Thank you, lovely reader, for taking this dark journey with Blakely and Alex. You will never know how much it means to me that you read my words. You are the reason I breathe, to continue writing stories for you. If you enjoyed their story, please consider leaving a review, as it means everything to authors. Thank you.

I hope you continue down the rabbit hole with me a little further. Keep flipping the pages for a teaser from Lovely Bad Things.

If you want more inside sneak peeks from me, I have a Facebook readers group called The lil Monsters where I feed your dark, ravenous hearts. Also my VIP list, where you will always get updates on releases. Until then…

Read madly,

Trish

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Special gift to Trisha Wolfe readers. Click the link to receive a FREE bonus story featuring your favorite dark romance couple, London and Grayson, from the Darkly, Madly Duet .

We weren’t born the day we took our first breath. We were born the moment we stole it.

~Grayson Peirce Sullivan, Born, Darkly

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Kallum

Most obsessions start small, harmless. A tiny niggle in the back of your mind, an innocent fixation. The obsessive thought crawls under our skin and we begin to pick and pick until the desire overwhelms and we have no choice but to tear into it, claws raking and drawing blood.

The wound is a form of relief.

All great minds suffer this affliction. A torment that damns us to a monotonous existence.

But what is art and beauty if not pain? Anything which comes too easily is an insult to both the creator and the consumer.

With pain, we feel, we tear ourselves wide, and we allow the wound to heal over. We accept the scar. With obsession, we mutilate the skin until it’s destroyed, never allowing the damage to repair.

Blood never clots. We want it to flow, to keep feeding the passion, the desire.

Little Halen St. James didn’t start as a tiny niggle. From day one, she flayed my skin wide and buried herself deep.

And I can’t stop scratching.

“Locke, you’re up.”

My name is called over the line of patients in the waiting room seated on a bench. It’s dank and crowded in the small eight-by-ten holding area of Briar Correctional Institute for the Criminally Insane. The plain-white walls are dingy with age and neglect. There’s a constant reek of bleach with a faint undercurrent of mildew, a stench that can never quite be masked.

The psychotic inmates smell worse.

Donning my neutral patient scrubs, I rise from the plastic chair and drag a hand through my slicked hair. A few loose strands creep over my eye, but the errant stragglers are forgotten when I’m ensnared by the sight at the visitation table.

I allow all five senses to absorb her fully before I step into the room.

Basic heather-gray thermal with three buttons undone at her collar. A simple, delicate white-gold chain drops a one-carat, teardrop diamond in the hollow of her throat. Her dark-brown hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, out of the way. A defiant streak of white frames the side of her unpolished face.

The only makeup she wears is a swipe of mascara to darken her lashes, and a hint of gloss on her plump lips. But why cover up her natural beauty with layers of toxic chemicals? I appreciate the simplicity, even if those dramatic hazel eyes make me want to draw blood.

As I move into the room, I watch as she observes me just as closely. I like the way she purposely tries not to blink, the way her cheeks tinge the slightest shade of pale-pink. It’s deceiving on her part; she’s not shy or meek or enraptured by me.

Oh, I know I’m a specimen to behold. There’s no modesty in these bones. It would be pretentious of me to fake humbleness. Since I was five, my mother’s friends cooed and marveled over my eyes. My high-school girlfriends soaked their panties over my floppy black hair and crooked smile. Come to think of it, so did my mother’s friends.

At six-one, my body is leanly cut and toned, honed to wreak havoc on the female mind and body.

Which is one of the many annoyances when it comes to the petite criminologist seated across from me; she never fell into my web. She escaped unscathed, unaffected. More so, she slammed a glass over me and trapped me like a common house spider.

A miscalculation I’m determined to rectify.

My bite has venom.

“Hello, Halen.” The gravelly rasp of my voice curls around the syllables of her name. The first tremor of excitement rolls under my skin.

“Professor Locke,” she replies formally. “I’d prefer if you addressed me in kind as Dr. St. James.”

“This is the first time I’ve lain eyes on you in months, and here you sit, making demands. Impressive. Once you stepped out of those shadows, it seems you never returned.” My gaze skims her composed features, probing for the crack in her armor. I thought I found it once, but I was unpleasantly surprised to stand corrected. Amid twelve jurors, no less.

“Am I being recorded?” I ask, not curbing the hard edge in my tone of voice.

“No. This conversation if strictly between us—”

“I thought the last one was.”

She tips her chin higher and presents her phone, proving there are no recording apps, before she slips the device back into her bag. “But I’d like it if our conversation remains formal.”

“Oh, come now,” I say, “we can toss out nominal letters and propriety bullshit. We’re both on equal ground.”

She arches a fine eyebrow. “Does it rub you raw I won’t refer to you as Dr. Locke? Because, given the doctorate in philosophy is the most common in academia, I only presumed you’d find it insulting. Although, I could always tack on the post-nominal lettering if it helps your ego, Professor Locke, PhD.”

She’s been a busy little bee investigating me to learn how I tick.

Ryder—who I suppose one may consider my closest friend—relayed how she’d been interrogating professional associates and what few friends I have left after this debacle. I may have used him to feed her some interesting morsels.

What tangled webs…

I lick my lips slowly, savoring the burn of her arousing scent as it stokes my senses. A mouthwatering combination of lily of the valley and ylang-ylang, a unique scent well-suited for her.

Poisonous. Toxic, but only if ingested. With a hint of aphrodisiac.

She could market the scent with her own brand: Lure and kill.

“Rubbing me raw, little Halen, has all the promise with no follow through.” I spin the silver ring around my thumb.

She visibly shifts in her seat, refusing to be baited.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“What a waste of your doctorate,” I press on, expelling a lengthy breath. “You should be working in academia yourself, fielding your own research. Instead, you’re still traipsing around crime scenes, playing chase.”

“Keeping tabs on me?”

I smile. “I have loads of time to kill.”

Her mouth parts, as if I’ve said something to confirm a suspicion.

Daringly, I let my hand settle past the midway point on the table. There are no plastic dividers. No metal grates. I could reach out and touch her if I wanted—but I’m not yet ready to tear in and claw that itch.