The Finish Line Read online

  The Finish Line

  Copyright © 2021 by Kate Stewart

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  1st Line Editor: Donna Cooksley Sanderson

  2nd Line Editor: Grey Ditto

  Cover by Okay Creations

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Listen to The Finish Line playlist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Reader

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  About the Author

  Note to Reader

  Wow. What a journey!

  The little bonus epilogue that could has now become my lengthiest novel to date! Most of you who’ve been following the progress of the ‘bonus epilogue’ on social media know this was never supposed to be a trilogy. After finishing this book, I stand firm that this last installment was always there, waiting for me to unearth it. And I’m so glad I did.

  In order to properly pen the ending I saw fit, I had to make a few—very few—changes to the previous scripts. Do not let this alarm you in any way. These are minor details, so minor they’re probably undetectable to most. These slight changes were necessary to keep timeline flow and if you’re a stickler for details, please know we’ve corrected them to the absolute best of our ability.

  That said, these minimal tweaks should not, in any way, alter your enjoyment of the final book.

  It’s been an honor and one of the most memorable highlights of my career to write The Ravenhood.

  I so hope you enjoy The Finish Line, and I thank you so much for taking this journey with me.

  All my love.

  XO

  Kate

  For Mon Trésor, Maïwenn

  And for my readers for taking this journey with me. Merci.

  Age Forty-Three

  Saint-Jean-de-Luz, France

  “Viens ici, Ezekiel,” Come here, Ezekiel. I walk over to where he stands, his hand lowered, a round, brown seashell with a flat bottom resting in his palm. When I go to take it, he moves it out of reach.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” What is it?

  “Un clypéastre, un dollar de sable. Lorsque tu en trouveras un, garde-le. Et lorsque tu seras prêt, alors tu le casseras. Mais tu dois le faire bien au milieu pour pouvoir en récupérer son trésor.” A dollar of sand. When you find this, you keep it. And only when you’re ready, do you break it. But you have to do it right down the middle to claim the treasure.

  “Quand serai-je prêt?” When will I be ready?

  He ruffles my hair. “Tu le sauras.” You’ll know.

  Standing on the shoreline, I skip rocks along the foamed waves flooding in at my feet. I never recalled the whole conversation from that day my father brought me here; only the look of the sea, a glimpse of sand, the flash of early sun peaking behind him, and the strange shell in his palm. It was on my last visit to the institution that he recalled our discussion verbatim during one of his rare and lucid moments. He told me the story of his son, Ezekiel, and repeated our exchange that day with surprising clarity just minutes before he asked me to search for him.

  Whether it was a sign, or fate, or something else playing a factor, I found a sand dollar on the beach in pristine condition the day I broke ground on the house. Though he didn’t jog my memory until years after, the why of what drew me to keep it when I found it was made clear. Somehow without knowing the details, I knew the significance of it.

  It’s ironic and cruel how the mind works, mine especially. Some memories I re-live regularly but would do anything to forget, the details so vivid, so ingrained, it can be torturous. While others, the memories I hold most dear, at times evade me. But it’s my fickle memory that planted a seed that day and instinct that had me hiding that shell—that makes it all the more meaningful. And it wasn’t until I looked up the significance of the ‘treasure’ that I understood his state of mind that day, a state very much like my own mindset now.

  We were never close due to my mother fleeing from him because of his temper and mental illness—a diagnosed schizophrenic—but I feel some connection to him now. However, I’ve been fearful since the day I found him decades later, covered in his own shit and rambling frantic French at any stranger who passed him on that street in Paris. Seeing him in that state gave way to trepidation that one day I would suffer the same fate—that everyone who claimed to care for me would eventually abandon me—due to mental illness and lack of control. A fear that crippled me for years and kept me from investing, in believing in people fully.

  To me, love was always conditional—until her.

  My mother never fully understood the extent of my father’s illness. It’s my belief now that she assumed he’d just gone mad. Although that’s partly true, it wasn’t by conscious decision. It wasn’t as if he’d let some dark side of him take over, which I believe was her stance on him up until the day she died. It was sickness that claimed him and the fear of inherited sickness that’s plagued me for so long.

  But at this stage in the game, the odds and my age are in my favor that I will never suffer his fate.

