Chapter 25 – RAVEN #3
I sob as I raise the gun to my lips. The metal is cold against my tongue, and I can barely breathe around it. But for once, fear overrides the compulsion to obey. My finger rests on the trigger, but I can't make myself pull it.
I… can't obey him.
The alpha's eyes narrow. " Pull the trigger ," he barks.
And just like that, my control shatters.
My finger squeezes.
Click.
For a moment, there's nothing but silence. Then laughter erupts around the room as I collapse in a heap, the gun clattering to the floor beside me. Harsh, mocking laughter that cuts through me like knives.
I curl in on myself, sobbing so hard I can barely breathe.
I'm alive.
I'm alive, but am I?
Have I ever really been?
"Well," the alpha's cold voice cuts through the noise. "I must admit, your work is certainly remarkable. But really... who wants a pathetic alpha like that?"
Through my tears, I see Madame's stilettos approach. Her hand comes to rest on my head, stroking my hair like I'm a dog who's performed a particularly entertaining trick.
"Oh, you'd be surprised," she purrs, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Now, shall we adjourn to the parlor? I believe it's time for refreshments."
As the sounds of footsteps and conversation fade, I'm left alone on the floor.
Broken.
Humiliated.
Empty.
I don't know how long I lay there, trembling and crying.
Time loses all meaning. But eventually, Madame's assistant, Wyatt, comes to collect me.
I'm barely even aware of myself as he goes through the motions of scrubbing me down and rendering me presentable for whichever client she's offering me to this evening.
I'd hoped she would give me an evening to recover, but that would require her seeing me as something more than a doll to be used and discarded when it ceases to be convenient.
All I can do is hope, desperately, it's not the alpha from earlier. Anyone but him.
Whoever it is, he's warranted himself an evening in the Royal Suite. It's a joke of a name in a shithole like this, no matter how luxurious the veneer may be, but it's a rare honor for the patrons who pass through the brothel all the same.
Wyatt, who doubles as my warden, nods to me as we stand outside the blood red doors.
I smooth down the new outfit I've been changed into and push open the doors, walking inside.
I can't make out the man seated in an armchair by the bed, since his upper half is concealed in shadow, but I notice the blood red coat that nearly brushes the floor by his well-worn leather boots.
A tremor runs through me at the sight of the gun on his hip after my recent encounter.
The man drums his fingertips on the curved wooden arm of the chair, watching me with what feels like bored interest as Wyatt closes the doors behind me. I jolt at the sound in the otherwise silent room.
"Nervous?" the man asks, his tone knowing. There's something in his thick Vrissian accent that makes my skin prickle. A rough edge that speaks of authority and danger. But it's his scent that makes me freeze where I stand.
I'm more attuned to other alphas' scents than most alphas are. I've never felt the immediate rage and territoriality that seems to affect the others. It varies from alpha to alpha, but in general, I find other alphas' scents as pleasant as an omega's. Just different.
This alpha is very different.
I've never smelled anything like him.
He smells like…
Blood.
And metal.
It shouldn't be pleasant, especially in light of the coppery taste lingering on my tongue from earlier, but it's intriguing in its own right.
And dangerous.
I push that all aside and put on my usual mask of charm and submission, letting a practiced smile curve my lips even as my heart pounds. "No, sir."
"Come closer," he orders, and I comply, moving forward with carefully measured steps.
But I stop while still maintaining what I hope is a safe distance from the chair, lowering my head submissively and folding my arms behind my back, waiting for him to command me.
It doesn't usually take long, but some snakes like playing with their food first.
"What are you doing?" he asks, a note of curiosity in his voice.
"Waiting for permission, sir," I reply softly, keeping my gaze fixed on the ornate carpet beneath my feet.
"Permission for what?" The question holds an edge of amusement now.
I hesitate, resisting the urge to look up at his face. It's still shrouded in shadow. My throat feels tight as I force out the words I've said countless times before: "Permission to serve you however you see fit, sir."
