Die, My Love Read online

  Die, My Love

  Zoe Blake

  Addison Cain

  Celia Aaron

  SJ Cole

  Julia Sykes

  Jane Henry

  Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  Copyright © 2019 by

  Zoe Blake, Addison Cain, Celia Aaron, Stevie J. Cole, Julia Sykes, Jane Henry and Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the

  author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Cover Design by Dark City Designs

  Contents

  Authors’ Note

  The Perfect Wife

  About Zoe Blake

  Also by Zoe Blake

  The Connoisseur

  About Addison Cain

  Also by Addison Cain

  Becoming

  About Celia Aaron

  Also by Celia Aaron

  My Bloody Valentine

  About SJ Cole

  Also by SJ Cole

  Fool for Love

  About Julia Sykes

  Also by Julia Sykes

  Chilling Seduction

  About Jane Henry

  Also by Jane Henry

  All Wrapped Up in a Bow

  About Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  Also by Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  First Chapter Teasers

  Fight Me, Daddy

  Branded Captive

  The Maiden

  White Pawn

  Stealing Beauty

  The Bratva’s Baby

  Awake

  More FREE Books!

  Authors’ Note

  Step into our web of lies, betrayal and murder.

  One tale twists into another in this macabre collection of horror so each story must be

  read in order.

  The Perfect Wife

  By Zoe Blake

  I will tell you a secret if you promise not to tell Dr. Chaucer.

  I’m not mad.

  I’m smart.

  I know the voices are liars.

  It’s just that I get confused sometimes, that is all.

  Just confused.

  But I am very smart.

  Each morning I remind myself my name is Julia Boyd. I live at 5436 N. Cherrywood Lane. At least I used to live there. I’m not sure anymore. Sometimes I think I am in my bed but then it doesn’t feel the same. The blankets are thinner and the bed frame creaks. I don’t remember my bed creaking before. But the nurses keep telling me I’m home, so maybe this is Cherrywood Lane? I also know that I’m thirty-four and have blue eyes.

  Would a mad person know all that?

  I know I wouldn’t get so confused if only he would leave me alone. He’s always watching me. Even in the darkness I can see his small beady red eyes.

  Watching.

  Listening.

  Judging.

  I can hear him in the hallway, whispering to the nurses, telling them what I did.

  What he made me do!

  He’s a liar, just like the voices. I scream at him all the time. I want him to show his face, so I can scratch his eyes out. Do you think he knows I want to do that? To scratch his eyes out? Do you think that is why he never appears? Always just out of reach - in the shadows.

  Laughing and taunting me.

  I’m not mad.

  I’m smart.

  Only a smart person would know when someone they can’t see is watching them.

  I just get confused sometimes…

  It helps if I pace around the room. It’s a very small room. I thought I used to have wallpaper in my bedroom. Pretty paper with colorful birds and glossy green leaves. Now the walls are a bright white. They hurt my eyes. He must have ripped the wallpaper down. He doesn’t want me to have pretty things. He never wanted me to have pretty things. If he appeared right now, I would scratch his eyes out.

  It’s cold and quiet in here. I can only hear muffled voices on the other side of my door. Probably gossiping about me… about what I did.

  What he made me do!

  Sometimes I like to pretend it is the tv on in the next room. I like to pretend that everything was the way it was before… before that night.

  The crippling silence is broken by a harsh rap on the door. A woman I don’t recognize enters. They never wait for me to call out enter and they never listen when I say go away.

  “Good morning, Julia. How are you feeling today?”

  Her voice is soft and light. It grates on my nerves. It sounds bright, like how the walls would sound if they could talk.

  I turn my back on her and face the corner, tracing the mortar between the cinderblocks. It should feel rough, but thick coats of paint have made the tracks smooth with just a few tiny bumps. I miss my paper birds.

  “Julia, I know you hear me. Turn around and take your medicine.”

  I ignore her.

  “Julia.”

  Her voice has lost its tinkling quality. Her true nature is peeking through the facade. Faker.

  Glancing at her over my shoulder, I see she is wearing a pale pink sweater with a large heart pin on the collar over her nurse scrubs.

  “You shouldn’t wear pastels. They make you look sallow.” I hardly recognize my own voice as I speak. It sounds dry and rough from disuse.

  Seeming to brush off my advice, she says, “Now, Julia, you know today is Valentine’s Day. I can brush your hair and make you look pretty if you like. I’m sure you will have a special visitor later.”

  Instinctively, my hand went to the back of my neck, to feel for the ponytail that is no longer there. They cut off all my hair when I came here. He told them to do it. I’m sure of it.

  Wrapping my arms around my waist, I shake my head no, not wanting to hear again the scratchy squeak my voice has become.

  “Alright then. Take your medicine, and I will leave you alone.”

  I ignore her.

  “Julia. Don’t make me tell Dr. Chaucer you are being troublesome again,” she warned.

