A Bloom of Darkness

By D. E. La Faye

The Dark Wolf will always find his Light.

 

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Two teenagers find solace in each other from their own visceral grief. Arthur knows who he is, who he's always been, Lucia does not. When she runs from answers to questions she wasn't ready for, she finds nothing but still more heartache. A universe seemingly against her, she continues on, as constant as the lunar cycles. 

 

She is compelled to return home, back to the pain she'd ran from, only to have those unexpected answers finally forced upon her.  

 

Those answers will set her free. And she, too, will remember who she's always been.

 

And who's always been by her side. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. E. La Faye
• Release date: Sep 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223163626

D. E. La Faye

D. E. La Faye is like any writer that daydreams too vividly, gets swept away too easily, and feels too deeply. Writing is her happy place. Here you'll find her daydreams flushed out with ample spice. Her worlds play by her rules, catering to her preferences, principally of strong women, or eventually strong women, who embrace their darkness as well as their libidos. But also of werewolves existing in multiple, brooding forms, time being an illusion that can be molded, true love existing, dragons hoarding more than gold, etc.

Book preview

A Bloom of Darkness

D. E. La Faye

Published by D. E. La Faye, 2023.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

A BLOOM OF DARKNESS

First edition. September 24, 2023.

Copyright © 2023 D. E. La Faye.

Written by D. E. La Faye.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

A Bloom of Darkness

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A Bloom of Darkness

I’ve always had a thing for the Wolf.

My therapist told me it was because I wanted to heal someone who was as broken as I was. That wasn’t the only thing he was wrong about, but it is the one that amuses me the most. I never wanted to heal the wolf. The very notion demonstrates a misunderstanding of the wolf’s appeal.

There was never anything to heal, for him or me.

Such a nice girl, but a bit odd. That was me growing up. Not that I had much say in it. My mother was sick more often in my memories than not. My high school years were filled with fly by studying and picking up whatever shifts I could manage when I wasn’t cleaning her up. I know I sound heartless. I guess I kind of am, after all.

The most vivid memory I have of my mother is of her devastating me at seventeen. I have a brother a couple years my junior, Lucas. One day, with my brother next to me, I asked her why she’d name him Lucas after naming me Lucia. She didn’t hesitate- no pause, no contemplation. Her answer?

I wasted it on you. I liked the name and when he came along, well, he was the one I actually wanted. So I gave it to him. Lucas didn’t say anything, he just looked away from me. That’s how he always dealt with Mom hurting me. Same for Dad, actually. When she aimed for me and hit, she’d leave them alone. I guess that was good enough, reason enough for them to stay out of her way. She had things she wanted to do, and I’d simply gotten in her way with my birth.

Her confession made me hate my name. For the scant few that would care and possibly oblige, I asked them to start calling me Luce instead. I couldn’t bear Lucy but drop pronouncing the ‘y’ and Luce was fine. No one really gave me much guff about it. That’s such an impressionable age, and everyone wanted a nickname. Still, I hated how much her opinion, her lack of even a modicum of care, mattered to me. Words do matter. And hers had destroyed me.

My mother passed away my senior year of high school. In retrospect, her cruelty towards me is probably why I ended up marrying someone just like her. Part of me subconsciously hoped that if I could make him truly love me, that maybe in some small way it would prove that there wasn’t anything wrong with me. That she was wrong. That I was loveable! But it didn’t play out that way. At my best I was never good enough, for either of them. And I did try to give them my best. Some people just can’t bloom.

She died in late September. I went back to school in early October. Even in high school I was never one to develop close friendships. It’s not that I didn’t want them. I did, badly. It was me; I just wasn’t wanted. I’m weird- I get too excited about things, I come off as abrasive if I stand up for myself, I enjoy arguing! At least, I used to. Now it’s all just loud anger that sends me into a spiral.

Everyone was kind enough, in that no one said a damn thing. Some of the teachers apparently didn’t get the memo though. Tsking about me having missed a few weeks of school. It didn’t feel like all that much time to me.

When Mr. Jenson tried to tsk at me for having not been around, Rory Vargr lit into him, hard. Hard enough that he got himself kicked out of AP History. He didn’t care, as long as they didn’t kick him off the wrestling team. Rory’s mom had told me that was the only thing he and his dad really had to talk about. As kind as Rory always was to me, he would never sacrifice that. And I would never let him.

I found him running laps after school that day. Even then, a month outside of eighteen, I had a painfully full bosom and wasn’t about to try and keep up without donning a fairly heavy duty sports bra. He stopped when he saw me, which I knew he’d hear about later. From his coach and/or the other guys. Not that he gave a shit about that.

I wanted to say thank you for earlier. You didn’t have to. I always liked talking with Rory, but it was difficult for me. He’d stare into my eyes, perpetually holding my gaze. Except I could never match it for long and I’d always look away. It made me feel... strange.

Jenson’s a dick. He had it coming, he smirked as I once again looked away from him.

Yeah, but you’re not. And you shouldn’t have. Now you’ll have to take an intro history course and—

Luce, it’s fine! I already have a full ride with a wrestling scholarship. That’s all I ever really cared about with that class.

Rory! I didn’t know that! Congratulations! I quickly hugged him, only realizing a bit too late that he had a fine layer of teenage sweat and musk clinging to him as some of it transferred onto me. After the initial shock I didn’t mind. He felt nice. Any contact felt nice.

I gotta get back to it. Tell me if you need anything or if anyone else gives you a hard time, okay?

Sure. And you let me know if you need anything too, okay?

His father was battling the same kind of cancer that had killed my mother. That sort of thing creates a morbid type of camaraderie. He nodded as he ran off, joining a few of his teammates. They slapped at each other for a moment before dropping it. It was a well-known fact that Rory had a thing for large breasted girls. But I was weird, which was also a very well-known fact. He wasn’t a conscientious kid,