Renna Rose Lancaster never searched for love.
She stumbled into it long before she was old enough to know what to call it.
It lived inside flower crowns that barely survived a minute on his head. Pebbles he slipped into her pockets because every tre...
"I want to hold your hand on a cold night and wake up to your face on a Saturday morning.
I want to travel the vast expanse of your mind and scare the evil sprits and bad thoughts away.
I want to fall asleep to the pure sound of your heartbeat and taste the tantalizing feel of your skin.
I want to wrap my arms tight around you and never let you go.
I want to fall asleep to the sound of your voice and wake up to the beauty of your smile.
I want to kiss you from head to toe and drown in your carefree laugh.
I want you, in your entirety, and I want to love you endlessly."
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Scotland frightened me with how alive its weather felt.
Rain here did not simply fall.
It watched.
It lingered.
It swallowed entire landscapes whole until the world looked ancient and haunted and unbearably lonely.
It washed over graveyards where marble saints stood with broken noses. It soaked train platforms carrying the smell of wool coats, cigarette smoke, and people leaving each other behind. It slid down rusted iron gates guarding old estates where women in expensive black dresses buried husbands they never truly loved.
And somehow, sometime between the thunder and the dark and the way Aadam had taken me apart piece by piece beneath him, the rain had witnessed me becoming someone entirely different from the girl who walked into this cabin.
I gazed at the storm through half-lidded eyes, too exhausted to properly move beneath the weight wrapped around me.
Water streaked across the window in trembling rivers while my body replayed the entire night against my will. The thunder had softened now into something distant and mournful, but inside me everything still felt vehemently awake.
So this is what those books meant.
When I was younger, I used to read erotica beneath blankets while rain tapped softly against cathedral-sized windows. Those books always described losing your virtue like some catastrophic event.
Life-changing.
Soul-altering.
I used to think writers exaggerated everything because they were lonely and probably mildly insane. But I grew older and realised what my life was actually supposed to become.
A husband chosen from another suffocatingly wealthy family.
A marriage built on social standing and orthodox respectability.
