Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection.
But Renna knows her life is nothing but a golden prison coated in pretty lies that keep her muted and small.
Her day...
"I want you inside my mind, smothering my thoughts, and indulging in my dreams.
I want you inside my heart, dancing within my ventricles, and flowing through my affections.
I want you in places the most gifted surgeons would never gamble to dissect.
And
I want you, All over me, All the time."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The café door slammed shut behind me like it had been waiting all morning for the honour. One sharp crack of sound and suddenly the world inside was gone. The burnt coffee, the wet wool, the syrupy sympathy dripping from every table. Her voice too. High and trembling and rehearsed, like she'd practiced the breakdown in front of a mirror and decided this was the most effective pitch.
Outside was Glasgow in February. Wet. Mean. Unapologetic.
The wind cut straight through my jacket like it knew exactly where to aim. It bit my wrists, slid down the back of my neck, lodged itself in my bones. This city never eased you into anything. It shoved. I respected that. At least the cold didn't pretend it gave a shit.
And of course, waiting right where I knew he'd be was Cameron Alasdair Eriksen.
He was leaned against the bike, my bike, like possession was a state of mind and not a legal concept. One boot crossed over the other, posture relaxed in that carefully cultivated way that took years of arrogance to perfect. Gum worked lazily in his mouth. Click. Pause. Click again.
Six foot one of smug Scottish arsehole waiting to run commentary on the worst two years of my life.
"There he is," Cameron said, eyes lighting up the second he clocked me. "Took your time. Thought she'd glued you to the chair with her tears."
I stopped in front of him, hands buried in my jacket, shoulders hunched against the wind. My breath fogged the air between us, hung there like something I hadn't decided whether to say yet.
"It's over," I said.
He tilted his head, studying me the way you look at a cracked mirror. "Over as in over, or over as in you'll be crawling back before midnight with apologies and poor life choices?"
"Over means over," I repeated.
He chewed that over. Literally. Gum snapped loud in the cold. "You're saying that like you mean it."
