Confessions in the Dark

by Jeanette Grey

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

"Jeanette Grey has become a must-read voice in romance. Seven Nights to Surrender is lyrical, stunningly sexy, and brings swoons for days." -- Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author "Grey's deft grasp of twenty something relationships and snark succeeds in the vein of author duo Christina Lauren. Recommended for fans of classic travel whirlwind romances with a refreshing modern flair." -- Library Journal on Seven Nights to Surrender Whispers in the night lead to sweet surrender . . . but what will the dawn bring? Anger. Guilt. Sorrow. They've strangled Cole for years-and now they've literally damaged him. With his knee out of commission, Cole knows the road to recovery will be nothing but long and irritating . . . until his beautiful and determined neighbor offers to help him in return for a favor. But soon Cole finds himself offering her so much more. Their unexpected passion lays Cole bare, body and soul. And leaves him wondering how he'll walk away before he ruins her life, too. Gruff, secretive, and coiled with tension that begs for release, Cole is too intriguing for Serena to resist. The English accent and brooding brown eyes don't hurt, either. Their nights are beyond compare-yet the truths Cole confesses in his darkest moments reveal a heart bruised almost beyond repair. But Serena's seen the kindness and support he shows when she needs it most. Armed with a bottomless well of patience and devotion, she'll show Cole just how good it can be to let someone in . . .

Release date: March 1, 2016

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 402

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Sometimes, Cole could still hear her voice in his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut hard against the torrent—like that could ever make it go away. Like he would even want it to. The memories were full of soft words and gentle hands, kindness and warmth, and he hadn’t deserved a bloody shred of it.

An ugly laugh tore at the back of his throat. He’d proved that well enough.

She hadn’t deserved...

Forcing his eyes open, he gazed out across the tracks, at dingy rail ties and the ugly concrete of the platform, but he couldn’t blink away the afterimage burned into his memory. The train station around him threatened to dissolve, stuttering out into crimson spatters on the snow, and he gripped the strap of his bag for something to hold on to.

Christ. What had he been thinking, going out today? He should’ve stayed in his apartment, should’ve celebrated all alone. Taken down that bottle of the good stuff he’d been saving. The library would’ve kept for another day—for another year.

But her voice had told him to go.

A roaring in the distance drew his focus back to the present. His vision resolved, and he took a deep breath. The hardest part was done at this point—he’d put on proper clothes and gathered up the papers he wasn’t even sure why he bothered with anymore. He’d made it through his front door. Tempting as it was, he was too stubborn to turn back now.

Nodding to himself, he strode to the edge of the platform. The inbound train was still three stops away, twin pinpoints of light piercing through the early April gloom. Uncivilized, a city as frigid as Chicago laying its tracks aboveground, but a decade of missing the Tube wasn’t going to put him back in London anytime soon. He was too stubborn for that, too.

Stepping away from the edge, he glanced in the other direction, at a pair of lights that was even closer. And then his gaze caught on something else.

Two men. Flat-brimmed caps and too-large coats, standing idly beside a boy who radiated tension. They weren’t with him, then. Cole narrowed his eyes. Crossing his arms over his chest, he shifted his weight.

Chances were that it was nothing. Strangers could be rude, and the “L” wasn’t exactly a sanctuary for personal space. He was reading too much into things.

Unless he wasn’t. He’d seen that look on blokes before. God, but had he ever. Seen them sizing up their targets, probing for weaknesses. His own shoulders ached, remembering standing like that boy was, every muscle held so tightly, this vain effort to look unassuming and unthreatening until it all boiled over.

Until bone was snapping and his fist was bruised and hot, and his whole life was spinning out of control with the force of this anger—

And they moved so fast.

With a roar of sound and wind, the outbound train swept into the station, blowing the boy’s scarf across his body, and it was all the opening they needed. One tapped his arm and the other had his bright green rucksack in his hand and then they were both tearing down the length of the platform toward a pair of opening doors.

Cole didn’t so much as stop to think.