The silence that follows feels heavy. The man shifts in his chair, leather creaking beneath him. I tense, waiting for whatever comes next, but maintain my submissive pose.
"Is it true what that hag said earlier?" he finally asks. "That you respond to an alpha's commands like an omega?"
My blood runs cold as I realize he must have been one of the observers watching from the shadows during Madame's earlier demonstration. Fresh shame burns through me.
"Or was that little show just a stunt?" he adds, his tone casual but probing.
I clench my jaw, warring with myself. Anger and embarrassment fight against bone-deep fear as I force out my answer. "It's true."
He leans forward then, elbows coming to rest on his knees as he emerges from the shadows into the dim lamplight.
My breath catches in my throat.
He's younger than I expected, likely not much older than I am, and devastatingly beautiful in a way that makes my heart stutter.
Stark white hair falls in choppy layers around a face that looks carved from marble, save for the jagged scar all the way from his left eyebrow, down over his eye, and across to the right side of his mouth, tugging his lips up slightly into a perpetual smirk.
Nearly every merc and outlaw in the Outer Reaches has his share of scars—and usually a few missing digits, too—but this one seems exceptionally vicious.
And yet, it's his eyes that hold me transfixed behind red circular lenses.
Gunmetal gray, and so intense, I feel like he's staring straight through to my soul.
Except… Something is off about the left one. It's not quite as bright as the right. Is it real?
"Interesting," he murmurs, studying me with that piercing gaze.
I can't look away. Can't even breathe properly.
Old stories from one of the kinder guards float through my mind.
Tales of avenging angels descending from the heavens with flaming swords to deliver divine justice.
This man, with his otherworldly beauty and dangerous grace, seems too intense to be merely human.
"Are you an angel?" The question slips out before I can stop it, barely more than a whisper.
He throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and dark like aged whiskey. Not the cruel mockery I'm used to, but genuine amusement that transforms his severe features into something even more striking.
"Now, why would you ask that?" he questions once his laughter subsides, that one gray eye sparkling with curiosity. The other doesn't.
I find myself fidgeting under his gaze, dropping my eyes to the carpet again. "You look like one," I mumble, heat rising to my cheeks. "I thought… maybe you were here to save me."
The words sound even more stupid and childish out loud than they did in my head.
I stare at the man, waiting for the mocking laughter that usually follows any display of vulnerability on my part. But it doesn't come. Instead, he leans forward in his chair, those mismatched eyes glinting with something unreadable.
"What's your name?" he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.
I hesitate, my throat tight.
"Robin," I finally whisper.
It's not my real name—I don't even know if I ever had one—but it's the one Madame gave me.
"Robin," he murmurs, his lip curling in distaste. "Robin is a shit name for a boy. Even a pretty one."
Indignation that surprises me flares in me. Even though it's not my real name, it's mine .
The only thing in this world that is.
A grin spreads across his face, transforming those severe features. "There it is," he says, satisfaction evident in his tone.
"What?" I ask warily, unsure what game he's playing. I thought I'd learned them all by this point.
"The spark she hasn't managed to kill yet." His voice is soft now but filled with something that sounds almost like pride.
I don't know what to say to that. No one has ever looked at me like this before. No one has ever talked to me for this long without giving me a command.
It's fucking terrifying.
He stands suddenly, and I fight the instinct to flinch away. For some reason I can't explain, I want to hold his gaze. Want to be an alpha in his presence, not the broken thing Madame has made me.
"Do you want to be rescued, kid?" he asks, studying me intently. "Or do you want to save yourself?"
The question catches me off guard. It's the first real choice anyone has offered me in... I can't even remember how long. And the answer that rises to my lips surprises me.
"I want to save myself," I whisper, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.
He nods as if this is exactly what he expected, then strides to the window. With one fluid motion, he throws it open, gesturing to the night beyond.
"There you go. There's your way out. Nothing's stopping you."
I stare at the open window, my heart pounding in my chest. The cool night air carries the scents of the city. Smoke and garbage and… freedom. Terror and longing war inside me at the same time as I take a hesitant step forward.
But then I freeze.
