One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(89)

“After they died, I knew she knew what happened and that Roman had something to do with it. I was angry.”

“Delphine, what did you do?”

“Cecelia was an infant,” she whispers as if her timbre will have any bearing on the delivery. “I got really drunk and broke into her mother’s house.”

“And?”

“I put a loaded gun in Cecelia’s crib,” she grimaces, “while she was sleeping in it.”

“Jesus Christ, Tatie.”

“I wanted to send a message to Roman that we knew that fire wasn’t an accident.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” she assures. “I left the safety on.”

“Oh, well, that changes everything.” Fury seeps into me as I pull the keys from my jeans pocket when lightning flickers just outside the living room window.

“Dominic,” Delphine calls behind me, but I ignore her, my chest thundering as the rain begins to pour off her roof. Whatever confessions Delphine has left, I decide she can take them to her grave or find a priest to confess to. The image of Cecelia with a loaded gun at her head sends a shiver through me, making me physically ill as I pound down the steps and start my Camaro. Tearing out of the drive, the need to come clean surges through me as I race toward the townhouse—toward her. As much as I fucking hate Roman, as it turns out, my own family is just as guilty of the same malicious intent concerning her. It strikes me on the drive that no matter who guards them, secrets—especially those that are most fatal—have a way of poisoning those who keep them, as well as those on the receiving end of discovering them. When it comes to my tie to Cecelia, we were damned before we met—through no fault of our own—and in discovering each other, we’re both slowly being poisoned.




Pulling into the drive, relief covers me at the sight of Cecelia’s car. Thunder rolls as I exit, and get drenched in the seconds it takes to get to the door. Cracking it open, I see Cecelia bundled on the loveseat facing the sliding door, earbuds in as she reads along with the audio on her Kindle. Closing the door with a soft click, I creep in, ducking behind the couch when she senses she’s not alone. Waiting until she’s comfortably reading again, I pounce from behind, soaking her with my dripping hair as I grip her and pull her over the back of the couch.

“Dom,” she shrieks, palming and pushing against my soaked T-shirt as I shake my head, shedding water and soaking her in the process. Twisting her to face me, I scoop her into my hold before resting her ass on the edge of the couch.

“You’re terrible,” she laughs as she sinks into me, and I shut up the rest of her protests with my kiss. When I break it, I pull back to admire the heat in her eyes, lids hooding, breaths coming fast, a slow smile spreading across her face with her greeting. “Hi.”

Her legs tighten securely around me as I lift her up and walk us toward the stairs.

“God, you’re soaked. Let’s get you dry,” she says, squirming in my hold.

“Let’s get you wet,” I counter.

When she bites her lip, the divot in her chin brings my cock full mast.

“How was work?” she asks.

“Work.”

She rolls her eyes. “How are you?”

“Still me,” I jest.

“Motherfucker.”

“Only the once,” I taunt.

Her body tenses. “I didn’t need to know that.”

I widen my eyes. “But you seem to need to know everything else.”

She sobers and takes offense. “You really just want me pliable and mute?”

I press my lips together as she slaps my chest playfully and tries to pry herself away when we reach the top of the stairs. “Such an asshole.”

“Told you I was.”

“You can tell me many things, but you’ll never convince me of that, sir. Not that way.”

“You should believe me,” I warn.

“Stop trying to scare me away from you, Dom. I’m not going anywhere.”

I set her on her feet as she surveys my room. “So, what’s it going to be tonight? We could read . . . I could make you dinner or breakfast? How about runny eggs and a movie?”

I nod.

An hour later, we’re stretched out beneath our freshly laundered blanket—inhaling the fresh scent I can’t place. I glance around the townhouse. It’s just the two of us, with Sean working his night shift at the plant and Tyler unaccounted for—as he has been the last week—spending both his days and nights elsewhere. I suspect that if I drive back to Delphine’s, I’d find his truck in the driveway, but I don’t bother trying to draw that out of him.

I’ll make peace with Delphine for her confession at some point, but that’s not happening tonight, as the same surge of protectiveness sweeps me. Swallowing, I fixate on Cecelia as she watches the movie, completely rapt, hand still in the popcorn bowl. Grabbing her hand, I lift it and suck the remnants of the cheddar from her fingers. She turns my way briefly, and I release her, feigning interest in the story playing out on screen. When she turns back to the TV, I keep her hand in mine, running my thumb along the back of her delicate hand before splaying my palm next to hers. Mine rough and calloused, hers smooth against it. My digits thick in comparison to her slim, delicate fingers. Mine covered in blood and wrath, while hers remain unsoiled.