“Hey!” Between one breath and the next he was in motion. Around him, gazes darted up from mobiles and magazines, but neither of the men slowed their pace a bit, and he shouted, louder this time, “Hey!”

Sometimes cowards only needed to be called out on their actions, to have some kind of attention brought to them before they withered and retreated. But not these arseholes. One cast a glance back over his shoulder. Caught sight of Cole as he took another step toward them and another. Instead of stopping, he nudged his partner and they broke into an outright run.

And Cole was right behind them. His vision went crystal clear, the echoes of the past that had haunted him all morning receding into background noise in his mind. But they didn’t disappear. Grief and anger fueled him, the tangled mess of memory that had clogged his chest expanding. Every time he’d not fought back and every quid he’d lost.

Everything he’d lost, and this useless feeling he’d been living with for so long.

And always, always, that voice in the back of his mind. The one that had pled with him and sobbed, and it was telling him to stop. That this was madness and he’d get himself killed, but he was past the point of listening now.

The men ducked into the train just as the doors began to close, and an ember of rage turned to fire inside Cole’s lungs. They were going to get away with it if he didn’t hurry, if he didn’t—

His blood sang as he leapt a bench, hurtling forward to shove an arm between the sliding doors. As they stuttered back, he shouldered his way through, reaching up to yank the cord for the emergency stop. He caught the eye of a dumbfounded girl standing by the intercom and pointed at the speaker. “Two men in black. Sixth car. Nicked a handbag.” He gestured out the window at the boy still staring in shock at the chaos on the train. “From him.”

The men were still two cars ahead. Cole didn’t wait for the girl to acknowledge him. He took off even as the loudspeakers blared, the conductor barking out a demand for an explanation. And people could be so bloody stupid. Oblivious and inattentive and he had to force his way past them. He pushed into the space between the cars and on into the next one. He was gaining on them; he had to be.

But there was movement outside the window, dark coats and the bright green of that bag, and bollocks. Bastards had jumped the train, just as the inbound one pulled in on the other side. If they got on that train, he’d lose them.

Cole swore out loud and caught himself on one of the poles, slowing his moment enough to change direction. As he launched himself through the door and pounded across the platform after them, parting the crowd like the sea, he had this moment—this teetering sense of vertigo.

This was past the point of sanity, past the point of what anyone could have expected. Past what even that boy could have hoped that anyone would do.

The fire in his ribs flared hotter, blanking his mind to anything else. How hard had he hoped, back when he’d been that defenseless? How deeply had he wished and prayed? If only someone had stepped in...if only anyone had seen...

How could they not have seen?

With one last burst of power, he tackled the man with the bag. The bastard crumpled, clearly caught by surprise, and Cole reared back his arm, balled his hand into a fist, and it would feel so good. The satisfying smack of bone on flesh, the coppery tang of blood on the air, and he could do it.

But he hesitated. There was a flash, and for a flickering instant, all he could see was Helen’s face. The naked fear in her eyes, because she’d seen it. This ugliness inside him, and he was just so angry—

A hot, bright burst of pain lit the back of his skull. Oh Jesus fuck, there had been two of them. He reeled, swung off-balance, and the bloke beneath him took every advantage, throwing him off. Cole landed on rough concrete, no time to catch his breath before a hard kick landed against his ribs. Another leg rose, and he twisted.

He screamed when a foot came down on his knee. A sickening pop rent the air, fire shooting up all the way to his spine.

The man with the rucksack made to rise, his friend helping him up, and Cole saw red.

He lurched to rise, and a fresh wave of agony crashed over him, his leg buckling. But he got a hand on the belt of the guy closest to him and yanked him backward, even as his buddy started running, and shite.

Shite, shite, shite, how was he going to pull this off?

“Fucking psycho.” The guy in Cole’s grip spat right in his face, and Cole would kill him. Violence was this humming thing in his hands, buzzing through his every nerve, and he finally had a place for it to go.

He had something to do.

