Flock

Book 0: Ravenhood

by Kate Stewart

Genres: Religious & Inspirational; Billionaires Romance

Synopsis

An AMAZON TOP 60 BESTSELLER! Can you keep a secret? ⁣ I grew up sick.⁣ ⁣ Let me clarify.⁣ ⁣ I grew up believing that real love stories include a martyr or demand great sacrifice to be worthy.⁣ ⁣ Because of that, I believed it, because I made myself believe it, and I bred the most masochistic of romantic hearts, which resulted in my illness.⁣ ⁣ When I lived this story, my own twisted fairy tale, it was unbeknownst to me at the time because I was young and naïve. I gave into temptation and fed the beating beast, which grew thirstier with every slash, every strike, every blow.⁣ ⁣ Triple Falls wasn’t at all what it seemed, nor were the men that swept me under their wing. But in order to keep them, I had to be in on their secrets.⁣ ⁣ Secrets that cost us everything to keep.⁣ ⁣ That’s the novelty of fiction versus reality. You can’t re-live your own love story, because by the time you’ve realized you’re living it, it’s over. At least that was the case for me and the men I trusted my foolish heart to.⁣ ⁣ Looking back, I’m convinced I willed my story into existence due to my illness.⁣ ⁣ And all were punished. Both books in The Ravenhood Duet are now available and must be read in order. Duet Reading Order Book #1 Flock Book #2 Exodus This is an angsty, unconventional love story with high steam, loaded with suspense, a little action, and ALL OF THE FEELS!

Release date: July 27, 2020

Publisher: KLS PRESS LLC

Print pages: 366

Sample

I grew up sick.

Let me clarify. I grew up believing that real love stories include a martyr or demand great sacrifice to be worthy.

My favorite books, love songs, movies, the ones that resonated with me, have kept me grieving long after I turned the last page, the notes faded out, or the credits rolled.

Because of that, I believed it, because I made myself believe it, and I bred the most masochistic of romantic hearts, which resulted in my illness.

When I lived this story, my own twisted fairy tale, it was unbeknownst to me at the time because I was young and naïve. I gave into temptation and fed that beating beast, which grew thirstier with every slash, every strike, every blow.

That’s the novelty of fiction versus reality. You can’t re-live your own love story because, by the time you’ve realized you’re living it, it’s over. At least that was the case for me.

All these years later, I’m convinced I willed my story into existence due to my illness.

And all were punished.

That’s why I’m here, to feed, to grieve, and maybe to cure my sickness. It’s here that it started and it’s here where I have to end it.

It’s a ghost town, this place that haunts me, this place that made me. A few weeks shy of my nineteenth birthday, my mother had sent me to take up residence with my father, a man I’d previously only spent a few summers with when I was much younger. Upon my arrival, I’d quickly learned that his stance hadn’t changed on his biological obligation, and he doled out the same rules as he had when I was small—to rarely be seen and never heard. I was to uphold myself to the strictest of morals and excel in school while executing his standard of living.

In the months that followed, a prisoner of his kingdom, I naturally did the opposite, ruining myself, and further tarnishing his name.

Back then, I had zero regrets, at least when it came to my father until I was forced to deal with the aftermath.

Now, at twenty-six, I’m still living in it.

It’s clear to me that I’ll never outgrow Triple Falls or outlive the time I spent there. After years of fighting it, this is the conclusion I’ve drawn. I’m a different person now, but I was before I left too. When everything happened, I was determined I’d never return. But the infuriating truth I’ve discovered is that I’ll never be able to move on. It’s the reason I’m back. To make peace with my fate.

I can no longer disregard the greedy demand of the vessel beating in my chest or the nagging of my subconscious. I’ll never be a woman capable of letting go, of leaving the past where it belongs, no matter how much I want to.

Navigating my way through the winding roads, I roll down my window, welcoming the cold. I need to numb. Since I hit the highway, my mind has been reeling with memories I’ve desperately tried to suppress during the waking hours since I fled.

It’s my dreams that refuse to set me free, my dreams that keep the war raging in my head, the loss shredding my heart, forcing me to re-live the hardest parts, over and over in an agonizing loop.