  Retrieving the sun-bleached stone from where I hid it a lifetime ago, I start toward the winding cliff-side staircase that leads to my finish line. It’s more apparent than ever that it was never the house I was waiting for. It was today, this moment of clarity—a day where my head and heart are no longer at odds.

  If I had to sum up my life, my journey in one word, it would be today. I did i
t all for this moment. The irony is, I never knew through my plotting and scheming a day like this could exist for me. Fate threw me the cards while Karma had its wicked way with me. Luck was never factored in, but it came through for this opportunist enough to know that at times, it was present, and others it had abandoned me completely.

  Noted, luck. And fuck you for it.

  But if I have to measure my life against the uncontrollable powers of what could be, at any time, for or against me, I’ll have to bat them all away. I’ll have to choose something else to measure my life by, a different entity all together, a cosmic force to trump all others, her.

  Without her, my purpose would feel meaningless, as would this day.

  Because she wasn’t wrong. We, what we have and what we found in each other, is all that matters. The path I traveled to get here would amount to nothing without someone to reflect on it with. And there’s no better storyteller, no better reflection of my worth than in the eyes of the woman who shared in my journey and helped me navigate my way through the worst of it.

  She’s my mirror, my judge, and has revealed herself as my sole purpose. She brought direction back to my deadening soul when I lost my way, and she continues to guide me back, a star too bright to ignore, no matter how far I stray.

  There’s no more strength in life than a man’s purpose. For so many years, I thought mine was something else entirely—until she showed me the truth. I always considered myself a lone traveler until she blazed her way onto my path as my opponent, my lover, teacher, confidante, and best friend.

  Any significant sum of every day I’ve spent on this Earth will always amount to her.

  If I would have succeeded in throwing my purpose away, if I were successful at self-sabotage, I wouldn’t know such a complete feeling existed. I would have never found such peace inside myself. The panic would have seized me long ago and made me sick to the point of no return.

  The minute I step through the door of the house, I won’t ever look back on the cruelty of the path or how many steps I took alone. Instead, I’ll appreciate each bend of the journey, aside from a single blow so fucking merciless, I’ll never be able to shake it off. Not ever. A loss so painful, there won’t ever be a day it won’t hurt.

  My brother.

  Her savior.

  An irreversible scar that will never fully heal and proof of my weary travels. I’m halfway to the top of the cliff when my phone rattles in my pocket.

  Lady Bird is in the nest.

  However, I’ve already sensed her nearby. From above, I hear her shout my name as she races through the house; clear panic and excitement in her voice as I begin taking the stairs two at a time, heart thundering.

  “I hear you, Mon Trésor,” I reply, hastening my steps, chest pounding, the delicate offering safe in my hand. I will always hear you.

  Already choked up with emotion, I nod at the two Ravens standing guard at the back of the property as I pass and enter through the back door. Beau greets me with his typical cock check before he allows me to run my fingers over his ears. I’ve learned to tolerate him over time, despite the fact that he’s still ridiculously territorial over our woman.

  “Bonjour, you greedy fucker.”

  Of all the planning I’ve done in my life, this is the idea I’ve obsessed most about coming to fruition. But if Beau’s here with her, that means not only did she get my text, but she clearly understood the double entendre.

  Meet me at the finish line.

  Though I’ve never set foot in this house and have refused to without her, I pay it little attention as I stride past the wrought iron staircase railing, knowing exactly where I’ll find her. I’ve dreamt this dream a thousand times over the years, and both my heart and head know the way.

  A light breeze guides me down the long, Spanish-tiled corridor, past the sand-textured caramel walls. The house is just a few rooms short of a mansion, but fitting enough for a queen.

  The details I soak in through passing are few because my sole focus is far more appealing. There’s nothing but fire and need in my hammering chest, which is beating as hard as it was the last time I came to her with a request. Then, I was just as fucking terrified. Terrified she’d refuse to take me back. Terrified she believed my lies. Terrified I believed them for so long, I convinced myself they were true.

  Twelve years ago, I forced her out of my life. In doing so, I lost myself, my purpose, my meaning, and my fucking mind.

  Over half of those years I spent without her were due to fear, guilt, and self-condemnation.

  Today, I come to her a changed man because of the years we lost and because of the years that brought us here. She may not have believed my lies, but I always believed her truths, in her love, in the surety of her heart.

  Because she saved me.

  Earning her and her heart has been my greatest accomplishment, making it my most prized possession.

