A love so dark, p.1
A Love So Dark, page 1
Table of Contents
A NineStar Press Publication
A Love So Dark
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Acknowledgements
About Rien Gray
Connect with NineStar Press
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
A Love So Dark
ISBN: 978-1-64890-663-3
© 2023 Rien Gray
Cover Art © 2023 Natasha Snow
Edited by Elizabetta McKay
Published in June 2023 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-664-0
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains sexually explicit content, which is only suitable for mature readers. Warnings for depictions of imprisonment/solitary confinement; use of restraints/hand cuffs; a murder/assassination (on-page); guns; graphic violence; attempted drugging; domestic abuse (past, mention of); deadnaming of an MC.
A Love So Dark
Fatal Fidelity, Book Four
Rien Gray
To my mother, who went through hell to get me this far.
Chapter One
Justine
I’M ON A beach fifty-two hundred miles away from home, and the person I love the most is doing unspeakable things between my legs.
Campbell started much lower, massaging every last ounce of tension out of my calves, a kiss placed on each unraveled knot. They’re too damn patient, spending as much time offering worship to the hollow where calf meets knee as they do running the hot length of their tongue up a quivering cord of need along the inside of my thigh. From above, the view is perfect—broad planes of muscle moving through their back like a beautiful puzzle, interlocking pieces I’ve memorized with nails and teeth—and there’s a singular pleasure in watching Campbell crawl toward the border of shadow draped across my hips.
We’re out in the open with no cover but an umbrella and a long white towel, although the pitch-black sand around us is mercifully empty. Campbell paid extensively for our solitude; privacy comes at a premium in Viña del Mar. I’ve never been comfortable with the thought of strangers waiting on me hand and foot, but a very distant lifeguard who promised to look the other way? Turns out to be the unexpected key to indulgence.
Teeth scrape over the string of my bikini, clinging to the swell of my hip, and I shudder. “You’re torturing me.”
“Am I?” Gray eyes flicker upward, burgeoning with desire intense as the tide. “Torture usually makes you scream.”
I bite off oh god on my tongue when Campbell finally strips me bare, dragging my bottoms down and out of the way. Not that the swimsuit was covering much to begin with. For the first time in my life, I dressed for the vacation of my dreams, with a wardrobe designed to distract my notoriously focused assassin from everything but touching me. A flawless execution thus far; we’ve shared an animal mood since touching down at Santiago International, cycling between eating and fucking until exhaustion forces us to sleep.
After this morning, I should be sore, yet the memory of Campbell handcuffing me to our hotel bed and taking me from behind sends a renewed pulse of heat to my clit. Hiding my arousal is impossible when they part me with their fingers and trace a slick, clear line down to the entrance of my pussy. Logically, I know no one can see us, but the idea that someone might be watching as I arch my back and moan ignites another intense frisson of heat through my body, echoed again when Campbell wraps their lips around me and sucks.
Keeping my hands still is a pointless exercise. I find a hold in the back of chestnut hair, running my thumb across the dark velvet of Campbell’s freshly buzzed nape. They muffle a groan against oversensitive skin, and I gasp, tightening my grip. Their tongue darts inside me just long enough to earn a whimper, but Campbell’s mouth is everywhere: spreading me open, kissing swollen folds, painting circles over my clit. Hungry, starved, a beast I’ve leashed around the heart and refuse to let go of.
Rolling my hips into the constant friction only makes the feeling sharper, bliss spiking across my nerves as a brutal electric spark. Whenever I catch a glimpse of Campbell’s gaze, their eyes burn through me, seared black with need. My entire world collapses to salt and heat—sweat and the ocean colliding with noonday sun, and the fire Campbell continues to stoke, low and visceral. The next time I clench, two of their fingers push into me, curling deep enough to force a cry from the bottom of my throat.
“Fuck, Campbell—” I almost choke on their name, riding that tight, trembling spiral on the edge of release. So close I can taste it, but held out of reach. “Please, make me—”
Our games fall away with their next rough thrust. Ecstasy eclipses my vision, bursts of chiaroscuro behind every staggered heartbeat. Campbell moves without remorse, drawing out my orgasm until I can’t do anything but breathe and sob, the pressure from within and without meeting at a white-hot point deep inside me. My nails bite into the back of their neck, a brand of warning, and the seal of their mouth breaks with a truly obscene sound.
I shiver in the aftermath, coming back to myself. Campbell rises from between my knees to claim a kiss, messy but sweet, sweat rising off their skin. Telling them to lay still and get doused in sunscreen earlier was fun, especially when I had to make sure it got everywhere—wouldn’t want them to burn, after all.
