Rain.
The cab screeches to a halt, and I barely wait for the engine to cut out before shoving the fare at the driver and stumbling out.
My dress is crumpled, my body feels like a lightning rod, scorched by Rhysand, yet vibrating with the need to face Colt.
I fumble the key into the lock, the adrenaline from the car crash s*x still thrumming beneath my skin. I throw the door open and freeze.
Colt is here. But he is not the smug, groom I expect. He is crumpled on my living room sofa, his tailor-made suit jacket tossed carelessly on the floor.
His head is buried in his hands, and the ragged, broken sound filling the room is unmistakable.
He’s crying.
My heart, that foolish, fragile organ, clenches so tightly it steals my breath.
“Colt. What is it?” I rush forward, forgetting the car