He kicked out with his good leg even as the bad one shrieked, tangling the man’s ankles, pulling him down to his level, and he’d crush his skull. Feel the shatter of bones beneath his fists—

Except then there were hands on him, and he was still swearing, still swinging. He’d take this one, too, he’d take them all, every one of those sniveling little shits who’d been tormenting him for years, picking on the little nerd who’d always been taught to not fight back, but he was sure as hell fighting now. He’d make them sorry they’d ever—

He was turned over onto his back, the belt torn from his grasp as he stared up into a ruddy face. A furrowed brow.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there.”

And there was something about the tone. The accent. American, not English. And Cole was thirty-five instead of nine.

All the heat bled from his face at once, the haze pulling back from his eyes.

Bloody hell. A police officer stood over him, while another had the man he’d been ready to murder pinned down to the floor. Two more approached with the second man in tow.

Dangling from one of their hands was the bag.

The fight drained out of Cole, and he went limp. His foot skidded out against the concrete, and he choked on the sound of pain forced from his lungs as his knee flexed. Goddamn it all.

Time went blurry for a little while after that.

Witnesses were collected and statements given. Somewhere in the midst of it all, the boy came forward to claim his bag. Cole squeezed his eyes shut tight. He was even younger than he’d looked. Thirteen. Fourteen, tops.

After it was over, the boy came up to him. Cole was sitting on the ground still, waiting for an ambulance. He couldn’t put an ounce of weight on his knee, and the back of his head throbbed. His ribs ached. The hot flow of adrenaline in his veins had faded, leaving him exhausted and shaking, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk.

The last thing he ever wanted to do was talk.

And sometimes, he longed for it so desperately it hurt in his bones.

Staring at the ground, the boy addressed him with a cracking voice. “That was pretty crazy what you did just now.”

“I know.”

“Thank you. For getting it back for me.” He fidgeted with the strap of his bag. “You really shouldn’t have, though.”

As if he didn’t know.

Cole shook his head. “I had to.”

And it scraped at the back of his throat. Because that was the truth of the matter. The ugly fact he’d never been able to escape.

When his blood was up and his lungs got hot, it took him over. It blinded him to reason, to sanity, even. The anger was a force inside of him, and he was powerless to stop it.

His mind floated back to another night. Another fight and another life, and the horror in Helen’s eyes.

And God, he wished that he could stop.

  

“It’s not a problem, Mom, I swear.” Serena Hartmann tucked her phone between her shoulder and her ear as she bent to reach the bottom of the hamper. She tossed the last, offending, escape artist of a sock into her laundry basket and stood, pushing her hair back from her face.

On the other end of the line, her mother still didn’t sound convinced. “Are you sure? You’re not too busy?”

“Not at all.”

Okay, that wasn’t completely true. She had her lesson plans to get ready for next week and those books she’d promised to bring her neighbor who was in the hospital and that résumé she needed to edit for her friend. Laundry to do. But all of that could wait.

It wasn’t as if Serena minded picking Max up from practice. She liked watching him play, and she’d been meaning to talk to him some more about his application for Upton, anyway. See if he’d gotten around to asking his teacher about finding a tutor for math.

But her mother kept on fretting. “You just spend so much time shuttling him around and looking after him. A single girl shouldn’t have so many responsibilities.”

Something grated behind Serena’s ribs. She’d never been the type to run from her responsibilities. Hadn’t she proved that the last time Penny had gotten sick? Hadn’t she been proving that pretty much every day for the last twenty-something years?

Taking a deep breath, she insisted, “Really, it’s fine.”

“You should be off doing something for yourself...”

Serena huffed. “Who says I’m not? An aunt can’t enjoy spending time with her nephew?”

“I know you love Max. I just...”

Ugh, they could be at this all day. Serena appreciated her mother’s concern, but it was time to move things along. “Listen, Mom, I got it. Can I let you go, though? I need to get this load started.”

“Oh, wait, just one last thing, sweetie...”

