The Finish Line (The Ravenhood #3) - Kate Stewart Page 0,2

purpose, my meaning, and my fucking mind.

Over half of those years I spent without her were due to fear, guilt, and self-condemnation.

Today, I come to her a changed man because of the years we lost and because of the years that brought us here. She may not have believed my lies, but I always believed her truths, in her love, in the surety of her heart.

Because she saved me.

Earning her and her heart has been my greatest accomplishment, making it my most prized possession.

A treasure any worthy thief will try to steal.

A treasure many have tried to take and failed. Because I made fucking sure of it. Before, I would never have gloated about such a feat of winning her because of the cost. Before, the guilt made it impossible to make such declarations.

Before…was too fucking painful.

I was selfish then, as I am now with her, without much apology, because the need outweighs the guilt—mostly.

After forty-three years of life, I’m positive she’s the only thing I can’t live without.

And for the next forty-three, I will never love another.

She’s loved many. That’s the nature of who she is. It’s what shaped her, but I’ve been greedy with my heart, and it has one sole owner. Nothing has, or could ever, compare to what she stirs inside of me.

My selfishness, my ambitions, my jealousy, and greed almost cost me my future, cost me her.

Since she accepted me back, I’ve spent every single minute of our time together paying penance while biding my time for this day.

Sentence served.

My time is up, and I’m officially a free man.

Which is exactly why I have to find her. Right. Fucking. Now.

Napalm desire, along with the ache in my chest, has me hastening toward her as Beau struts next to me, determined to be the first to seek her affection.

“Fuck off, mutt, she’s mine for the rest of the night.”

Beau continues to prance next to me, ignoring my order. It took over a month to ship him here and another six weeks in quarantine to get him to the house. Now it seems he’s already staked his claim as the head of it.

“Go. Now. Or I’ll never cook you another steak.”

His ears perk as if aware of the implication of my threat, and he stops when I do, circling at my feet. Snapping my fingers, he returns my gaze, unphased, before he struts off.

Fucker.

When I reach my destination, I find her exactly where I thought she’d be, perched on the balcony, her long, breeze-blown hair tangling around her face. Her hands lay flat on the thick clay ledge as she gazes out at the sparkling sea. She’s dressed in white, the silky material dipping low in a V on her back, exposing every inch of her spine. Her skin golden from the sun, but it’s the sight of the delicate wings along her shoulders that gets me hard. My thirsty eyes drink her in with a mix of desire and relief.

Getting her here was the final step of countless many.

I wait for her to recognize I’m near, and within a second of me standing at the door, I see her tense in awareness. Furious, watery, dark-blue eyes find mine as I take her in, emotion clogging my throat.

We’ve come so far since that day in the parking lot in Virginia, where all I had, literally, was the shirt on my back, an apology that would never be enough, and the fight she stirred within me to win her, to keep her, to reclaim what I stole all those years ago.

And we’ve come so far.

So. Fucking. Far.

From then to now seems like a lifetime ago.

In a sense, I’ve been waiting…but as of this moment, it’s over.

In a matter of seconds, I will have done everything I set out to do. But it’s the first day of my sentence that comes to mind when I breach the doorway and charge toward her. In the flash of the seconds it takes to reach her, I re-live it all.

“I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.”—Edgar Allan Poe

Age Thirty-Seven

Hell, day one.

The sudden weight on my chest jolts me into consciousness a second before hot, putrid breath hits my face. Opening my eyes, I’m met by the unmistakable shadow of a four-legged fucking devil.

The rabid dog stands proudly on my chest as snarl-induced saliva smacks me on the chin and his phlegmy sounding bark rings in my ears.

“Psychopathe.” Psychopath. I grumble, batting away the crazed French bulldog,