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 have kissed the moon that sleeps in your chest, I have kissed the sea that swells with your desire. I have found the rhythm of your heartbeat, I have woven your breath into my skin, And now, my body is not mine, But yours-forever bound to the soul you carry."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The breeze was relentless, snatching the hem of my impossibly short skirt, whipping it upward. I slammed my palm down against my thigh just in time, pinning the cotton to my skin before I flashed the whole damn boulevard.
Across the road, a little girl—bundled into a rose coat so puffy she looked like a walking marshmallow—was recklessly chasing a flock of pigeons. Her tiny wellies tangled up, sending her face-first onto the concrete with a dull thud. Her mother didn't even pause to panic. She just scooped the kid right up, buried a kiss into her red nose, and the girl instantly exploded into fitful giggles.
How do people even create something that perfect? Did her mother look at her father with the exact same terrifying obsession I feel when I look at Aadam? Is that how you make something so precious?
Unconsciously, my hand drifted down, fingers floating an inch over the barely-there swell of my lower stomach. The sheer gravity of what was happening underneath my skin slammed into my chest like a physical blow. I yanked my hands away as if I'd been burned, lacing my fingers together so hard my knuckles turned a chalky, bloodless white. I forced myself to stop feeling it. Forced myself to pretend there wasn't a heartbeat inside mine.
But, I want this. God help me, I want it so fucking bad. I want the ruined sleep and the wrecked body. I want that tiny, impossibly warm weight pressed against my collarbone. I want to sit in the dark at three in the morning, humming some dumb, broken lullaby until we both pass out.
My stomach twisted into a tight, panicky knot. I clamped my teeth down on the inside of my lip, wrapping my arms tightly around my ribs to keep from falling apart right there on the sidewalk.
"You're wearing your 'I'm about to murder a man' face."
A voice cracked through my thoughts like syrup over ice.
I jolted, snapping my head away from the mother and child across the road.
Aadam was standing right over me. He looked intimidating in his dark jacket, his eyes searching my face like he already knew I was hanging on by a thread. In his right hand, he was clutching a haphazard of wild blossoms—no wrapping paper, untrimmed stems, looking like he'd ripped them out of a flowerbed with his bare hands. In his left, he held a brown paper bag.
"You've been staring into space for three straight minutes," he said, shoving the unkempt bundle into my arms.
"Are these for me?" I mumbled, pressing the bouquet to my chest.
He gave me a flat, utterly unimpressed look. "No. They're for the next girl I drag back to my bed. Of course they're for you, doll."
He held up the paper bag, the rich scent of caramelised butter and fresh berries wafting out into the chilly air.