  Spinning on my heel, I snatch the small paper cup from her hand, sparing only a glance for the sickly green little pill before swallowing it. Crumpling the cup and tossing it back at her, I stomp back to my corner, hating the slippers on my feet. I miss the sounds my high heels would make on a hard floor. The loud click-clack as each foot struck the tiles with purpose. You didn’t have to speak when you wore heels. People would know if you were preoccupied or mad or in a hurry just by the sound of the click-clack. Click-clack.

  The sallow-faced nurse leaves without another word.

  The next time the door opens, the person doesn’t even bother to knock.

  It’s Dr. Chaucer.

  He thinks I’m mad, but I’m not… I’m smart.

  “Patient 463. Julia Boyd. Admitted December 24, 2018, by her husband, Jack Boyd. Displaying symptoms of psychosis with command hallucinations brought on by extreme stress. She had exhibited no violent outbursts towards herself or others at the time of admission. We have her on a 12.5 mg dose of clozapine twice a day.” Dr. Chaucer drones on as he reads from a small clipboard. He is encircled by three tired looking residents. With hunched shoulders and glazed eyes, they only show signs of life when Dr. Chaucer glances up at them. Fakers.

  Taking off his glasses, Dr. Chaucer tucks them into his white lab coat pocket before asking, “So, Julia. Are you being a good girl today?”

  Except it’s no
t Dr. Chaucer. It’s him. Jack. Smirking at me. He has finally come out of the shadows.

  I lunge for him, my fingers curled into claws.

  As I keep telling you, I’m not mad.

  Only smart people recognize when one person is masquerading as another.

  Besides, it’s not my fault.

  He made me do it!

  “You really outdid yourself with dinner tonight, baby.”

  Jack slides back from the dinner table with a groan, rubbing his stomach as if he had a beer belly. He doesn’t of course. He’s fit and trim and very handsome. It’s not why I married him, but it doesn’t hurt.

  Laughing as I carry the heavy pewter platter with the remnants of our roasted turkey back into the kitchen, I toss out to him over my shoulder, “Glad you liked it. Now you can help clean up.”

  Coming up behind me, he wraps his arms around my waist as he nudges aside my long ponytail to kiss the soft skin behind my ear. I love when he does that.

  “The dishes can wait. Let’s go into the living room and enjoy the tree. If you are a good girl, I’ll let you open another present early,” he said, his voice warm with teasing affection.

  “But the dishes,” I complain half-heartedly. It is our first Christmas together, and I wanted it to be special. I bought every Martha Stewart holiday cookbook I could find. Everything had to be perfect. The turkey. The mashed potatoes. Even the chocolate chip cookies. It had to be perfect. Otherwise everything would be ruined. The voices would sneer that I had failed again. Telling me I didn’t deserve Jack.

  I join him in the living room with two glasses of egg nog. I made it myself, right down to the whipped cream topping.

  Everything has to be perfect.

  Jack patted his lap and I obey, perching prettily on the edge of his knee.

  For a moment, all was quiet and still. I stare at the glinting lights of the tree. I had decorated it in silver and white with hints of gold. I am especially proud of these crystal icicles I found in a tiny antique shop downtown. The sharp, clear crystal reflected the lights and made the whole tree seem to shimmer and dance.

  It was perfect.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Jack took a sip of the egg nog I had prepared. Holding my breath, I wait.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  Rising, I cross to the tree to adjust the ribbon on one of the silver glitter bows.

  Nervously, I wait as he takes another sip.

  Still, he says nothing.

  Trying to keep my voice from sounding shrill, I casually ask, “Do you like the egg nog, dear?”

  There is a long pause. “It’s fine, baby.”

  The tips of my fingers reach toward one of the icicles. The pine branch trembles, making a small silver bell ornament sound off in the silence.

  Biting my lip, the coppery taste of blood mixes with the sickeningly sweet cream of the nog. My stomach pitches. “Just fine?” I ask.

  “It’s fine, baby. I would have used rum to spike it, but whiskey is good too.”

  So, it wasn’t perfect.

  Jack picks up the new hunting knife I had just given him, testing the sharp edge and admiring the heavy weight of the animal horn handle. The disgusting egg nog I had ruined sits beside him. Ignored.

  I turn back to the tree. Now I could see the dark spaces where I hadn’t arranged the lights just right. The areas where there was too much silver and not enough gold accents. The crooked, amateur bows. I run a single fingertip down the cool surface of the icicle. Only this was perfect.

  Clear, smooth and bright.

  I pull the ornament off the tree and test the weight in my hand, pressing the pad of my thumb against the sharp point. Watching as my thumb turns purple as it fills with blood and gently swells around the tip.

  “Hey, baby, did you want to watch a Christmas movie?” I love the sound of his voice. It was always dark and low, like he was whispering a secret just for me. I especially love when he calls me baby. I was his. His baby.

