Raven Chapter 11 Sensations and Symbols 121 #3
My brain immediately conjures images of what he and I could get up to in a shower, and that familiar tingle sparks down my spine.
It settles as a warm, restless ache low in my belly, and for some reason, I have the sudden, primal urge to rub my thighs together.
I can’t tear my eyes away from Kieran’s as they begin to faintly glow.
He licks his lips slowly, as if he’s just savored a piece of the chocolate he offered me.
“If she’s using anyone’s shower,” Forrest’s voice slices through my lust-filled haze, “it’ll be mine.”
His tone is implacable, final. I shake myself, physically dispelling the fantasy. Chocolate first , I remind myself sternly. Think about orgasms later.
The laugh that leaves Kieran doesn't even embarrass me a little. Okay, maybe a little.
Note to self: internal monologue? Not so internal anymore. Add "filter" to the list of things I need now that I’ve successfully acquired a body.
Forrest shows me to his bathroom and closes the door, leaving me alone.
I make my way over to the shower stall, only to be confronted by a wall of knobs and handles.
It’s a bewildering array of chrome and porcelain.
I tentatively twist one—ice-cold water sprays out, making me yelp.
I try another, and nothing happens at all.
A wave of frustration washes over me. Is every simple pleasure going to be a puzzle?
I poke my head out of the bathroom—I want the full shower experience, dammit. But before I can get a word out, all the breath rushes from my lungs.
Forrest is standing in his bedroom, shirtless.
It’s almost obscene the way his muscles flex as he digs through a drawer for another shirt. I check my chin for drool as I watch the powerful landscape of his back shift and contract while he pulls the fresh fabric on. Coming out of my daze, I clear my throat. Forrest spins to face me.
“What?” he asks, his tone clipped.
“I… I don’t know how to turn on the shower,” I admit, the words feeling clumsy and childish.
Just admit you’re a burden now and get it over with. You’re interrupting his routine and now he’ll hate you even more. I should have tried harder. Or maybe I should have just taken a cold shower. I should have—
He huffs, a short, impatient sound, and strides past me into the bathroom. He efficiently starts the water, holding his hand under the spray until he deems the temperature suitable before leaving without another word.
Something across the room draws my eye away from the promise of the warm shower. I step toward the mirror, my heart hammering a strange, suspenseful rhythm. Taking a deep breath, I finally look at my reflection for the first time.
My heart-shaped face stares back. Lower lip fuller than the upper, middle-of-the-road nose, dark eyebrows to match my dark hair. But the eyes? Yeah, okay, Kieran had a point. They're silver—aggressively silver—with a dark rim around the iris that makes the whole thing look backlit.
I lean in closer and see that the silver actually moves , little flecks of lighter grey drifting through like a snow globe made of stars. And underneath? Darker wisps, like someone started mixing but got distracted.
I have no idea who gave me these genes, but I give them a little mental thanks anyway.
I’m going to intimidate so many bad guys with these things. Watch out for Raven and her weaponized eyeballs, everyone.
I stop inspecting my face as steam begins to fog the edges of the glass. Excited for my first-ever shower, I close my eyes and try to think my clothes away. Nothing happens. I try again but give up quickly—I never knew how uncomfortable jeans were until now, and I want them off immediately.
I shuck off my jeans and top as fast as I can. Just as I’m reaching for the jail cell women call a bra, I see something in the mirror. I grab my hair and lift it off my neck, twisting to look at my back.
“What the fuck?” I whisper to no one.
I run a hand over the black markings on the back of my arm, and they glow a dull silver in response. My eyes widen, these were definitely not there before.
“What in the name of Hades are these?” I say, much louder than I intended. The door swings open instantly, revealing Dre and Anik in the doorway, looking ready to tear heads off.
“What’s wrong?” Dre asks, his eyes scanning the room for a threat.
When nothing materializes, their focus lands on me. I feel their gazes burn twin trails up and down my underwear-clad body, but I’m too freaked out to care. I simply turn, presenting my back to them.
“What are these?” I ask, my voice quiet, almost afraid of the answer.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always wanted tattoos, but I was hoping for some flowers or some shit, not weird unknown symbols.
” I start gesticulating wildly, turning my back to the mirror to get a better look.
“They’re like a curse, right? There’s no way those asshole gods gave me a body without strings attached. ”
I'm too focused on the mirror to notice one of them has left.
The black runes are small and intricate—a delicate cluster at the base of my neck, smaller marks tucked behind my ears.
From my shoulders, thick strips run down the backs of my arms, ending just past each elbow.
A bold line of script travels the length of my spine.
When I turn further, I see the patterns continue down the backs of my legs, starting at my hips, wrapping around my ass, and trailing all the way down.
I don’t even realize Emerson has entered the room until he’s standing right behind me. I turn at his presence, looking up at him, my panic still simmering just beneath the surface.
"May I take a closer look at your runes?" he asks, his voice pure, unadulterated logic. It feels like a lifeline.
I nod, grateful. His analytical mind is exactly what I need. He won’t sugarcoat or lie; he’ll give me answers, and that’s the only thing that can smother the panic building inside me.
“There’s no way this is normal, right?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
I feel his breath ghost across my shoulder blade as his fingers skim lightly over the markings.
The touch is clinical in intent, but its effect is something else entirely.
It feels like a soft caress that reaches into my very soul.
Gods, why does the simple sensation of another person’s skin against mine feel so sinful?
