The Broken Trilogy

by Amy Cross

  Copyright 2017 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Dark Season Books

  Broken Blue first published: February 2013

  Broken White first published: September 2013

  Broken Red first published: April 2015

  This collected edition first published: March 2017

  Table of Contents

  BROKEN BLUE

  Part One

  Home

  Part Two

  Dancing

  Part Three

  Fusion

  Part Four

  Blood of a Billionaire

  Part Five

  The Challenge

  Part Six

  One Night

  Part Seven

  Driven

  Part Eight

  The Decision

  BROKEN WHITE

  Part One

  Affection

  Part Two

  Suspicion

  Part Three

  Friends

  Part Four

  Torn

  Part Five

  All That You Are

  Part Six

  Romance

  Part Seven

  Knives

  Part Eight

  Dramatis Personae

  BROKEN RED

  Part One

  Amsterdam

  Part Two

  London

  Part Three

  Captive

  Part Four

  Running

  Part Five

  Game Over

  THE BROKEN TRILOGY

  BROKEN BLUE

  Part One

  Home

  Edward Lockhart

  1895

  As a single candle flickers by the window, I place my hands on her knees so that I might part her legs. She resists a little at first, as if hesitant, but finally she succumbs to my curiosity. Her legs part, and my eyes are drawn to the thin slit that glistens with moistness.

  "Why do you wait?" she whispers, her voice barely audible above the quiet of the room. "Am I not -"

  "Remember the rules," I reply calmly.

  "But -"

  "Remember."

  She falls silent.

  I lean closer to her crotch, examining the lips on either side of the slit. Now that I'm just a few inches away, I can almost smell the sweetness, and vasocongestion deeper within her vagina has pushed a considerable amount of moisture through her vaginal walls; that moisture now coats her labia majora and tricles out onto her inner thigh.

  After a moment, I look up to see the twin peaks of her chest, and I see the dancing shadows cast by the nearby candle. 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.

  She has been so very patient.

  "Edward, please" she says, her voice tense with desire. Again, I hear the jangling of chains. "What more do you want?"

  "Hush," I say. "Remember the rules. I won't tell you again. Is the blindfold tight?"

  "I cannot see a thing," she says breathlessly. "It's been hours. 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 tell her.

  "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. "Edward, please," she continues, pleading desperately. "Touch me, please. I'm ready. I need you to stop teasing me!" She waits, and finally I realize that she's sobbing. "Please, Edward, touch me..."

  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.

  Elly

  Today

  "Paddington," says the man, nudging my shoulder as I open my tired, sore eyes. "End of the line."

  Opening my eyes, I see the cold gray platform outside the train window. It takes me a moment to realize where I am, and then a moment longer to realize how I got here, and then finally another moment to remember why. My heart sinks a little. It wasn't a dream after all.

  "You have to get off," the man says.

  "Sorry," I mutter, standing up way too fast. I pause for a moment, holding onto the back of the seat in an attempt to make sure I don't fall over.

  "Are you drunk?" the train guard asks sourly. "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, grabbing my backpack from the overhead rack. Brushing crumbs off my jeans, I make my way wearily along the aisle and out through the nearest door. I step down onto the cold, windy platform and realize the journey's over.

  I'm home.

  I don't want to be here.

  Still in the process 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 other passengers, while distant station announcements send commuters scurrying to various platforms. 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 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 come face to face with 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 in the first place, 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 mutter, zipping my backpack up. "Do I have to go back and look for it?"

  At that exact 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.

  "Refueling and maintenance bays," the inspector says. "Do you have your ticket or not? If not, there's a ninety quid fine."

  "Fuck," I say with a sigh.

  "Mind your language, please," he replies with the faintest of smiles.

  Five minutes later, and with a ninety pound hole in my bank account, I drop my backpack onto the filthy floor over by the ticket office. Thanks to the fruitless search for my t
icket, 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 need 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. "Bastard, bollocky thing!"

  "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 'bastard', they say words like 'darn' and 'gosh', or better still they keep their frustration bottled up inside and just grow an ulcer.

  "Sorry I didn't call," I say, feeling a little embarrassed as I get to my feet. I glance about, avoiding making direct eye contact with her in case she's crying too. "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. Damn it, what have I got in this 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, 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, or the fact that she's very politely making 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.

  "We shall probably have a few visitors this afternoon," she says as we walk out into the cold 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 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 point out as we reach the car.

  "Not at his funeral," she replies, turning to me. "Please, Elly. Let's just do things the way they're supposed to be done for once." She pauses, and suddenly I see an unfamiliar look in her eyes. It's as if she's scared. "I don't want people talking," she continues after a moment. "There's going to be enough to deal with, without people gossiping and complaining behind the scenes. I'd really appreciate it if, just for the next few days, you could help things go a little more smoothly."

  I stare at her for a moment. I want to argue with her, to point out that there's nothing wrong with jeans, to make her realize that I'm twenty-one years old and there's no way she can boss me around anymore. There's something about her expression, though, that makes me back down. As we stand next to the car, with a light rain falling, I realize that, like her, I just want to get through the next few days without any unnecessary friction. This is just a short visit. In and out, to get the funeral over with.

