Rowan
She had become a cliché. She was the woman standing outside the restaurant’s window, in the dark, in the rain, her long black hair swimming in rivulets down her back, lashes dripping, rain cutting paths across the planes of her face. Her cold, wet misery—her tithe to watch the warm scene inside. Everyone was smiling and laughing, eating and drinking, kisses to cheeks and hands touching beneath the table.
For the ones inside, it was family. It was love.
For her, the woman outside, it was lonely. It was cold. A recurring, waking nightmare.
Raven and River. Rowan’s beloved sisters. They were the ones she was watching through the window—with the men they loved.
Rowan’s problem—she didn’t want a bright-haired fairytale prince. No, she wanted the dark king.
A man who did not want her.
Outside looking in. Wishes that don’t come true.