of her comfort zone.

  Plus, I tried hard to pick the perfect attire for tonight. The black satin will cling to her curves, the purple slip beneath matches the tinted glass beading of the pearl shawl. Reminding me of her scent of lilac. My groin throbs in anticipation.

  I yank the dress from the hanger and unzip the back. “Take off your clothes.”

  She steps backward. “No.”

  “Another two days in the cage, then?”

  A laugh tumbles out. “You don’t have that much time.” She crosses her arms. “I might be feverish, but you forget that I’m still your doctor. I can see it in your jumpy muscles. Your anxious movements and hitched breathing. Whatever awaits me outside this cage is far worse than what I suffered inside it. And you know they’re looking for me. They’re getting close, aren’t they?”

  Tossing the dress to the floor, I move in. “If you don’t undress, I’ll do it for you. And I’ll make sure to enjoy it.”

  Her features steel. “You were kidnapped as a child,” she accuses, taking another step farther back. “That’s why you refused to talk about your parents during sessions.”

  I stop in front of her. “Mind games are for later.” I lunge for her, giving her a second to react and turn before I wrap my arms around her waist.

  She’s too weak to put up much of a struggle. I wrestle her to the floor and onto her back, pinning her wrists beneath my knees. “I was hoping we could work in some foreplay before dinner.” She wriggles beneath me as I grip the T-shirt and tear it down the middle.

  “You’re sick—”

  “We’ve already established that, too.” I ease up to get to her sweats.

  Her hand slips away. Before I can recover it, she brandishes a fork. “You can dine with the devil, you evil bastard.”

  The fork lodges in my stomach, plunged beneath my rib cage, the way she once stabbed another man who dared to lock her in a cage. I laugh at the irony as I clutch the utensil.

  She uses her knees to shove me off, then crawls toward the door, getting to her feet when she clears the cell.

  I roll over and brace myself. Gritting my teeth, I yank the fork free. My hand comes away with red, my shirt absorbing the blood. I palm the wound. It’s painful, but not fatal.

  I’m following her trail through the hallway when I hear her scream. It doesn’t take long to locate her. She’s sprawled out on the floor, her foot hung on a tripwire.

  I grab the back of her pants and lift her off the wire before I roll her over and straddle her legs. “I’m going to assume you meant to miss vital organs.”

  She spits in my face, and I love the way the motion makes her tits bounce.

  I run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting her. Then closing my hands around her neck, I lean down. “Sweet dreams, London.” I squeeze.

  Her gasps for air pulse against my fingers. Her nails claw at my hands. I watch her eyes bead with red as the vessels burst from the pressure. When her hands fall away, I strangle harder and press my lips to hers, tasting her shallow pleas before she fades.

  27

  Darkness

  London

  Panic flares the moment consciousness snatches me back to the world.

  I don’t open my eyes. I keep them sealed as I plead for that peaceful oblivion to return—that blissful nothingness. But just as he stole the world away, he forces me back, waving smelling salts under my nose.

  I turn my head away, groggy. “Why can’t I move?”

  My voice is hoarse, my throat raw and neck tender. A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach. I can’t move my head without pain shooting across my shoulders. “You choked me. Why didn’t you just kill me?”

  I hear a scraping sound, then as I dare to open my eyes, Grayson is seated beside me.

  As my vision clears, so do the rest of my senses. We’re under a veranda, the evening crisp with the taste of fresh mountain air. The glow of draped lights fills the space, keeping the darkness beyond my gaze. The scent of food hits me, making my mouth water and stomach pang with hunger. Then I notice the lack of feeling in my limbs, and fright startles me coherent.

  “The string wasn’t a part of the original design,” Grayson says, reaching for a tumbler of water. “But I couldn’t resist the symbolism.”

  I look down. I’m tied in thick black string. It crosses my body, cuts into my skin. I’m also wearing that damn dress.

  “Restrained by your own devices,” he continues. “Your own self-induced limitations. How will you escape the binding restrictions you’ve imposed on your flesh?”

  I blink at him, unimpressed.

  He shrugs, then brings the glass to my lips. “Tough crowd. I thought the metaphor was fitting. That little string always wound so tightly around your fingers, cutting off blood flow, the way you cut yourself off from living. Then you enter the maze, following the cries, to find the final test.”

  Maze? I hear it then—the sound that’s been in the background until he mentions it, bringing it forward. Screams carry from the dark, reaching my ears.

  “Who is that? What have you done, Grayson?”

  He makes me drink the water, and I struggle to force it past my constricted throat. But something else is…off.

  I turn my head away in refusal, and notice my damp hair as it drags over my bare shoulders. “You drugged me,” I accuse.

  “I didn’t want to, if that makes a difference.”

  “It doesn’t. What did you use?” My head is fuzzy. I need to know if I’ll suffer any side effects. I need to think. To prepare.

  “Chloroform.” He states it so casually,
nonchalant. “You needed a bath, and as appealing as it sounds, wrestling you in the tub would’ve eaten away too much time.” Then he grasps my hand. “You’re scared.”

  “I’m not scared of you.”

  He encloses my hand in both of his. “You are frightened, London. Hands get cold when blood flows from the extremities. It’s a telling psychological response.” He releases me. “Let’s eat.”

  He slides a plate closer, then cuts a piece of steak from a fillet. I try to crane my head toward the screams, but it’s painful, and the night masks the scenery past the veranda.

  “I never asked, but I presumed you weren’t a vegetarian.”

  Too starved to care, I lean forward and bite the meat off the fork.

  He slices another piece free. “How much of your memory did you regain?” he asks, offering me the steak.

  I take the food, chewing slowly. I don’t want to go back there. I’ve allowed my mind to slip once…I can’t afford to lose control again. “I remembered enough.”

  “Do you remember how old you were when you were taken?” Grayson selects a steamed carrot this time. “I remember well. I was seven. Too old for that selective memory thing, where the mind represses bad things to protect itself.” He feeds me the carrot. “You must have been younger.”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. I don’t even know if what I experienced in the cage was real or some drug-induced trip. “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know everything about me already.”

  “If I knew everything, we wouldn’t be here. And if we both knew all the answers, then we’d be far past this courting bullshit.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it; I’ve gone completely mad. “Courting. I suppose this would be considered dating to a psychopath. A romantic dinner after a little strangulation foreplay.”

  The screaming tapers off, barely audible now. He wipes a cloth napkin beneath my lips. “So you prefer something more mundane, like dinner and a movie. Where I bore you with my career achievements. And you force yourself to flatter me, stroke my ego, all the while I’m hoping you get liquored up enough for a quick, sloppy fuck by the end of the night.”