For years, I’ve tried to convince myself that life exists after love.

And maybe it does, for others, but life hasn’t been so kind to me.

I’m done pretending I didn’t leave the largest part of me between these hills and valleys, between the sea of trees that hold my secrets.

Even with the cold whip of the wind on my face, I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. I can still sense his frame blocking out the light, feel the prickling of surety the first time he touched me, and the goosebumps that touch left in his wake.

I can still feel them all, my boys of summer.

All of us are to blame for what happened—all of us serving our sentences. We were careless and reckless, thinking our youth made us indestructible, exempt from our sins, and it cost us.

Snow drifts toward my windshield in a lazy fall, dusting the trees and covering the surrounding ground as I exit the highway. The crunch of my tires in the gravel has my heart pounding in my throat as my hands start to shake. I sweep the endless evergreens lining the road while trying to convince myself that facing my past head-on is the first step in confronting what’s plagued me for years. All I have left is dwelling within the prison I’ve built. It’s the truth I’m determined to face that’s the most definite, the most crippling.

Most consider knowing all-consuming love a blessing, but I consider it a curse. A curse I’ll never be able to lift. I’ll never know love again as I did here all those years ago. And I don’t want to. I can’t. I’m still sick with it.

There is no question in my mind that for me, it was love.

What other pull could be so strong? What other feeling could addict me to the point of insanity? Of doing the things I did, and living with these memories within this ghost story.

Even when I’d sensed the danger, I gave in.

I didn’t heed a single warning. I went in a willing captive. I let love rule and ruin me. I played my part, eyes wide open, tempting fate until it delivered.

There was never going to be an escape.

Stopped at the first light at the edge of town, I press my head against the steering wheel and inhale calming breaths, hating the fact that I’m still so powerless to the emotions this trip has stirred within me, even as the woman I’ve become.

Exhaling, I glance back at the bag that I tossed in the backseat after my decision mere hours ago. I thumb my engagement ring, rotating it on my finger as another stab of guilt runs through me. All hope of the future I spent years building was lost the minute I ended my relationship. He’d refused to take the ring, and I have yet to take it off. It hangs heavy, a lie on my finger. The time I spent here before has caused another casualty, one of many.

I was engaged to a man capable of keeping his vows, a man worthy of commitment, of unconditional love—a loyal man with a steadfast heart and warm spirit. And to him, I’d never been fair. I could never love him in the way a wife should love a husband.

He was a consolation, and accepting his proposal meant settling. One look at his face when I called off our upcoming nuptials let me know I had destroyed him with the truth.

The truth that I belong to another. That whatever remains of my heart, body, and soul belongs to a man who wants nothing to do with me.

It was the agony on my fiancé’s face that aided to my breaking point. He’d given me his love, his devotion, and I’d thrown it away. I’d done to him what was done to me. Disobeying my heart, my master and monster had cost me Collin.

Minutes after I liberated us both, I packed a bag and left in search of more punishment. I drove straight through the night, knowing there was no significance of time, that it doesn’t matter. Nobody is waiting for me.

Well over six years have passed, and I’m back to square one, back to the life I fled, my feelings running rampant as I reason with myself that leaving Collin wasn’t a mistake, but a necessary evil to free him from the lies I told. I’d wronged him making promises I could never keep, and there was no way I was making more, to love and cherish in both sickness and in health because I hadn’t disclosed just how sick I am.

I never told him how I allowed myself to be used, ravaged, and at times debased to the point of depravity . . . and that I’d loved every second of it. I never told my fiancé how I’d bloodlet my heart—starved it—until it had no choice but to beat in a distinct rhythm that only matched the thrum of one other. In doing so, I’d sabotaged my chances of recognizing and accepting the kind of love that heals, rather than hurts. The only love I’ve ever known or craved is the kind that keeps me sick, sick with longing, sick with lust, sick with need, sick with grief. The distorted kind that leaves scars and jaded hearts.

If I can’t grieve enough to cure myself in my time here, I’ll remain sick. That will be my curse.

There may never be a happily ever after for me because I gave my chance away by becoming attuned to the dark parts. Accustomed because of the year I freed my inhibitions, reacting to rejection and pain, and losing all moral sense of myself.