  His perfect wife.

  Smiling sweetly, I cross over to him. In the soft candlelight, his eyes are a warm whiskey brown. They were one of the first features I noticed about him.

  Whiskey brown.

  Whiskey.

  Like the whiskey in the egg nog.

  The egg nog I fucked up.

  Ruining our perfect first Christmas.

  Raising my arm, I plunge the crystal icicle into Jack’s right eye. His beautiful whiskey brown eye. My arm shakes with the effort as I push it in deep despite his screams and struggles.

  I don’t even lose my grip when the warm blood begins to pour over my hand.

  I did it perfectly.

  “Take this patient to room 200. I want her in five-point restraints immediately,” yells Dr. Chaucer as the sallow-faced nurse ruthlessly grips me by my upper arm. Kicking and thrashing, I fight with all my might. How dare they lay hands on me in my own bedroom?

  “Leave my house immediately! I’m going to tell my husband!” I rave.

  I claw at the walls as they try to lift me, confused as to why I was feeling hard stone and not the rippled texture of wallpaper.

  I was being dragged over the threshold. Startled, I forget to struggle. My hallway had a thick taupe carpet with framed pictures of our honeymoon in Ireland, not piss-colored walls and dirty linoleum floors.

  Something isn’t right. This isn’t my home.

  I’m not mad.

  I’m smart.

  I’m just a little confused.

  All around me I hear aggressive shouts.

  “Secure her arms.”

  “Careful, she bites.”

  “Julia, stop kicking.”

  “Get the needle.”

  “Jesus Christ, the bitch bit me.”

  Desperately, I search around me. “Jack!” I scream. “Jack! Help me!” I know he will come when I call. He loves me. I’m his baby. He said so. The perfect woman for him.

  The perfect wife.

  “Jack!” There is a sharp pain in my throat as my untried voice struggles to achieve a pitch above the shouts and orders about me. Once again, I reach blindly for the walls, trying to latch on to something, anything.

  Torn paper and lace hearts litter the floor as I rip down the Valentine’s Day decorations around the nurses’ station.

  Fingers dig into my flesh as I am forced to lie on my back. The bare rubber mattress is frigid, the cold cutting through my thin hospital gown. I kick out. Feeling the delicate bones of a nurse’s nose snap beneath my heel. Crimson blood pours from the orifice, soaking into my terry cloth slippers.

  “Fucking crazy bitch,” shouts the nurse as she grips her nose and backs out of the room. The remaining nurses tighten the straps around my middle and wrists. With a sneer, the sallow-faced one forces my legs open, thick canvas straps are wrapped around each ankle before being pulled tight and secured.

  Then I am alone.

  I twist my wrists, testing the restraints. It’s hard to breathe with the band across my chest, holding me down.

  “Jack,” I whisper into the silence. I can see his beady red eyes staring at me from high in the corner by the ceiling.

  He’s watching me.

  Why won’t he help?

  I can hear the door open but cannot lift my body to see who has entered.

  “Someone has been a very bad girl today.”

  It is Dr. Chaucer.

  “Have you forgotten the lesson I taught you just last week?”

  I refuse to answer.

  “Let’s see if I can remind you. First let’s turn off these cameras.”

  He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small remote.

  Jack’s eyes disappear.

  He has abandoned me.

  I turn my head away.

  Dr. Chaucer cannot fool me.

  I’m smart, not mad like his other patients.

  A strong hand grips my jaw and forces me to turn my head back. The moment I see what is in his hand, I start to whimper. Memo
ries flood my head, but I’m confused. These can’t be my memories. This didn’t happen to me. It didn’t. I don’t know this man.

  “Open your mouth.”

  I shake my head no.

  His fingers press against my cheeks. The soft flesh inside splitting on the edges of my teeth.

  My mouth is forced open.

  I can hear the sickening clatter of metal against bone as he pushes a ring gag between my teeth. The tang from the metal invades my mouth. Leather cuts into the sides of my lips, tearing them as he secures the buckle behind my head. I try to speak… to scream… to plead… but it all comes out as a non-sensical gurgle.

  I watch as he undoes his tie. Leaning over my prone body, he wraps the silk around my throat. The silk feels cool at first.

  Then he tightens the slip knot. It pulls at the skin around my throat as it presses against my windpipe.

  “This is just in case my bad little girl needs some encouragement,” he jeers as he reaches for the zipper of his pants.

  I see the bulbous engorged head first. It’s purple with a moist tip. My body tries to recoil in horror, but the restraints and his grip on the silk tie around my throat prevent any movement.

  Memories cross my vision. Flashes of pain. Of humiliation.

  No. This isn’t happening.

  I’m just confused.

  This isn’t happening.

  His disgusting cock is forced between my lips. I cringe at the musky taste as his flesh is pushed deeper into my mouth. My shoulders hunch forward as I dry heave, choking on his shaft.