  A treasure any worthy thief will try to steal.

  A treasure many have tried to take and failed. Because I made fucking sure of it. Before, I would never have gloated about such a feat of winning her because of the cost. Before, the guilt made it impossible to make such declarations.

  Before…was too fucking painful.

  I was selfish then, as I am now with her, without much apology, because the need outweighs the guilt—mostly.

  After forty-three years of life, I’m positive she’s the only thing I can’t live without.

  And for the next forty-three, I will never love another.

  She’s loved many. That’s the nature of who she is. It’s what shaped her, but I’ve been greedy with my heart, and it has one sole owner. Nothing has, or could ever, compare to what she stirs inside of me.

  My selfishness, my ambitions, my jealousy, and greed almost cost me my future, cost me her.

  Since she accepted me back, I’ve spent every single minute of our time together paying penance while biding my time for this day.

  Sentence served.

  My time is up, and I’m officially a free man.

  Which is exactly why I have to find her. Right. Fucking. Now.

  Napalm desire, along with the ache in my chest, has me hastening toward her as Beau struts next to me, determined to be the first to seek her affection.

  “Fuck off, mutt, she’s mine for the rest of the night.”

  Beau continues to prance next to me, ignoring my order. It took over a month to ship him here and another six weeks in quarantine to get him to the house. Now it seems he’s already staked his claim as the head of it.

  “Go. Now. Or I’ll never cook you another steak.”

  His ears perk as if aware of the implication of my threat, and he stops when I do, circling at my feet. Snapping my fingers, he returns my gaze, unphased, before he struts off.

  Fucker.

  When I reach my destination, I find her exactly where I thought she’d be, perched on the balcony, her long, breeze-blown hair tangling around her face. Her hands lay flat on the thick clay ledge as she gazes out at the sparkling sea. She’s dressed in white, the silky material dipping low in a V on her back, exposing every inch of her spine. Her skin golden from the sun, but it’s the sight of the delicate wings along her shoulders that gets me hard. My thirsty eyes drink her in with a mix of desire and relief.

  Getting her here was the final step of countless many.

  I wait for her to recognize I’m near, and within a second of me standing at the door, I see her tense in awareness. Furious, watery, dark-blue eyes find mine as I take her in, emotion clogging my throat.

  We’ve come so far since that day in the parking lot in Virginia, where all I had, literally, was the shirt on my back, an apology that would never be enough, and the fight she stirred within me to win her, to keep her, to reclaim what I stole all those years ago.

  And we’ve come so far.

  So. Fucking. Far.

  From then to now seems like a lifetime ago.

  In a sense, I’ve been waiting…but as of t
his moment, it’s over.

  In a matter of seconds, I will have done everything I set out to do. But it’s the first day of my sentence that comes to mind when I breach the doorway and charge toward her. In the flash of the seconds it takes to reach her, I re-live it all.

  “I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.”—Edgar Allan Poe

  Age Thirty-Seven

  Hell, day one.

  The sudden weight on my chest jolts me into consciousness a second before hot, putrid breath hits my face. Opening my eyes, I’m met by the unmistakable shadow of a four-legged fucking devil.

  The rabid dog stands proudly on my chest as snarl-induced saliva smacks me on the chin and his phlegmy sounding bark rings in my ears.

  “Psychopathe.” Psychopath. I grumble, batting away the crazed French bulldog, whose howl only increases the more I rouse and fight him off. He doesn’t weigh much, but his bark indicates he’s got an incredible self-image.

  The fucker hasn’t stopped growling at me since I walked through the front door yesterday, which Cecelia found highly amusing.

  I did not.

  Lifting to sit in the blackened room, I palm the empty space next to me on the bed. Beau, a namesake I truly wish she hadn’t wasted on a dog, snaps his jaws where she slept next to me just hours before, sitting on his haunches, yapping, to make sure I fucking hate him.

  And mere hours after our introduction, I decide I do.

  Tense due to her disappearance, I glance out the window to see it’s still dark, midnight dark.

  I run a hand down my face, trepidation sneaking its way in.

  I’d shown up after eight months, promised her the world, explanations, breakfast, and vowed to earn her. Instead, I got a brief tour of the house before I took a shower and passed right the fuck out. I don’t remember much after the relief of getting through the door, mingled with the hot steam relaxing me to a point I haven’t been able to reach in years.