That familiar tingle is back, coiling low in my belly, and a reckless part of me wants to turn and guide his hand to other, more desperate places.
I look down, trying to anchor myself against the cacophony of sensations.
My eyes catch on a narrow strip of runes running from the hollow between my breasts down to just above my navel.
Then, a hint of darker ink on my hip draws my attention.
I hook a thumb into the waistband of the borrowed panties and tug the fabric down, exposing a single, distinct marking.
"This one is different," I say, turning my body to face Em.
He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. The moment they land on the mark, he sucks in a sharp, quiet breath and leans down until his face is inches from my skin.
It’s a large crescent moon, but on closer inspection, it’s composed of interlocking bands of tiny, impossibly precise runes, weaving together into a pattern as delicate as lace and about the size of my palm.
His breath ghosts across my hip as he reaches out, hovering before making contact.
Then, his fingers gently trace the pattern.
He stays there for a long moment, his touch light but his mind clearly racing, before he slowly straightens.
His gaze meets mine, and the look in his eyes has shifted from curiosity to a deep, unsettling intensity.
"Take a shower while I research this," he instructs, his voice low. His gaze flicks down, a quick, searing-hot glance that takes in my state of undress, and the intensity in his eyes doesn't waver—it just deepens. He turns sharply, the movement almost abrupt. "I have work to do."
A smile touches my lips as he forcibly tears his gaze away—way too deliberate to be casual. I wait until everyone's gone, ditch the rest of my clothes, and step in.
The moan that comes out of me is absolutely feral. Embarrassing? Probably. Do I care? Not even a little. The water hits my skin, warm and everywhere at once, and oh. Oh .
So this is what the flesh havers have been going on about for ages? I finally get the hype. I'm honestly shocked there's no magic involved—this is basically a hug from the universe.
I take my time in the Bright-Lands-level shower, using generous amounts of Forrest's expensive body wash and hair products. Everything smells like him, so obviously, I use way more than necessary.
Once I've gotten my fill of hot water—and petty revenge for Ro-ro’s shitty attitude—I step out and wrap a towel around myself. I look around and realize I have no clean clothes, so I pad out of the bathroom and down the hallway toward the living room, where the guys are talking.
They all turn to look at me. I give a little, awkward wave.
The energy in the room doesn't just shift. It flatlines. Five different flavors of panic, and I'm the cause of all of them.
Leandre's eyes go wide, darting everywhere like his brain is buffering—torn between his default caretaker mode and, a woman can only hope, ravaging me like I’ve been dreaming of him doing for years.
Kieran's usual sunshine has flickered off completely. Lights are on, but nobody's home. Probably took an impromptu vacation to avoid dealing with the mess that is me.
Emerson is dissecting me with his eyes. This isn't just attraction; it's frantic, obsessive, like he's mentally trying to upload this image to MORDRED so it can be encrypted and locked away in his ultra-secure supercomputer forever.
Forrest looks genuinely affected. And of course, he’s furious about it. His jaw is clenched so tight he’d be grinding stone to dust. His fists are balled at his sides, restraining himself from either bundling me into proper clothing or out of it entirely. I honestly can’t tell which.
My internal plea is directed at the ceiling, at any god who might be listening. Which feels weird—usually I'm flipping them off, not asking for help. But I'm desperate, so. Congratulations, assholes. You win this round.
What am I supposed to do with all this energy? This shit is suffocating—wait, is this what homoerotic asphyxiation feels like? If so, ignore that plea.
I just wanted a shirt. Then I could handle being the focal point of a pent-up, testosterone-fueled, supernatural crisis. Preferably with more chocolate and at least one of them acting as a body pillow.
“I don’t have any clothes,” I explain, trying to throw myself out of the limelight as quickly as possible before I do something rash.
Then I remind myself of my list. Chocolate first, then orgasms.
A snort cuts through the tension.
Oh for the love of—did I just say that out loud again? Yep. Yep, I did. Apparently my brain-to-mouth filter is still loading.
The panic-induced statues—seriously, it was like some meta art project titled "Men Contemplating Their Life Choices"—shatter into startled amusement. They all relax at once, the suffocating energy dissolving into laughter and head shakes.
Well. Except Forrest. He still looks pissed.
Oh well. Can't win 'em all.
At least now they know where my priorities lie.
Anik steps forward without a word and disappears down the hall. Returns moments later with a giant long-sleeved thermal and drawstring pajama bottoms. I take them gratefully and retreat to the bathroom.
Standing before the mirror, I take a deep breath. The clothes swallow me whole, but Anik's scent—deep, wild, and comforting—wraps around me like a shield. I can’t help but smile, feeling a little less adrift as I drown in the fabric.
I square my shoulders, meeting my own silver-eyed gaze.
"Okay, Raven. Chocolate. Answers. Don't embarrass yourself. After all, you are still a bad bitch." A beat. "Maybe one orgasm before the answers. We'll play it by ear."
I give a firm nod, fractionally more grounded, and turn to face whatever comes next.
As I walk past my room, the bed calls to me. My body feels heavy and strange, eyes made of the same concrete as that club basement. I'll just feel it for a second. Then I'll go be a bad bitch. I pull back the covers and crawl under.
"Gods, I thought the couch was comfortable." My voice is already slurring, a weight settling over me that would be panic- inducing if my eyelids weren’t already dragging shut without permission.