Born, Madly (Darkly, Madly 2)

Prologue

I, Monster

Grayson

Perfection.

The ultimate assumption that it can be attained if one works hard enough, sacrifices enough, is determined enough to prevail…is the very definition of insanity.

But what is this maddening thing we call perfection?

It’s different for everyone.

That one, blissfully high moment of utter and complete satisfaction, of achievement. It’s a sweet glimpse of heaven. A split-second where demons depart and the gates inch open, granting us a limited view of something holy.

We have reached the top of the mountain. We have conquered. We reap our reward.

Ah, that reward doesn’t come freely. There’s a price.

Fear.

Let me rip the Band-Aid off.

Fear governs our life—that soul-sickening dread of loss. Once we’ve obtained our perfection, anxiety creeps in like the demonic force it is to steal our light.

The truth is a nice dash of salt in a fresh, cavernous wound.

Once we’ve tasted the sweetest perfection, savoring it on our tongue, everything that follows can only be bland by comparison. Or worse; a sickly sour. Quickly becoming a rotten bitterness that roils our stomach.

The higher we reach, the further we descend immediately afterward. A crushing low.

A torrid pit of hell awaits us at the bottom.

Maybe that’s where London and I made our first mistake. Believing we could bottle our perfect piece of heaven. Immortalize it. Exist only for each other.

Maybe we still can.

But the higher we climbed, drugged on each other, ruling over a damned world that bowed and trembled before the god-like monsters we’d become, the harder our fall.

We are perfection.

And we are the fear that lurks beneath it.

We feast on each other and exist only for the highs…and even now as I kneel before my dark goddess and pray for her mercy, I regret nothing.

We truly were happy.

Maybe we still can be.

Locks and keys—the symphony of my life. A masterpiece, my design. My fear brought us to this moment.

The razor-sharp edge of the knife presses into my neck and splits my skin, and I release a hiss. I search her gold-flecked eyes for the spark that tells me she’s ready. Her eyes are wild, filled with loathing contempt, her chest heaving as glistening beads of sweat dot her smooth brow.

My beautiful angel of mercy, now my vengeful angel of death.

“Do it,” I command.

Her hand steadies. The cold steel a tantalizing tease to my heated flesh.

“Close your eyes, Grayson.” Her voice is throaty and raw, wrapping me in her cruel, loving embrace.

I push against the knife, drawing blood. “I want to see the satisfaction it brings you.”

Her delicate neck pulses with a strained swallow. I feel the force of it in my throat. My thirst for her never quenched. Even now, as she grips the weapon with both hands and begins to drag the blade across my skin, I yearn to taste her one more time.

Death at my lover’s hand. The ultimate reward and punishment for our perfection.

I couldn’t ask for a more perfect ending.

1

Flesh of My Flesh

Grayson

The beat of slow-pulsing music stirs my blood.

There’s an influence in it. An air of mystery. That which is too powerful, too ineffable, to describe—you have to feel it. That intoxicating rhythm. Coursing through your system. Adrenaline sliding against your veins. A lover’s caress that makes your body tremble, anticipation igniting your skin.

It’s the feeling only a truly free person can feel.

Alive.

The beat throbs inside my chest as I move through the club. Bodies pressed thick and undulating on the floor, exposed skin, sweat—the smell of lust and alcohol infuses the air. I watch the body of the crowd rise and fall like the swell of a wave. Crashing and cresting. A siren’s call beckoning me closer.

I weave through the dancing bodies, a prowling wolf. As if in slow motion, I walk among them, noticing every lick of the lips. Sway of the hips. Touch to the brow. Dilation of pupils.

It’s predatory, this gravitational pull that arouses their curiosity. Men and women alike turn in my direction, their eyes tracking my movement. Hypnotic sex appeal—it’s a lure. The hunter doesn’t need to stalk his prey. Like the bright, colorful flower that attracts the insect, then snaps its mouth around its meal…

I can feel their draw to me.

That power surges, emitting a pheromone to reel them in. The music choreographs our dance, the composition of hunter and prey. It’s electric.