With fond exasperation, Serena rolled her eyes. Her reception always cut out in the basement, but she could take her mom along at least to the bottom of the stairs. Balancing her laundry on her hip, she grabbed her keys from the hook by the door, nodding and mmm-hmming at all the appropriate places as her mom rambled on. She bit off a curse when she nearly knocked over the little bowl she kept spare change in, reaching out to steady it before it went toppling to the floor. She frowned as she readjusted it, spinning it so the messed-up spot on the glaze faced the wall.

Double-checking she had everything, she let herself out of her apartment. Only to stop dead at what might have been the longest, most creative string of swear words she’d ever heard in her life—and she taught middle school, so that was saying something.

Alarmed, she tossed her keys in her basket and gripped her phone with her free hand, taking a step forward and peering up in the direction of the sound. The cursing intensified in both color and volume, and Serena’s pulse kicked into high gear.

“Sorry, Mom,” she interrupted. “I really do have to go. Talk to you tonight.”

She hung up, wincing as she did. She might pay for that this evening. But the muttering from the stairwell cut off to the sound of a clatter, like something was falling and hitting every single step on the way down, and that made her wince even harder.

Pocketing her phone, she called out, “Hello?”

Another low grumble filtered down to her, clearly not meant for her to have heard. Treading lightly, she took the first couple of steps toward the second floor.

“Is everything all right up there?”

“Brilliant,” the voice said, louder this time. It was a man’s voice, deep and rumbly, the edges of the word rippling with just a touch of a British accent. She tried to ignore the way that did something to her. Because for all that whoever it was seemed to be striving for disaffectedness, there was a twist to the tone. And the huff that followed, accompanied by a sharp thud, was pained.

She frowned, climbing higher. “Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” the voice stressed.

She hesitated. This person sure didn’t seem to want her help. But as she reached the landing between the first and second floors, she spotted something lying on the ground.

A crutch.

She stopped, peering around the corner. The guy was sitting at the top of the next flight, one leg stretched out in front of him. All she could see from here were a blue running shoe and the loose cuff of a pant leg. Darting her gaze between that and the crutch, she bit at her bottom lip, considering.

The smart thing to do right now would probably be to walk away. Bald-faced lie though it might be, this person had effectively rebuffed her twice now. No one would blame her for taking him at his word.

But her heart gave a little pang. She had more than enough experience with people who refused to admit they needed help. She knew what it sounded like when they tried to push her away.

She had to at least try.

Setting down her basket on the landing, she picked her way forward. “Okay, well, if you’re sure you’re fine. I’d hate for somebody to trip on this, though.” All exaggerated movements, she bent to grab the crutch, then finally turned to face its owner.

And nearly swallowed her tongue.

It wasn’t that she didn’t recognize her third-floor neighbor. She’d seen him in passing a handful of times in the year she’d lived here, and she’d appreciated him in an idle sort of way. But the man had always held himself so tightly, like he was marching off to war every time he went to check his mail.

He was barely holding himself together at all right now. He’d traded out his neat jeans and tailored shirts for sweatpants, and his close-cropped dark hair looked like he’d been raking his hands through it all afternoon. Bruiselike shadows hung beneath the piercing, deep brown of his eyes, and the sharp line of his jaw was dark with stubble. She swallowed hard. It looked delicious, like it would be rough against the palm of her hand, and her throat went dry just looking at it.

Then she had to mess everything up by glancing downward at his mouth. Tilted into a grim line, it was tight and angry. And there, at the top right corner of his lip—the harsh, pale slash of a scar.

He coughed pointedly, calling her out on her staring. Her gaze rose to the angry set of those stormy eyes, and her breath caught.

“Well, then,” he said, tone dry, words sharp. “Do you plan to take it with you?” He nodded toward the crutch in her hands.

“Oh. Right.” Jolting into action, she climbed half the flight of stairs before a remembered warning tickled the back of her mind.

She might’ve only run into this man in passing, but some of her other neighbors hadn’t been so lucky. When she’d been new to the building, there had been vague mutterings about the man in 3A. Mostly, he seemed to keep to himself, rarely coming or going, never accepting invitations. But once or twice...

Well. Suffice it to say that the guys in 3B didn’t listen to their music too loudly anymore.

