Grave Love

Grave Love A Dark Stalker Romance Audrey Rush Grave Love: A Dark Stalker Romance by Audrey Rush Independently Published Copyright © 2023 Audrey Rush All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected] Cover Design by Kai Paperback ISBN: 9798394784972 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This book is intended for mature audiences only. Any activities represented in this book are fictional fantasies only. Contents Author’s Note 1. Blaze 2. Ren 3. Blaze 4. Ren 5. Ren 6. Ren 7. Ren 8. Blaze 9. Ren 10. Blaze 11. Ren 12. Blaze 13. Ren 14. Ren 15. Blaze 16. Blaze 17. Ren 18. Ren 19. Blaze 20. Blaze 21. Blaze 22. Blaze 23. Ren 24. Blaze 25. Ren 26. Ren 27. Blaze 28. Ren 29. Ren 30. Blaze 31. Blaze 32. Ren 33. Blaze 34. Ren 35. Blaze 36. Ren Epilogue Thank you for reading! Dead Love Blurb Crawl Blurb Hitch Blurb Shattered Blurb Dark Romances By Audrey Rush Acknowledgments About the Author Author’s Note This content notification may contain spoilers. This romance follows a grave-digging serial killer who stalks a depressed crematory operator. As such, this story contains the death industry, mental illness, suicide (ideation, attempts, and flashbacks to a secondary character’s completion), forced incest without permission, necrophilia, abusive caregivers (with extensive flashbacks), blackmail, and murder. Furthermore, the couple indulges in dark games with and without permission. These scenes include fear, spit, blood, water, other copious secretions, asphyxiation, and weapons. It should also be noted that the serial killer sees all people as less than human, including the heroine. At times, he also tries to force himself on other female victims; however, he abandons this goal. There is no cheating. For exact details on the content, please visit the author’s website. This is a dark romance. Reader discretion is advised. Grave Love Chapter 1 Blaze The whisper of a moan escapes down the corridor, sneaking toward me like a spider hiding in the cracks of a wall. I step forward, then ease the door shut behind me, my boots inaudible against the tile. Moonlight creeps in through the curtained windows, illuminating the caskets like they’re trophies on display. Gilded urns. White flowers. Clean tile. As if this is a luxury store, and not a mortuary. Another primal moan. It’s mournful, in a way. The base of my neck tingles. It’s a feminine moan, one that indicates pleasure. I raise my brow, keeping my ear aimed toward the sound, itching for more of it. She—whoever this stranger is—must have a key to the funeral home like I do. A coworker of mine, perhaps. And she’s getting off. This time, the sound is deeper, demanding more. I step in time with her cries. As I draw closer to her, my fingers skim against the wall, and I pretend like I’m touching her bare skin. The storage room’s entrance is open. I stop. One of the refrigeration units is ajar, exposing a naked corpse. A woman. Mid-twenties. Its eyes vacant. Earlier today, this same body was wearing black pants and a stained white shirt. The difference sticks with me; I don’t give a shit about a corpse’s modesty, but the fact that the body is now naked intrigues me. Must have to do with our little trespasser. I glance around. This whole situation has distracted me. Supposedly, the owner leaves the funeral home unguarded after hours, which would have given me a prime opportunity to dispose of bodies here. But that noise—that sorrowful, pleasure-filled noise—grows louder, chaotic in its lack of structure. The compulsion builds in me, parting my lips. The need to know. The impulse to hunt. Who is she? Why is she here? The door of the crematory is left open, the sporadic groans of the conveyor belt adding to the orchestra of desire. The scent of musk and ash fills the air. A body twists on the conveyor belt, writhing like a demon conquering a body, dominating its final host. A canvas bag covers the face, and black hair streams out from under the edges of the haphazard mask. The buttons on the black pants of the twitching body are undone, a hand inside, between the legs. The white shirt crumpled over the stomach, blood dotting the fabric like a constellation of violence. This woman stole the clothes from the corpse back in the refrigeration unit. Her breathing grows frantic. Her writhing unpredictable. She’s a woman possessed. I gleam at her with sudden focus, my pulse increasing. The need for proximity. The desire to know more. I can’t see much of her body; the clothing covers it. Blood swells in my bulge anyway. My hand clutches my length, urging my natural response to cool. This arousal is not about the physical attraction—I can’t even see her face—it’s about her helplessness. She doesn’t know I’m standing right above her. I finger the switchblade in my pocket, licking my lips as the blade clicks open. She practically screams in lust this time, so unaware of the knife. Her body bucks, her back arching, the shirt stretched across her frame. My bulge twitches, and I lean down, holding the knife an inch above her neck, so close it’s practically breathing on her skin. All it would take is a slice across her throat, and she’d be humiliated in her final moments, left pleasureless and alone. Anyone who found her would think that it was a political statement—finding a disheveled corpse with bodily secretions strewn across a funeral home—but I would know the truth. She did this to herself. The stranger jerks in bliss, reaching that ultimate peak, and I pull back instinctively. I angle my head to the side, my tongue skating over my teeth. She’s not my usual type. Skin tinted with golden-yellow hues.