One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince (Ravenhood Legacy, #1)

by Kate Stewart

Despite what some say, not all birds are attracted to shiny, spinning things.

She’s a rare type of flame far too close to my fuse

With just a kiss, this bird totally fell under the spell of the shiny, spinning thing.

I speed forward in the opposite direction of the sun as I attempt to race away from the fact that the best I’ve ever fucking felt in the whole of my existence was when I was moving inside Cecelia Horner.

That a woman’s affection and loyalty should be freely given, never demanded.

As allergic as I am to the feeling circus, even I know women crave some show of possessiveness, even if I agree they should be given the choice.

“Eggs—runny, coffee—black, beer—cold, music—loud, cars,” I floor the gas. She laughs out the rest. “Fast.” “Woman,” I trail my eyes down her frame and feel her soften next to me due to the sentiment.

My rainy days are yours, Dominic. If you want them.”

“Then we have the lips . . . but there are more than one set,” I whisper, “actually, there’s three. The ones you gloss, and the others,” I smirk up at her, “I gloss.”

It is such a mysterious place, the land of tears.—Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“I see your heart, Dom, I see it—and it’s beautiful.”

“It is much more difficult to judge oneself than to judge others. If you succeed in judging yourself rightly, then you are indeed a man of true wisdom.”—Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I’ve bore witness to two prime examples that there are good men left in the world. Loyal men. Faithful men. Though thieves they may be because they’ve stolen my heart.—Cecelia, Flock

Rain ticks against the window as I tip over, losing myself in rapture for the last time. It’s only when I’m forced to come up for air that I lift to hover. Keeping my hand beneath her head, her thigh firmly at my waist, she stares back at me, caressing my bicep. Wordlessly, I roll my hips, chest detonating with tiny explosions as she gasps my name. It’s the first time I’ve ever wanted to rip my condom off and fuck a woman bare. Even though I keep it on, I know I’m as close as I’m ever going to get.

I know I’m in love with him. I just don’t know how much of him I know.—Cecelia, Flock

As the pain of that statement singes me, I feel sorry for the bastard that will deserve and eventually claim her for good. She’s going to give him hell. In the next second, I fucking hate him because it’s not me, and maybe I’ll never be worthy of being in the running with the way I’ve deceived her.

Showing her how being with her revives me and that every day we’re together, she brings me back from the brink, collecting pieces of humanity and empathy I felt I lost. That she alone is the pinprick of light that brings me back when I get lost in the dark. That she’s the only being alive that has ever been able to make me feel so much at once.

But looking at her now, I can’t remember why I’m not allowed to love her. I can’t think of a single fucking reason why I shouldn’t have her or silence the words. She’s not her father. I’m not my brother.

Looking into her eyes, I vow she’ll never know about the monsters she can’t see because I’ll slay them all before they have a chance to get to her. Even if that monster is me.

“It’s okay, Cecelia. I’m as close to happy as a man like me deserves.”

Trying to reason with love is fucking pointless. It doesn’t care about your reasons, right or wrong. Love has no regard for circumstance, nor does it give a fuck what state it puts you in. It’s a relentless and unforgiving emotion that will never let you lie to yourself.—Tobias, The Finish Line

She sought me out, fed my starving heart, and resurrected it. She dragged the weakening organ out, kicking and screaming . . . but it’s out, and it steadily beats for her.

Hell’s true definition is living out the wrong decision.

. . you two idiots parading around like men, like soldiers, when you don’t know a fucking thing about sacrifice. And with her, you sacrificed nothing! Not a fucking thing! Until you know what that is, you aren’t capable of being the man she needs . . . and you know all too fucking well that you lost her the minute you shared her.” That blow was for Sean, and I knew he felt it before Tobias fixed his gaze on me. “And chose this life over her.”

I lost the best thing that ever happened to me because of that failure while discovering one of the most damning truths about the four-letter curse—about love, which is that you don’t know how significant or powerful it is until you lose it.

Falling for her was worth hitting bottom—and every single ache that comes with it.

“After this, want to watch a movie?” Ignoring any outside noise beyond our exchange, I tell her of the memory that kept me going in France. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Of a time I felt complete and whole. “You can make that cheddar popcorn I love, and we can crowd under that blanket that smells like . . . what’s that smell?” “Lavender,” she releases in a shaky rush. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Of a life we might have had . . . if I didn’t have so many fucking monsters to slay. “Yeah, and I’ll watch a chick movie because all I really want to do is watch you watch it. Your face gets all dopey when you get love drunk.” Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. “We love rainy days, don’t we, baby?” “We do,” she croaks, voice breaking.

All this time, I’ve been waiting to pull the trigger when I am the fucking trigger.