She took a step back, suddenly wary, but the thin thread of the man’s patience had apparently run out. With one hand on the banister, he rose to his feet, and Serena’s gaze raked him up and down.

Holy crap. His usual clothes fit him well enough, but the tight gray Henley he wore today draped over the dips and curves of lean, pure muscle, highlighting the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders. She had to stop herself from licking her lips at the sight.

But then he rearranged the crutch he’d managed to hold on to, tucking it under his arm, and started to take a single, purposeful step forward.

And almost buckled right in front of her.

“Cocksucking son of a—”

Without thinking, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Language.”

Catching himself between the crutch and the banister, he jerked his head up, mouth agape as he stared at her. “Excuse me?”

A fresh wave of heat washed across her face. Sure, it’d been a while since she’d had the chance to interact with a grown-up who wasn’t another teacher or her mom, but scolding a grown man for his cursing was a whole new level of not-smooth. Still, she lifted her chin, planting the foot of his crutch on the ground and bracing her other hand on her hip. Pushing her embarrassment aside the best she could, she shrugged. “I just don’t see any need to talk like that.”

“And I bloody fucking well do.” His right leg was held at an odd angle, and he raised it higher as if to make a point.

Oh. Now that she wasn’t letting herself be quite so distracted by the rest of his physique, it struck her how loose-fitting his sweatpants were. The offending leg was unnaturally straight, something bulky making the fabric of the pants bunch around mid-thigh. Maybe a brace?

“What happened?” she asked, nodding toward his leg.

“Does it matter?”

“To me it does.”

All at once, something in him seemed to crack. His posture, puffed-up and stiff, crumpled, and he bowed his head. When he looked at her again, pain and fatigue were written across every line of his face, and her heart stuttered.

“Look,” he said, the exhaustion bleeding into his tone. “I understand that you mean well. But I have had a very, very difficult couple of days, and if you would simply hand me my crutch...”

Her mortification only grew. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry.” Here she was, practically holding the man’s walking aid hostage while she interrogated him. What had she been thinking?

She took the rest of the steps at a jog, but before she passed it to him, she paused. “Wouldn’t it be easier without it?”

She’d broken her leg when she was ten, and going down the stairs had always been the worst. Having the banister to hold on to really helped.

“Please.” The word was hollow and aching, like it cost him so much more than the air in his lungs to get it out. “Simply—”

“No, really,” she insisted. “Isn’t that how you lost your balance in the first place?”

He visibly bristled. “I didn’t—”

“Then what, did you throw it?” She meant it as a joke, but the pinch to his brow made her wonder if that wasn’t exactly how things had gone. She boggled.

Boys. Honestly. It didn’t matter how old or how gorgeous they were, or how good they smelled up close like this...

Mentally scolding herself, she leaned away, giving him back the space she’d had no right to barge into. Still gripping his crutch, she glanced toward the landing above them. “Here, let me help you get to your apartment.”

He let out a low, dark laugh. “I’m trying to leave my flat.”

Seriously? “To go where?”

“How is this any of your business?”

God, this was one of Penny’s episodes all over again. Instinct had her digging in her heels.

She wiggled his crutch at him, all her compunctions about holding the thing hostage bleeding away.

Exhaling a sigh that was pure frustration, he reached for it, but she held it just beyond his reach. Only to gasp in horror when he lunged.

And she saw the whole thing coming a million miles away, but there was no preparing for a couple hundred pounds of male teetering into her. On instinct, she threw herself into his fall, trying to take some of his weight, to shore him up, but he just dragged her down, too.

The next thing she knew, they were both on the ground, draped across the stairs, his body hot and hard above hers, and God, he really did smell incredible. Warm and rich and with a hint of something woodsy mixed in that made her insides melt.

The portion of her insides that weren’t being crushed, in any case.

“Oof.” She shoved at him, and he heaved himself away like he’d been burned. Except when his gaze met hers, it wasn’t angry or disgusted or anything like that.

It was hungry. Deep in her belly and in the points of her breasts, a warmth bloomed, awareness crackling in her skin at how close they still were.

