Chapter 2
Raven
It’s been a few months since I left Paris and came back to the States, and I still can’t decide if I’ve traded up or down. Sure, France is all exotic and exciting for a while. But after almost two years, it lost its appeal, and that’s when I knew it was time to leave.
When I made the decision to say au revoir, I got on the phone to my BFF, Piper. She was thrilled, naturally. At first, she wanted me back in D.C. where she and her husband wrangle politicians, but I put my foot down.
Spending years in D.C. when I had to was fine. It’s just not a place I ever longed for. The people, sure. But more in the way you want to chase an era that has passed. I needed a different scene. Something new and exciting.
That’s why I applied for a job with Holston PR here in Cleveland, Ohio. Though Piper tried to talk me out of setting down roots here, I remained steadfast.
Despite all her objections, she helped me find an apartment, and even picked me up at the airport so we could see it together. After spending about half an hour pretending I didn’t love the space, I signed the lease.
I still remember Piper finding it funny I used my middle name instead of my first. But seeing as there were four Lenas in the Paris office, it quickly became a habit. And not one I’m looking to change.
Though it’s just a name, I’ve always liked Raven more than Lena. So, win-win.
Shaking my head, I force a smile and wave at the couple I just walked over to the champagne fountain. The swanky room glitters around me, crystal chandeliers catching light like diamonds under a jeweler’s lamp.
I adjust the thin strap of my black dress, feeling the smooth fabric shift against my skin as I survey my domain—because tonight, that’s exactly what this is. Mine. If Holston wanted credit, he should have been here.
But his absence also means it’s my reputation on the line with every champagne flute and canapé tray that passes through a Cleveland crowd of donors, clients, and climbers. Talk about a double-edged sword.
“More champagne to the east corner, less hovering by the stairs,” I murmur to a passing server, who nods and corrects course without breaking stride. Perfect.
Looking around, I discreetly check if anyone seems too warm or too cold. Despite Holston’s notes, I asked them not to blast the air-con. It’s Cleveland in May, for crying out loud.
I check my mental list; a boardroom wife laughing too hard at a bad joke? Check. Potential clients being subtly cornered by our suits? Check. Servers keeping glasses full without creating sloppy drunks? Check.
Honestly, I’m so good I deserve a gold star next to each checkmark.
“Raven.” I turn to the owner of the voice; Derek, our newest account manager. “The tech couple—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Marsh,” I interrupt helpfully.
“Yeah, them.” Derek shakes his head and discreetly wipes his hand across his forehead. “They’re asking about the charity auction?”
“It’s at nine,” I inform, keeping my smile in place. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly to walk them through it personally.”
Derek shoots me a grateful smile before scampering off, leaving me to observe.
Every detail of this evening is already locked in my mind. Which server is slacking, and that would be the redhead by the east entrance. Which guest needs extra attention, the silver-haired developer who stands by himself.
I snag a champagne flute from a passing tray, not to drink but to hold—a prop that makes me look relaxed while keeping both hands occupied so no one tries to pull me into lengthy conversations. The bubbles rise in perfect strands, tiny golden elevators to nowhere.
As I weave through bodies, the atmosphere shifts. It ripples through the crowd like a stone dropped in still water—subtle but unmistakable.
Backs straighten, and voices lower. The crowd near the piano steps aside without seeming to realize they’re doing it, clearing a space as if by magnetic repulsion.
A man has entered. No, entered isn’t the right word. He’s manifested like a dark thought you can’t take back.
My first thought is that he’s tall. Tall enough that people need to crane their necks to look at his face, which many seem reluctant to do. His suit is clearly bespoke, the kind that costs more than most people’s monthly mortgage.
Black ink creeps above his collar, hinting at tattoos hidden beneath expensive fabric. His fingers—long, almost elegant despite their obvious strength—adjust his cuffs with practiced precision.
The second thing I notice are the scars; burn marks crawling up the left side of his neck and face like permanent shadows.
Then… oh. His eyes—gray like storm clouds heavy with unspent violence—lock briefly on someone across the room before continuing their slow, assessing sweep. One moves a fraction slower than the other, but I barely register it beneath the weight of that gaze.
His gaze sweeps the room, assessing, dismissing.