Where would I go?
What would I do?
I can't remember a time before Madame, before the collar around my neck and the commands that shape my every moment. The world outside these walls might as well be another planet.
The man watches me, his expression unreadable.
"You're afraid," he says.
It's not a question.
"I don't know how to be free," I admit, the words barely audible. "I don't know who I am without… her."
He takes a step closer, and I notice he moves like a predator. All contained power and deadly grace.
But for some reason, I'm not afraid of him.
Not the way I should be.
I feel more shame in this moment than I did with that gun in my mouth earlier.
The raw strength radiating from this man makes my weakness feel even more pathetic.
His jagged scar speaks of battles survived, of a resilience I can't even imagine.
I expect to see disgust in his gaze when he looks at me—another alpha who's nothing but a broken toy.
But he surprises me. His fingers find my chin, tilting it up with unexpected gentleness. He doesn't force me to meet his gaze like so many others have. Instead, he offers the choice.
"I can show you," he says, his voice low and certain.
My heart skips. "Show me what?"
"How to be free." He gestures to the open window. "If you don't want to fly, we'll have to take the door. But I warn you—it's going to be a bloody, ugly night. The first of many."
I swallow hard, understanding the weight of what he's offering. "And if I choose the door?"
"There's no turning back," he says, brutal honesty in every word. "Unfortunately for you, kid, I'm no one's guardian angel. And if you want the devil to come to your rescue, it's going to cost your soul."
A shiver runs through me, but not of fear. His honesty is exhilarating after years of pretty lies and false promises. And I'm sure he means it as a warning.
But it sounds like a promise.
Belong to someone other than her?
Someone like him?
It's more than I ever dared to dream of.
"I'll do whatever you ask," I whisper. "Just... please. Take me with you."
A predatory grin spreads across his face.
He reaches for the revolver at his hip, and I can't help flinching as he places it in my trembling hands.
The metal is warm from his body heat, so different from the cold gun from earlier.
But the image of me on that floor, my hands trembling as I fought against pulling the trigger, flashes in my mind.
His breath ghosts across my ear as he whispers. "If you want to walk out of your prison, the first thing you have to do is kill the warden. Can you do that, little bird?"
I hesitate, the weight of the gun suddenly overwhelming. But before I can answer, he's striding to the door and throwing it open.
Wyatt stands there, eyes widening as he takes in the scene. Me with the gun, the stranger with his dangerous smile. "What the f?—"
My hands shake as I realize I have less than a second to ask and Wyatt is already reaching for his gun. If I hesitate, we'll both be dead. Worse, this chance at not-quite-freedom will slip away forever.
The gun fires before I even realize I've pulled the trigger.
The sound is deafening in the enclosed space. Wyatt crumples, a look of shock frozen on his face as bright red splashes from his throat. He hits the floor with a dull thud that seems to echo through my bones.
I stare at the body, unable to process what I've just done. The gun slips from my numb fingers, but the stranger catches it before it can clatter to the floor.
I've just killed a man.
I've just taken my first step toward freedom.
And somehow, watching the blood pool beneath Wyatt's body, I feel more alive than I ever have before.
"Not bad," the stranger purrs, twirling the gun into a better grip in his gloved hand. "You're a natural. Next time you're that close, aim right between the eyes. Cleaner that way."
Without missing a beat, he fires another shot right into Wyatt's forehead even though he's already dead.
"Never forget to double tap," he calls, already at the end of the hallway. When he realizes I'm still standing by Wyatt's body, frozen, he stops and looks back. "Are you coming or not?"
As if broken out of a trance, my feet start moving again. I step over the corpse and put one foot in front of the other, my hesitation melting away with each step.
In this moment, I know.
I'll follow my avenging demon anywhere.
Even into hell itself.
And that night, as we leave a pile of bodies and the brothel burning in our wake, the innocent survivors' screams piercing the night air as they flee, I do just that. I tell myself I'll never look back, and I don't.
Not until I realize the one truth I somehow have just enough innocence left to deny.
The devil is a fucking liar.