These are things you don’t say aloud. These are the type of confessions women who command respect are never supposed to give voice to. Not ever.

But it’s time to confess, to myself more so than any other, that I’d hindered my chance of a normal and healthy relationship because of the way I was built, and because of the men who built me.

At this point, I just want to make peace with who I am, no matter what ending I get.

The hardest part of all of this isn’t the fiancé whose heart I broke. It’s the knowledge that the one and only man my heart’s ever been faithful to, I will never have.

Trepidation engulfs me as more memories surface. I can still smell him, feel the swell of him inside me, taste the drop of salt in his cum, see the satisfied look in his hooded eyes. I can still feel the unmistakable rush from the looks we shared, hear the rumble of his dark chuckle, feel the wholeness from his touch.

The closer I get, the more memories come crashing over me. My resolve to face what haunts me beginning to break away piece by jagged piece. Because I have some idea of what the true end looks like, and I can’t escape it anymore.

There may be no cure, no moving on, but it’s time to deal with unfinished business.

Let the ghost hunt begin.

Pulling up to the massive iron gates, I punch in the code Roman gave me and gawk as the sprawling estate comes into view when I drive in. Acres and acres of neon grass littered with trees surround the massive house in the distance. The closer I get, the more I feel like a foreigner. To the left of this palace sits a four-car garage—which I forgo—choosing instead to park in the circular drive at the foot of the porch.

Exiting the car, I stretch my legs. The drive wasn’t long, but my limbs grew heavier with every mile as I got closer. Though the house is impressive, it feels more like a prison to me, and today is the first day of my sentence.

Opening the trunk, I gather a few of my bags and head up the steps, scanning the pristine deck. Nothing about this place feels inviting, aside from the land it sits upon, and everything about it reeks of money.

Toeing the door closed behind me, I glance around the foyer where a lone table sits with a large, empty vase that I’m sure costs more than my car. There’s a grand staircase to my right and to my left, a formal dining room. Deciding to skip the self-guided tour, I cradle my phone on my shoulder as I haul my bags up to the second floor. She answers on the second ring.

“Hey girl, I made it.”

“This is bullshit,” Christy greets as I enter my designated “cell” and glance around. Inside sits a stark white four-poster bed my dad has had delivered, along with a matching dresser, chest of drawers and vanity. It’s regal in taste and nothing at all like me, which isn’t surprising. He doesn’t know me.

“It’s just until next fall.”

“That’s a year, Cecelia, a year. We just graduated. This is our last summer before college starts, and your mom decides to take time for herself?”

It’s not the whole truth, but I let Christy believe it for my mother’s sake because I’m still at a loss for how to explain it. The sad truth is, my mother had a breakdown of epic proportions that led to her losing her job and scraping to pay bills she could no longer afford. Her boyfriend offered to let her stay with him—the operative word being her, not her bastard child. My mother and I have always been close, but even I don’t recognize her anymore. Despite my best efforts of being her good girl, she retreated into herself a few months ago, drinking White Russians day and night for weeks until one day she stopped getting out of bed. She’d all but abandoned me in her quest for a daily buzz. Though I’d tried, and desperately pressed for reasoning and answers she wouldn’t give, I didn’t know the first thing about how to help her, so I didn’t give her grief about entertaining my father’s proposed and conditional living arrangements.

Seeing her unravel like that was terrifying, and in her state I didn’t want her going without, especially after all her years of being a single parent. When times became desperate, I asked my father to extend child support—just temporarily—to get her through financially, even though the money he sent monthly and without fail was a drop in the bucket for him—the cost of one of his tailored suits. He refused, and shortly before I graduated, he signed his last check, the act making it seem more like a final paycheck of services rendered, like my mom had been his employee.