I know I should stop staring, hell, my subconsciousness is screaming for me to look away. But I can’t. I’m transfixed by the way beauty and brutality merge.
The crowd parts further, conversation dimming wherever his eyes land. He doesn’t command attention; he takes it by the throat.
Be still my heart… or is it my pussy that’s fluttering? Hard to tell which is louder.
He doesn’t belong here, among the starched collars and polite smiles. Yet everyone reacts as if he’s the most important person in the room. Who is this man?
I watch how the security guards straighten when he passes. How the older businessmen nod with cautious respect. How women’s eyes follow him, fear mingled with curiosity and something primal. Can’t say I blame them. He’s fine as all hell.
Though I should be moving, I remain in place as he prowls toward the champagne. There’s something feral in his movements, something that doesn’t match the refined cut of his clothes, yet completely fits his scars and cocky smirk.
A wolf in designer clothing. And God, I’d love to have him huff and puff at me. No, down girl. I mentally chastise my overactive libido. I’m here to do a job, not to gawk at pretty strangers.
Speaking of work, I should know who he is. It’s literally my job to know everyone at this event. Yet I know he’s not on my guest list. I’ve memorized every face, and his, I’d definitely remember.
I’m still studying him when he turns, his heavy gaze landing directly on me. His mouth curves slightly. It’s not quite a smile, more the look of a man who’s spotted something interesting. Something he might want.
And then he’s moving toward me with deliberate strides.
I don’t have time to shift my position before he collides with me. The impact is just enough to send champagne sloshing over the rim of my glass, splashing across the bodice of my black dress.
“Shit,” I hiss, more surprised than angry as the cold liquid seeps through the fabric.
“Such language,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. “From such a pretty mouth.”
I look up—way, way up—to meet his eyes, both amused and assessing. “Such clumsiness,” I counter, “from such a big body.”
Instead of apologizing, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crisp handkerchief. Before I can take it from him, he’s pressing it directly against my chest, dabbing at the spill. His fingers are warm through the thin fabric.
“You’re not on my guest list,” I say, not backing away from his touch.
His scarred eyebrow rises slightly. “And yet, here I am.” He keeps holding the fabric against me long after the champagne’s gone. “Perhaps your list is incomplete.”
I pluck the handkerchief from his hand, deliberately brushing my fingers against his. “I don’t make incomplete lists.”
“First time for everything.” His gaze drops to my lips, returns to mine. “I’m Matteo.” Just Matteo. No last name offered.
“Raven Carter,” I say, countering his deliberate omission with full disclosure. Nothing about me needs hiding. Well, apart from my first name, which I’ve never given to hookups anyway, and that’s exactly what I hope this man will end up being. “The woman whose dress you’ve just ruined.”
“I’d say I’ve improved it,” he corrects, his eyes now making no secret of their assessment of said dress. “The wet look suits you.”
Around us, I’m aware of the crowd watching, conversations quieting. People pretending not to stare while doing exactly that. It’s the kind of attention that should make me uncomfortable—I’m supposed to be invisible at these events, the woman behind the scenes, not the one on the stage.
I find myself leaning slightly toward him, drawn to the danger he radiates like a space heater. “Does this usually work for you?” I ask, gesturing between us with the damp handkerchief. “The bump-and-spill routine?”
His laugh is unexpected; a genuine sound that transforms his face. “First time trying it, actually. I usually only have to tell women to bend over.”
“So I’m special.” I tilt my head, studying the way the scars pull when he smiles.
“You caught my attention from across the room.” His voice drops lower. “The only one who looked… interesting.”
“I am interesting,” I dutifully confirm.
He chuckles, the sound low and deliciously gravelly. Dear God, the way the sound washes over me and fills me with burning need is unnatural. And… inconvenient.
“So, I decided the best introduction was to give myself a reason to touch you.” No pretense, no games. The raw honesty catches me off guard more than the admission itself.
I should do something other than stand here with champagne drying on my dress and heat building beneath my skin. “Bold strategy,” I say, allowing a small smile to curve my lips. “Not particularly creative, but bold. I’ll give you an A.”
“If you wanted creative, I could have set off the sprinkler system. Made everyone wet, not just you.” There’s something in his gaze when he says it—a flicker of something that feels almost like anticipation.