They’re comfortable enough to be out here shirtless, which is new. Another bonus of our pure isolation is Campbell wearing nothing but a sinfully tight pair of swim shorts with subtle triangle cuts around the thighs, fabric straining with every flex of muscle. I take advantage of our position to give their ass a firm grope, which startles a low laugh from their lips, faint but genuine.
“Ready to go again?” Campbell asks.
Despite the temptation to tease, I need a breather. “No. I’m just appreciating the view.”
For once, they’re the only thing I have to think about. Two months ago, I sold my ownership stake in the art gallery to Dalia at a friendly discount. She and her ex-girlfriend—now wife—plan to split the space between displaying art and an experimental photography studio so Nia can establish her career stateside. After years long spent building her portfolio across Europe and Asia, she agreed with Dalia to settle down, and I signed the contract for the happy couple with a smile.
Last month, I did the same thing with my house in Chicago. Campbell and I spent weeks talking about remodeling—or even tearing the damn place down to the foundation—but it was impossible to endure existing in the same space where I was brutally abused for a decade, no matter what color paint we put on the walls. An entire marriage of pain and humiliation inextricable as air, toxic as black mold. I never wanted to live in the suburbs anyway; it was Richard’s choice, another mask to flaunt status and perceived domesticity to his friends at the university.
Now I’m flush with cash and low on connections. Sofia’s working to buy an apartment for me in Flushing for tax purposes, although I had to talk her out of putting my investment into an entire building. Good intentions aside, I have no interest in being a landlord. My only priority is establishing residency in the same state as Campbell, while keeping our names and finances disentangled. Going to and from New York won’t raise red flags; I was born there.
They handled our tickets and hotel in Chile, but the transactions were displaced under the security consulting firm Campbell reputedly runs, a ghost of a corporation keeping personal records clean and divided. At first, it came off paranoid, but after Sofia ran me through every worst-case scenario in a very stark phone call, I’ve been careful ever since. Campbell and I don’t share a single piece of legal documentation between us; even my emergency contact at the American embassy is listed as my parents.
I love Campbell too much to ever put them at risk.
They brush a stray strand of hair away from my face, drawing my attention. “Any plans for the rest of the day?”
“Good question,” I murmur.
Despite the last hedonistic forty-eight hours, I did intend to tour some of Chile’s famous art museums, starting at the Museo Ralli and working our way up to the MAVI. Entry is free, unlike my favorite places back in the States. Turns out when you put federal funding behind history and culture, everyone gets to enjoy the
The idea of spending a week sinking myself into countless masterpieces is so heady I can’t help but sigh. Maybe I could buy a canvas and do some painting myself; the resort cottage Campbell secured for us is more than big enough to set aside a room for it.
I can do anything I want. No one’s here to stop me.
“I’m free.” The words leave my lips like a confession. Not painful, not really, but something splits inside my chest nonetheless. “I mean, I…”
Concern fades from Campbell’s face, replaced by a smile. “You are. We can do whatever you like, Justine.”
My eyes burn with tears, and for a second, I’m angry—what do I have to cry about here, surrounded by everything I could ever dream of?—but behind the outburst is a deluge of relief, the shell of my imprisonment shattering into a thousand pieces. I’ve spent so long burying what I need that recoiling when it’s dragged into the light is second nature, but the world is a little brighter when I manage another shaking breath, and I’m okay with that. Campbell is with me, a shadow I can take shelter in any time I need.
“I’m spoiled for choice,” I manage to say out loud, choking on a laugh. “Which, ironically, makes it much harder to decide.”
They shrug; the ripple of muscle tempts me to sink my teeth into the carved slope of their shoulder and never let go. “We’re not in any rush.”
“Does it ever get better?” The question sinks its hooks into me, but I have to know. Campbell is the only person I can trust with what I’m asking. “Thinking about how much was taken away?”
Their eyes cool several degrees, more stone than storm. “With time. You learn to live with it, then try to make a better life than the one you had before. But you would have to forget what happened for it to be truly be better, and forgetting feels unforgivable.”
I had my revenge. Richard is rotting in a cemetery I haven’t visited since his funeral; I took back my name, my body, my desire. I’m talking to my parents every week again, and as far as they know, Campbell is a wealthy entrepreneur who doesn’t care that I’m a widow. Today, I’m in one of the most beautiful places in the world and sharing it with someone who offers me endless love and affection, even though drawing out emotion is one of the hardest things for Campbell to do.
It’s enough. God, more than enough. Recovery works on its own schedule, and this single needle of frustration is nothing compared to the cruelty I’ve already endured. What else could I even ask for?
“Justine?”
Oh, how softly they say my name, making a treasure of each syllable. I pull Campbell into a deep kiss, willing away any notion of worry or regret. They open to me—only to me—and I savor that, too, relaxing under the weight of their body.
“Let’s go get in the water,” I whisper against their mouth. “There’s sand sticking all over your knees.”
