Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

London

Light flickers against my eyelids. The cool press of a damp cloth against my face pulls me from the shadows.

My lids are heavy, like I’ve slept too long, suffering a morbid hangover. When I’m able to pry my eyes open, Grayson is close. I flinch away. In the dim lighting, I notice he’s clean and shaven. The scent of fresh shampoo and soap pervades my senses, a welcoming comfort, before my internal alarm snaps me fully awake.

“Where am I?” I demand.

But one look around the bathroom clues me in. Lit candles illuminate the small room, making it feel cozy. Romantic, even. My stomach pitches.

“I’ll power up the generator soon,” Grayson answers my unspoken question about the candles.

My back is propped against the wall. Grayson holds a wet washcloth to my forehead. “I was going to let you sleep it off, but you were starting to stink.”

I snatch the cloth from his hand. “That tends to happen when you’ve been buried alive,” I snap.

He doesn’t rattle. His mouth tips into that smug half-smile. “Towels are in the closet. Everything you need is already in the shower.” He stands. “I’ll leave you alone.”

I watch him exit the room, shutting the wood panel door behind him. I toss the cloth and jump to my feet, and immediately sway. Using the wall to right myself, I creep toward the door and check the handle. Locked.

From the outside.

Christ. I’m in a house designed for captives.

I find a bottle of water on the counter and drink half of it down before rationalizing that it could be drugged. I wait to feel any disorienting effects. Once the fogginess starts to clear from my brain, I drink the rest and try to recall how I got here. Did we cross over a state line? Yes, Grayson said that was part of his plan—to get outside of Delaware in twenty minutes. But how long ago was that? How far did we drive?

A knock sounds at the door. “I laid clothes out for you in the guest room. You can discard of the ones you’re wearing.”

I brace my palms on the counter. I can’t make another mistake. I can’t underestimate him again. “And food?” I need energy.

“I’ll have something ready for you.”

I wait until his footsteps recede. Then I unbutton my grimy blouse and pull off my filthy slacks. All my clothes go into a wastebasket near the toilet. It takes too long for the water to heat. I dive into a cold shower, thankful to feel something clean against my skin.

Halfway through bathing, the water begins to warm, and I assume this is due to the generator Grayson mentioned. As I wash my hair, I filter every piece of data he gave me, processing his words, the scenery, my predicament. I need more information.

I need to suppress my fear and do what I’m trained to do: listen.

I shut the water off and step onto the chilly hardwood floor. Towel wrapped tightly around me, I look for clues. The whole bathroom is paneled in light and dark reclaimed wood. The shower and sink are white porcelain with contemporary fixtures. The candlelight reflects off a tall vanity mirror, setting the space in an ambient glow that I’d otherwise appreciate if not for the fact that I’m trapped.

Under normal circumstances, I’d never condone using a patient’s unhinged state to beguile them…but this is no normal circumstance. And my patient is a special brand of disturbed.

I have to stay sharp. I have to outwit him. With that in mind, when the bathroom door opens, I’m primed. Ready to take on Grayson with the only weapon I have.

I’m not prepared for the impact, however. Grayson stands in the doorway shirtless, unashamed. His tattoos and scars on full display. A gauze bandage wraps his shoulder, and a low-slung pair of jeans hangs on his hips, accentuating the toned body I’ve only felt before.

I tug my towel higher, wrap it tighter.

“Make sure those thighs are squeezed just as tight,” he remarks.

I bristle, but I bite my tongue, forcing myself not to react.

He crosses his arms. “You’re many things, London. Demure isn’t one of them.” His gaze travels over my body, and I feel the press of it as if he’s physically touching my exposed skin.

I clear my throat. “I need clothes.”

He pushes off the doorjamb and stalks forward. I back up, but he reaches me before I have a chance to retreat. We’ve only spent short lengths of time together where he wasn’t shackled in a chair, and as he towers over me, I’m reminded of how much taller than me he is.

He brushes a finger across my shoulder, down my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. Then he grasps my wrist and brings it up to inspect. Deep-red bands wrap each of my wrists from where the cuffs bit in.