In my wildest dreams, I can’t fathom how they ever coupled at any point, or how they could have been the two to conceive me, because these are two people who had no business procreating. They are universal opposites. My mother is—or was until recently—a free spirit with plenty of vices. My father is a conservative with a critical tongue and militant self-discipline. From what I remember, his schedule is like clockwork and rarely changes. He wakes up, works out, eats half a grapefruit, and then goes to work until the sun sinks. His only indulgence when I was younger was a few tumblers of gin after a long day. That’s the whole of the private information I know, due to his discretion. The rest I can look up online. He owns a Fortune 500 company that used to deal in chemicals but now manufactures electronics. His high-rise is a little over an hour away in Charlotte; his primary manufacturing plant here in Triple Falls. I’m certain he built here because it’s where he grew up, and I have zero doubt he revels in rubbing his success in the noses of his former classmates, some of whom now work for him.

I’m to be another one of his employees starting tomorrow. I’m no trust fund baby; at least that was the case in the years I spent with Mom in our rented, run-down house. On my twentieth birthday, I’m to inherit a large amount of stock in the company along with a lump sum, and I know that the timeline is purposeful because he’s never wanted my mother anywhere near his fortune. His grudge for her clear in that sense. Add that to the fact he’s given the bare minimum over the years; keeping Mom in her respective place in his food chain makes it easy to see he has no lingering feelings for her.

For a brief time, I’ve lived on both sides of poverty due to their night-and-day lifestyles, and to spite his wishes, I’ll take the stock and money and go against every one of them. The minute I’m able, my mother will never work again. Any amount of success I have, I’m determined to earn for myself, but the fear of failing along with the possibility that gambling on myself would ultimately cost her is what brought me here. But in order to carry out my plan, I have to play along with his, and that includes being “appreciative and respectful enough to learn the business, even if it’s from the ground level.”

The hardest part of that will be to tame my mouth and silence my resentment, which is front and center since he could have spared us both an awkward year together by simply having a fucking heart when it comes to the woman who has done both their jobs as my parent.

I don’t exactly hate my father, but I don’t understand him or his unapologetic cruelty, and never will. I’m not about to spend the next year trying to figure him out. Any communication on his part has always felt mandatory and rushed. He’s always been a monetary provider, not a dad. I respect his work ethic and success, but have zero understanding as to the whys of his lack of empathy and the chill of his sub-zero personality.

“I’ll come home every chance I can,” I tell Christy, unsure I can make it a promise due to my schedule.

“I’ll come up too.”

Opening the top of my chest of drawers, I toss in a pile of socks and undies, “Let’s see how the Overlord feels about you occupying a guest room before you gas up, okay?”

“I’ll rent a hotel with my mom’s card. Fuck your dad.”

I laugh, and it sounds odd in the massive room. “You really aren’t feeling my parents today.”

“I love your mom, but I don’t get it. Maybe I need to go by and see her.”

“She moved in with Timothy.”

“Really? When?”

“Yesterday. Just give her time to get settled.”

“Okay . . .” she pauses, “why am I just now hearing this? I knew things were getting bad, but what’s really going on?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” I sigh, giving in to the resentment I’m starting to feel. It’s not like me to hide anything from Christy. “She’s going through something. Timothy is a decent guy, and I trust him with her.”

“But he wouldn’t let you move in.”

“To be fair, I’m an adult, and he doesn’t exactly have the space.”

“I still want to know why she’s okay with letting you live with your dad now.”

“I told you, I have to work at the plant for a year to get her set up. I don’t want to worry about her while I’m at school.”

“It’s not your job.”

“I know.”

“You’re not the parent.”

“We both know I am. And we’ll resume our plans the minute I get back.”

It was a surprise to me that my father agreed to let me attend community college here for a couple of semesters, rather than make me take a sabbatical to start a year late at a more acceptable school. It’s his dime, as he’s the sole source of my college fund, so that win during negotiations let me know he wanted his way enough to compromise—a depart­­­ure from his controlling personality.

I glance around the room. “I haven’t spent more than a day with him or summered here since I was eleven.”

“Why is that?”

“It was always something. He claimed it was overseas trips and expansion that kept him from being able to care for me for weeks or months at a time. The truth is, I got my period, boobs, and an attitude, and he couldn’t deal. I don’t think there’s anything Roman fears more than being a real parent.”

“It’s weird you call your dad by his first name.”

“Not to his face. When I’m here, it’s Sir.”

“You never talk about him.”