A wicked glint replaces the apprehension in their eyes. “I wonder whose fault that is.”
Campbell hums in amusement when I give them a playful shove, only to make me yelp in surprise the second I’m yanked to my feet. They’re so gentle with me that I have a habit of forgetting how much raw strength lies underneath.
“I need to get my suit back on!”
“You don’t have to.” Their gaze is keen with intent, sweeping up and down my body like the edge of a blade. “Although I suppose I might strangle the lifeguard if he turned around and got an eyeful.”
“No killing on vacation,” I note, stepping back into my bottoms. “You promised.”
They tilt their head, thoughtful. “I did, didn’t I?”
Despite our jokes, it’s been six months since Campbell assassinated anyone. They told me they’re trying to break the habit, and I’ve done everything I can to make riding out the associated urges more bearable. Some days are harder than others. There isn’t exactly a twelve-step program for an addiction to murder.
Campbell’s fingers lock with mine, pulling me toward the ocean. I follow them to the horizon, where everything we’ve done is sure to wash away.
Chapter Two
Campbell
THIS IS THE first time I’ve ever been on vacation.
I grew up too poor to entertain the concept, and what few weeks of leave the military offered were spent on base in a country I never should have set foot in. Of course, contracts provide plenty of reasons to travel, but I’m not the kind of killer who stops at tourist venues in between executions. What would be the point?
Justine gives me a purpose for everything. When she smiles, when she laughs, I can hold a piece of it inside myself for a while and let the feeling resonate, unfiltered. I’ve spent most of our trips over the last few months following her as she uncovers reasons for joy, some long buried, others through sudden, ecstatic revelation. Thinking about death is more difficult when Justine burns with life beside me, taking back the decade she lost with shameless abandon.
So here I am, with nothing on the books now or for the foreseeable future. The process hasn’t always been clean—the first time I left my guns in New York, I numbed out for two solid weeks and almost put a knife through my own hand—but in a strange way, the breakdown made me even more determined to stick the landing. That lockbox is full of spotless relics I can never truly leave behind, but respecting old friends shouldn’t put me in an early grave. They wouldn’t want me to go out that way.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.
Water splashes against my stomach and brings me back to the ocean, the cold and infinite promise I’m standing in.
Justine’s brow wrinkles with worry when I meet her gaze, but there’s nothing but softness in her voice when she says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo.
How long did I tap out this time?
No point in dwelling on it. I scoop a hand under the surface and launch a wave of water back at her. Justine’s jaw drops before she retaliates, dousing me with a much harder splash, only to laugh and stumble back when I start wading toward her.
“You are not allowed to carry me off to win a splash fight!” she insists, but delight puts a glint on dark brown eyes, polished and precious.
“Are you sure about that?” I tease with another flick of water, watching gravity draw a sleek caress down her stomach.
Justine is aglow. Months of travel and open sun have drawn a golden tint across her skin, but the rest of her shines too: the black gloss of her hair left to grow unheeded and the bright crescent of her smile, luring me in time and again. Even when everything else freezes inside me and the last bit of light goes out, I love her.
It’s enough. In some moments, it might be the only truth keeping me sane.
Her desperate splash manages to get me in the face before I sweep Justine into my arms, prompting a sigh as water drips down my face, hair soaked through. Any pretense of struggle dies off as she laughs, slipping an arm around my shoulder to stay close.
“That went right up my nose,” I note.
My flat affect sends her into a full-on fit of giggling before she leans up to kiss me. “My bad. I’ll aim lower next time.”
That’s worth a smile. “You usually do.”
Justine’s faux-offended Campbell spikes in pitch when I change my grip, bringing us face-to-face. Her legs lock around my hips, hands laced together behind my shoulders, and I forget to think or speak. If I could always hold her like this, away from everyone else and the damage they do, I would. An idle, impossible fantasy, but I’m trying to indulge those more often. The other things I fantasize about are far too real: the satisfying snap of a target’s neck under soft leather gloves, veins collapsing as poison strips away oxygen and hope, eyes turning to dull panes of glass when they can no longer beg me to stop.
I bite my tongue and blink away the imagery. Justine is here and real, too, grounding me with her weight as I take us out of the water. The temperature today is just shy of perfect, but even a level seventy degrees makes volcanic sand warm to the touch. Our towels are long white strips beside each other, mimicking an equal sign under the broad span of the beach umbrella.
When I lay Justine down in the shade, she stretches from head to toe and fetches a bottle of water from the drawstring bag I bought from the Concón gift shop. For a few minutes, I can’t hear anything but her slow and even breath, almost in perfect time with the measured collapse of the waves in front of us. Blue water kisses black shore like the rush of blood under wounded skin, bruising the surface but never quite breaking free.