  "I'm sorry," I say eventually.

  "About what, dear?"

  "About Dad." I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry about Dad."

  Without saying anything, she unlocks the car door and climbs inside. As I walk around to the passenger side, I realize that the next few days are going to be hell. I'm going to have to tiptoe around on eggshells as I try to avoid upsetting my mother, and I'm going to have to deal with concerned and sympathetic visitors, and I'm probably going to have to field a million questions about how my studies are going. Damn it, why did my father have to die? Didn't he know how inconvenient it would all be?

  Edward Lockhart

  1895

  "I'm ready."

  She stands in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but the robe I gave her a few minutes ago. By any standards, she is an attractive young lady. Her eyes, in particular, are filled with a sparkling intelligence that makes her seem extremely confident. Confidence in a woman always seems like a challenge, as if she's waiting for a man to come along and knock her back down.

  "What do you think I'm going to do to you?" I ask, standing in front of her.

  She stares at me, and for the first time I think I see a hint of fear in her expression.

  "You must have an idea," I continue. "Tell me, Sophia. Why did you agree to come here today?"

  "To play the game."

  "What game?"

  "The game you told me about."

  "Did I tell you about a game?"

  She smiles uneasily.

  "So I did," I continue. "Am I to assume, therefore, that you believe you have a chance of winning?"

  She nods.

  "Okay," I say, deciding to get started, "here's what I want you to do. I want you to slowly slip the top of the robe off your shoulders and lower it to your waist, but no further. Just enough for me to see your breasts and your belly. Part of the game involves following instructions, so mind that you obey my every word."

  She pauses for a moment, and then she does what I ask, exposing the top half of her naked body. I step forward and reach out to touch her large, round breasts, finding them to be firm and rather pleasant. My thumb brushes against her left nipple; at first it's soft to the touch, but as I continue to stroke it and tease its tip, I feel it become a little harder and after less than a minute it feels much fuller. Smiling, I look into Sophia's eyes and see without a shadow of a doubt that she is ready for me.

  "The path you are about to take," I say, cupping her breasts with my hands and giving them another gentle squeeze, "is not going to be easy." I lean closer. She opens her mouth, expecting me to kiss her, but I hold back a little. "All the stories you have heard are true," I say quietly, "but they are only the beginning. This is not a game for those who expect to win easily. In truth, it is not a game for those who expect to win at all. The only prize is to continue playing for as long as possible before, eventually, you lose. There can only ever be one winner, and that individual will be the game's final player. It will all end. Do you understand?"

  "I understand," she whispers, staring at my lips.

  "I wonder," I reply, reaching down and parting the robe a little further, so as to reveal the first few black hairs of her crotch. "So many girls have said they understand, but they have all been wrong. Absolutely and without fail."

  "What happened to them?" she asks.

  "Why do you want to know?" I smile as I run a finger against the skin below her belly button. "If you're so certain that you'll win, why would you care what happens to the ones who lose?"

  "I'm not like them," she says. It's clear that she's trying hard to seem strong, but the effort is showing.

  I run my hand up the side of her body, feeling the warm skin of her waist. "I'm sure you are," I say finally, trying to hide the sadness in my voice. It always starts like this, with the girl defiantly promising me that she'll be different, and yet it always ends the same way. Sometimes I wonder if I still have the appetite to play, but I always end up coming back for more. I can't give up, you see. To give up, is to lose."

  I press two fingers against the side of my neck, and finally I feel her racing heartbeat.

  "Look at me," she says, reaching down and removing the last of the robe, exposing her crotch and her bare legs. "I'm ready for you. More than ready. I want you."

  Reaching down, I brush the back of my hand against her thick bush of black pubic hair. Sophia Marchant is indeed a great beauty. It's hard to believe that she is the daughter of a one of the city's most no
ted industrialists. I'm sure her prim and proper parents would be horrified to learn that their daughter is in bed with a man such as myself.

  Some day, some girl has to show an aptitude for the game, and I pray that I will be the one who finds her. Perhaps then, this will all be over.

  "Come with me," I say, taking her by the hand and leading her across the room. Reaching the doorway, I indicate for her to go ahead, and she immediately walks to the bed before turning back to me and smiling. I start to unbutton my shirt, but she hurries over and pushes my hands away.

  "Let me," she says eagerly, smiling as she starts to undress me. I allow her to do it, and soon she has removed my shirt and dropped it to the floor. She runs her hands across my chest before dropping to her knees and opening the top of my trousers. Her fingers fumble a little, as if she has never undressed a man before, but finally she pulls the trousers down, along with my underwear, and my erect penis is exposed. Looking down, I can see a hint of surprise in her face; the girl has probably not been with a man before, yet I'm quite certain she will do everything she can to hide her inexperience. As she reaches out and takes the shaft of my penis in her hand, I feel myself swell slightly. It has been a while since I have been so excited by a girl, but there is something about Sophia that gives me hope. Even if we were not playing the game, I would still want to be with her tonight.