“Because I don’t know him.”

“So, when do you start your job?”

“My shifts will be from three to eleven, but I’ve got orientation tomorrow.”

“Call me when you get off. I’ll let you unpack.”

It strikes me when we disconnect that I’ll be stuck with the silence in the room, of the house, and utterly alone. Roman didn’t even have the decency to meet me here to get me settled.

“Cee?” Christy’s voice sounds as uncertain as I feel.

“Uh, shit. Okay, I’m feeling it now.”

I open the French doors that lead onto my private balcony and stare down at the pristine grounds. In the distance is nothing but a blanket of the greenest grass cut in a diagonal-shaped pattern. Beyond is a thick forest of trees that surround a cell tower. Closer to the house is a well-kept garden that screams southern opulence. Wisteria covers several trellises that canopy statuesque fountains. Hedges covered in trimmed honeysuckle trickle over sporadic fencing. The scent of several blooms wafts to my nose as the breeze hits me in hushed welcome. Plush seating is placed strategically throughout the manicured garden, which I decide will be my reading nook. The large, sparkling pool looks inviting, especially due to the budding summer heat, but I feel too ill at ease as a new resident of the palace to consider it for personal use.

“God, this is weird.”

“You’ve got this.”

Her nervous tone is unsettling, and we’re both unsure at this point, which instills more fear in me.

“I hope so.”

“A little over a year and you’re home. You’re almost nineteen, Cee—if you hate it, you can leave.”

“True.” It is the truth, but my agreement with Roman is a different story. If I go back on spending my time at the plant, I lose a fortune, a fortune that could erase my mother’s debt and set her up comfortably for the rest of her life. I can’t—won’t—do that to her. She’s worked herself stupid to care for me.

Christy reads my hesitation.

“This isn’t on you. It was her job to raise you, Cee. That’s the obligation of a parent, which you should never feel obligated to repay.”

It’s true and I know it, but as I survey Roman’s lifeless palace, I find myself missing Mom more than ever. Maybe it’s the distancing and treatment from my father that makes me feel such gratitude for her. Either way, I want to care for her.

“I know my mother loves me,” I say more for myself than for Christy. Mom’s withdrawal, from life, from me, after all our years together was a cruel and confusing surprise.

“Well, I for one wouldn’t blame you if you liberated yourself. I love your mom and all, but they both seem worthless at this point.”

“Roman is tolerable, strict, but we managed a few summers. Well, we managed to avoid each other for a few summers. I’m not looking to bond, just survive. This place feels . . . cold.”

“You’ve never been there?”

“No, not this house. He didn’t build it until after I stopped coming for the summers. I think he lives mostly out of his condo in Charlotte.” Across from my bedroom door a few feet away sits another. I open it, relieved to see it’s a guest room. To my left at the top of the stairs is a mezzanine overlooking the foyer on the bottom floor, leading to a long corridor with more closed doors. “It’s going to be like living in a museum.”

“I hate this.” She lets out a sigh, which is more like a whine, and I can feel her bitterness. We’ve been friends since middle school and haven’t been separated a day since we met. I don’t know how to do life without her, and quite frankly, I don’t want to. But for my mom’s well-being, I will. A little over a year in a sleepy town nestled in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains and I’m free. I can only hope the time flies.

“Just find yourself a distraction. Preferably one with a penis.”

“That’s your solution?” I make my way back into my bedroom and out onto the balcony.

“You would know if you would give just one the time of day.”

“I have, and you saw how that worked out.”

“Those were boys—find a man. Just wait, girl. You’re going to tear that town up when they get a look at you.”

“I couldn’t give a shit right now,” I stare at the spectacular mountain view just beyond the private forest. “I’m officially living on the opposite side of the coin. This is so weird.”

“I can only imagine. Chin up. Call me after orientation tomorrow.”

“’K.”

“Love you.”

Cursing like a sailor, I park in the last row at the plant and quickly make my way through a sea of cars into the lobby. The last thing I need is a lecture on timeliness after a stale and uneventful dinner with my father last night. That hour or so I was forced to spend under eagle-eyed scrutiny was enough to make me thankful for my new schedule, which will have me working most nights.

