One Last Rainy Day (Ravenhood Legacy #1)

by Kate Stewart

Her beauty is fucking tragic.

The truth is, he’s an empath to his core. His kryptonite is that he feels every part of what just happened .

“Elle est trop belle. Trop intelligente. Mais trop jeune. Cette fille sera ta perte . . .” She is too beautiful. Too smart. But too young. This girl will be your undoing .

Whoosh. Whoosh.

No longer feeling like I was watching just outside my own life but participating in it. I was capable of taste again and savored hers. Touch turned into worship. With every deep thrust inside her, the burdens weighing me down were forgotten.

totally lost myself in her, and every second of it only ramped up the one before.

“Eggs—runny, coffee—black, beer—cold, music—loud, cars.” I floor the gas. She laughs out the rest. “Fast.”

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

She didn’t run.

This. Fucking. Girl.

she’s the picture of serenity. So. Goddamn. Beautiful.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, Cecelia, especially when you come apart for me.”

I. Will. Not. Be. Domesticated.

I’ve been domesticated.

Because I want to know. Everything.

Pressing and keeping my lips to her forehead, I inhale her scent and let myself fall into the idea of us and linger there—knowing that eventually, I’ll be jerked away by the hard, unforgivable reality waiting for me when I hit the ground.

“Happy Birthday, motherfucker, and good morning.”

This. Damned. Girl.

No woman has ever held so much ammunition against me with a single look.

“I know his worth.”

A day when my resentment was fully ripped away, and all I could see was Cecelia for who she really is—the way I see her now, as a young tender with a heart full of affection and a soul spun from gold. As dramatic as that assessment feels—it’s spot fucking on. She’s a living, breathing reminder for me that there is good left in the world.

The safest thing she could do is say no and get as far away from us as possible. If I wasn’t so fucking selfish, that’s what I would tell her. What I should tell her.

“It’s like the very first time you take off in a plane . . . you’re speeding down the runway, exhilarated when you’re caught by air, and ascending. Minutes later, you’re so stunned you’re flying through the clouds, taking part in an experience so incredible it’s almost impossible to believe. As that initial buzz runs through you, you stare out the window and get your first good look at the landscape, only to see it’s littered with lines that act as borders. So, you start reasoning with yourself that land itself is owned and measured, but you never once expected to see it and how unnatural it looks. The view of the lines kills the vibe entirely, the impact so jarring it destroys the idea of flying for you.”

My shoulders relax slightly as I circle her waist, my heart still pounding with the truth—there was never really a fucking decision. There was only giving into the one I’d already made.

There’s indescribable freedom in falling.

This is love, and I’m dangerously consumed by it.

It makes sense to me now why twin flames are a love addict’s choice, and since we’ve been together, she’s drawn an addiction I didn’t know I had out of me.

This woman has completely consumed me in every way that matters, and she needs to know.

A vow without words but a promise just the same. A promise I’ll do everything in my power to keep. 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.

“If she ever fucking forgives us, let’s fucking marry her.”

“She’s worth it.”

Another rainy day. Without her.

No comfort in a sound like the scratch and flip of a new page. No cloud to immerse in—limbs tangled in damp skin, hair tickling my nose, fingernails raking my chest, and soothing murmured words. He’s never had the escape of getting lost in love’s deep blues, in sinful lips, in a scent so addictive, it immediately gets him hard, or the gift of how breathy moans that reek of praise make a man feel invincible. If he only knew what it felt like to be looked at the way she fucking looks at me. Her dark-blue eyes searing through flesh and bone as if she could see every part inside and appreciate each one—no matter how well some of it works and some doesn’t. Of having a woman who fucking understands him and refuses to let him back down from who he truly is, of freeing him.

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.

Lightning flickers through the shadows, and I rip my earbuds out, listening for the thunder. It inevitably sounds a few beats later, rumbling throughout the room as the faint stream of David Bowie playing between my fingers reminds me of a time I lay beneath a starlight sky with the woman haunting me.

“I fell in love, and it’s not a fucking crime, and you of all people know it’s nondiscriminatory about the fucking who . . . how is she?”

“I’m the man who would step in front of a bullet for either one of you, no questions asked, but I’m also the man who held your fucking hands before I shaped them into fists. I’m the same man—up until I met her—who put you both above everyone else. But right now, who am I right now? I’m the man who loves her enough to not let anyone or anything in front of her.”

“You gutted me, baby,” I croak in confession as my chest caves. “But I can’t say I don’t deserve it . . .” I falter, grunting through the pain consuming me. “You thrive on love, and I . . . we fucking starved your heart . . . we just left you here.” Crushed by the weight of that truth, I lift her hand and thread my fingers through hers. “We both know I didn’t deserve you . . . but you made me feel like I did . . . even if I wouldn’t fucking hold your hand,” I admit. “I was going to,” I sniff. “I was going to try to be that guy. I was that guy. I just . . .” I slide my thumb along hers, the burn unbearable. “I would give fucking anything for one more day. Just one.”

No more escape. No more fire and water to drown out the noise. No more flame. No more rain. No longer mine.

Cracking wide, I bend over her, pressing my forehead to hers, “I’m sorry.” Feeling the shatter of finality, I press a salty, damp kiss to her temple, my whisper for her ear, my last confession, far, far too late. “I love you too, Cecelia.” No more rain.

“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.

“S’il te plaît, ne fais rien de stupide. Je t’aime.” Please don’t do anything stupid. I love you. “Je sais.” I know.

“Nous savions tous les deux que je n’allais jamais voir mes trente ans, mon frère. Prends soin d’elle.” We both knew I was never going to make it to thirty, brother. Take care of her.