Born, Madly (Darkly, Madly 2)

For us, this moment is predestined. It was never a question of if we would hunt together but when.

Grayson understood our dynamic—what we would mean together—before I could even conceive my own truth.

We’re an inevitability.

Once I shed every lie, severed every anchor weighing me down, it was like being reborn. I walked through the embers of one life to another; a new start. A new woman—one who no longer fears the dark corners of her mind.

Rather, the time I spent apart from Grayson only solidified my resolve. Strengthening the bond between us, knowing with each sign I gave him, he was waiting. Waiting for me to fully accept my new reality. Waiting for the FBI to look the other way. Waiting for the perfect moment, when every mechanism he set into motion aligned, bringing us together.

A skillfully planned and manipulated moment of chance.

Always a step ahead, my patient has this world twisted around his finger…and we’re all just trying not to be left behind.

Like the man gaining on me now, he’s desperate not to be left behind, dominated by a world that no longer belongs solely to the male gender. Anger seethed in his eyes as he scoped out his choice victim in the nightclub. Maybe he’s unaware of why he’s so hostile toward women; maybe he despises his mother. Maybe he recently suffered a stressor that sent him over the edge—a wife or girlfriend left him. Humiliated him. Perhaps these slights have happened to him all his life…and now he’s ready to set it right with me.

No matter what his reasoning, his justification, he won’t be given a second chance. Grayson no longer manufactures redemption just as I no longer suggest rehabilitation.

Rehabilitation for the truly deviant and disturbed is not possible.

I feel the man’s presence looming, a dark shadow growing and swallowing the light. And when the blackness descends over me, he’s there to claim his prize. His arm bands around my waist in a tight vise.

“Shh,” he coos as he places a sweaty hand over my mouth. “We’re just going to have a little fun, baby. Didn’t think you’d put me on frustrate like that and just walk away, did you? Get me all hot”—he rubs his crotch against my ass—“then leave. You know what happens to little cock teases?”

His sour alcohol breath twists my stomach. I shake my head against his hold, maintaining my helpless disposition. Giving him the guise of being in control. Although I’m not sure he needs the reassurance. This isn’t his first time.

There’s no hitch in his voice. No tremble or stutter to convey the usual nerves that accompany a first-time attack. He’s aroused, with no inhibition or worry that he might not be able to perform due to inexperience or his alcohol consumption. Rather, he appears confident. He knows he has enough time.

“Cock teases get punished,” he says. His arm is suddenly gone from around my waist, and I hear the snap of a weapon—a knife. His elbow digs into my back. He smashes my body against the brick building. “Now, I want your palms planted against the wall. You got me?”

I whimper against his hand in affirmation.

“Good. Make this real nice and easy, and I won’t have to mark up that pretty face.”

He moves back, allowing my hands to reach for the brick. The sound of his zipper lowering rebounds off the building.

“Make all the noise you want,” he says around a grunt as he tears a condom wrapper open, “but if you scream, I’m going to make it hurt so much worse.”

My nails dig at the brick. He plans to make it hurt regard

less. This is the control he craves. Rape is never about sex. It’s about stealing ownership. Dominating the victim. Asserting ones power over another.

And knowing I ultimately have the power…?

I’m humming. My excitement buzzes beneath my skin, thrilling.

He gets as far as fisting the hem of my skirt before he stills. I feel the tremble then, the hesitancy. The loss of his power.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow your filthy hands to mar this beautiful creature.”

Grayson’s voice is deep and steady. Outside the club, with no loud music or interference, I can hear the lilt of his Irish accent and the subtle, sensual bass notes that slip over my skin like the silkiest material.

“Turn around, baby,” Grayson says, and I spin slowly to face my attacker.

The man who threatened to punish me appears much more docile now. His arms hang limply by his sides, a crumpled condom wrapper clenched in one hand, a knife in the other. Grayson relieves the man of his weapon, then presses another blade to his neck—a switchblade. The fact that Grayson carries a weapon with him shouldn’t surprise me.

By the heated look in Grayson’s eyes, he’s wondering if it excites me. Yes. Yes, it does.

“What are you…undercover?” the man spits. “This is entrapment.”