The warmth of the sun disappears the second I pull open the glass doors. The building itself feels ancient. Though polished, the tiled floors are cracking and peeling after decades of use. There’s a large potted fern in the middle of the lobby that gives a pretense of life somewhere inside, but upon closer inspection, I realize it’s fake and littered with cobwebs. A lone security guard who looks past his prime stands idly by as an older, well-dressed woman with shrewd grey eyes greets me from behind a front desk.

“Hello, I’m Cecelia Horner. I’m here for orientation.”

“I’m aware, Ms. Horner, last door on the left,” she replies, her eyes assessing my dress as she directs me to a long corridor. Dismissed, I take the steps, pass a few vacant offices and, just in time, slip past a woman holding the door for the last of the newcomers. She greets me with a warm smile—the only warmth in the building apparently—as I shiver from the frigid indoor climate. She instructs me to fill out a name tag, and I do, sticking it on the sundress I opted to wear today before being bound to the drab uniform that waits in my closet. I feel the heavy stares of those already seated and choose the closest open desk.

The room is dark, the only light from a projection screen that says ‘Welcome’ in bold letters with the Horner Technologies company logo across the bottom.

I’ve never taken pride in my last name. As far as I can tell, I was a spill Roman made years ago that he had enough money to clean up. I have no illusions we’ll ever be close. He doesn’t look at me with the same cruel indifference as he does my mother—from what I’ve gathered in the few encounters I’ve witnessed—but I’m most definitely an afterthought.

Dinner last night was awkward to say the least, our conversation forced. Today I’m here to do his bidding. Another worker ant to add to his industrial farm. It’s like this is some attempt to teach me a life lesson that hard work pays off, but I’m no stranger to that. I’ve paid my way since I’ve been able to work; bought my first car, and made the insurance payments while balancing my own checkbook. I’ve got nothing to learn from him, that much I know. I have little doubt that the longer I comply with his demands and agree with his plans for me, the more my resentment will grow.

This is for Mom.

The woman who greeted me at the door steps up to the front of the room and smiles. “Looks like most of us are here, so let’s begin. I’m Jackie Brown—yes like the movie,” none of us laugh, “and I’ve been working for Horner Tech for eight years. I’m the HR director, and I’m excited to welcome you to orientation. In an effort to get to know everyone, I would very much like if each of you stood and briefly introduced yourselves.”

I’m in the first seat upfront, and she nods toward me. I reluctantly stand, not bothering to face the rest of the room and speak directly to her.

“I’m Cecelia, not like the song. New in town. I’m just going to clear the air now and let you know my father owns this place, but I want no special treatment. And I promise not to narc if you take an extra cigarette break or like your afternoon delight in the janitor’s closet.”

I can see my introduction doesn’t go down well with Jackie Brown as she gapes at me, while a chuckle sounds up behind me. Taking my seat, I curse my inability to get through the first few minutes of orientation without my grudge rearing its ugly head. I should know better than to poke the bear on my first day, and have no doubt my father will hear about this. But other than the inevitable repercussions, I’m having a hard time regretting it. I remind myself for the hundredth time that this is for Mom and vow to keep my attitude in check, at least until my probation period is over.

“Next, you, behind her.”

With the movement behind me, I catch a whiff of cedar before he speaks. “Sean, no relation to the man upstairs, and this is my second time working for Horner Tech. I left briefly. And I would very much enjoy some afternoon delight in the janitor’s closet.” Muffled laughter sounds throughout the room as the first smile I’ve been capable of in days spreads over my face.

I half turn in my seat and look over my shoulder to meet amused hazel eyes. The drag of his gaze over me has my skin prickling with awareness. Feet away, in the dim light, I’m able to appreciate the alluring outline of his features along with his incredible build, the stretch of his T-shirt across his pecs, and snug-fitting dark jeans before he takes his seat. We play a short game of stare-off, where I wait a few seconds past the awkward point before I turn back to face Jackie Brown.

“Welcome back, Sean. Let’s refrain from making any more comments like that, shall we?”

It takes a lot of effort to hide my grin, and I can still feel his gaze on me as one by one the room stands to int. . .