“Shite,” he swore, and okay. Maybe he was a little angry, too.

The desire she could’ve sworn she’d seen in his eyes faded as he struggled to sit. Propping his leg in front of himself, he raked a hand through his hair. Gingerly, she sat up, too, checking herself over to see if anything smarted or pulled. From the feel of it, she was going to have one heck of a bruise on her hip tomorrow from where she’d landed, but other than that she seemed okay.

She turned to him to find his face twisted away. A curl of dread opened inside her. She reached out a hand, almost stopping herself before she pushed on through, settling her palm on the broad muscle of his shoulder. He flinched but didn’t push her off. She sucked in a shaking breath. “Are you all right?”

For a second, she wasn’t sure what the sound falling out of him was. Unless— Oh crap, was he crying?

But then he shifted to look at her, and no. Not crying. The man was laughing, and the bare hint of a smile on those lips transformed him. For a second, she could scarcely breathe.

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he let the laughter trail off. He forced out a long, slow sigh.

“No worse than I was, I suppose.”

With a grin on her own lips, she found herself squeezing his shoulder. Feeling the firm shape of it before she pulled away. “Well, that’s something.” Testing the waters between them, she knocked her arm lightly into his. “And, hey, you’re three steps closer to making it out of the building.”

“Fantastic.”

They sat there together in silence for a long minute after that before he started making motions to stand. She did likewise, holding out her hand to help him. He gave it a considering look. And, yes, fine, he was clearly a proud sort, but his hesitance was officially ridiculous.

“I won’t bite. Promise.”

Finally, he placed his open palm in hers. Tingles ran all the way along her arm at the warm press of broad fingers against her skin, and she swallowed hard as he levered himself to stand. When he let go, she missed the touch immediately. Trying to hide her reaction, she bent to pick up his crutches, passing him the one. He tucked it under his arm, gripping the railing with his other hand.

And he just looked so tired. She chewed at the inside of her lip for a second. There wasn’t any harm in offering, was there?

“Hey,” she said. “If you won’t let me help you get back to your place, maybe come and sit down in mine for a bit? Take a break.” And it struck her. “Is someone waiting for you outside?” Surely he couldn’t drive like this. He had to have somebody coming to get him. “You can call them, or I can go down and tell them...”

A whole new wave of darkness twisted his features. “No. No one. I was...My doctor’s office. It’s only three stops on the ‘L.’”

Wait. He had to be kidding. “You’re planning to take the train?” In his condition? When he could barely make it a dozen steps down the stairs? The station was a full two blocks away, and it didn’t have an elevator. “No. Absolutely not.”

“It’s hardly your concern.” His gaze had softened since they’d taken their little tumble, but it went hard all over again.

“It kind of is now.”

He scoffed. “Hardly.”

But she was weirdly invested at this point. And besides, if he didn’t want her helping him, she was looking out for everyone else around him, too. The next person he fell on might not take it so well.

“At least let me call you a cab or something.”

Between her sister and her students, one of the things she’d learned over the years was that sometimes even arguing was a sign you’d already lost. It was time to stop talking and act.

Ignoring the way he sputtered, she grabbed his crutch and started off down the stairs. He’d either follow or he wouldn’t.

But at the landing, she slowed. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she cast a backward glance at him. Cocked a brow and fixed him with a level look.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you coming or not?”

CHAPTER TWO

Routine. For three miserable years now, Cole had clung to it. Early morning runs and cups of tea, weekly visits to the library to catch up on the articles he didn’t have access to anymore. Equations worked by lamplight and the same dozen recipes repeated over and over, and all of it he did alone.

When was the last time he’d talked this much? The last time he’d been touched?

A low shiver worked its way through his body, but he breathed through it.

Now here he stood, perched on one leg while the swollen mess of his injured knee throbbed. His shoulders ached from just the hobbling he’d done around the shoebox of his apartment, not to mention the disaster that had been his efforts to leave it thus far.

Fuck, he must’ve been high as a kite when he’d climbed these stairs the other day. It was all a haze of . . .