Raven Chapter 12 Revelations and Belgian Confections 137
Raven
The first thing I’m aware of is a deep, primal craving. It starts as a faint memory on my tongue—an echo of a happy, dark feeling flitting across my awareness. Then it becomes an all-consuming thought, blotting out the lingering fear of runes and the confusion of my new body.
Chocolate.
I stumble my way out of the bedroom, my feet still not entirely trustworthy, driven by a need so intense it feels like a divine mandate.
The hallway stretches before me like a gauntlet.
My legs are wobbly, but by the time I reach the end, I’ve collected only a few measly battle scars: A tingly arm from smashing some hidden button of horrors with my elbow when I collided with the wall, and a promising goose egg from misjudging the distance between my head and a dresser while bending over.
My spatial awareness is, predictably, nonexistent.
It seems the gods issued me this body but skimped on the manual for depth perception. And, apparently, the part of the brain that stops me from saying every unhinged thought that floats through.
Absolute sadists. Or comedians. Hard to tell with gods.
By the time I reach the kitchen, it feels like the only oasis in a vast desert. It stands before me, dark and silent, a tiny kingdom ruled by Anik’s meticulous order.
Or it was.
I try to be careful, I really do. But desperation makes a woman do crazy things.
Like managing to make it look like a bakery exploded in under twenty minutes.
Every cupboard gapes open. Nearly every container lies upended.
I sit cross-legged on the cool tile floor, surrounded by a moat of flour, scattered utensils, and my own despair.
That single, glorious brownie was a tease. There has to be more.
I hear the door creak open, but I just keep sitting there, unable to move out of my puddle of misery and longing.
When I hear footsteps enter the kitchen, I look up and lock eyes with Ki-ki.
He’s frozen, staring over the kitchen island at me.
He blinks, taking in the warzone and me, the flour-dusted mess in the center of it all.
A slow, delighted smile spreads across his face. "Well, now. This is a delightful surprise. Anik's gonnae lose his mind, wisp."
“I can’t find it,” I whisper, my voice thick with a desperation that would be embarrassing if it weren’t so real.
His expression softens from amusement to understanding. “The chocolate?”
I can only nod miserably.
"Lucky for ye, I'm a man of impeccable timing and taste." He holds up a small, elegant box tied with a ribbon. “Managed tae snag these on the way home from work. Artisan. Assorted.”
I’m across the room faster than I’ve moved since becoming corporeal.
I don’t know how my legs managed it, but I’m here now, snatching the box with a sound of pure, unadulterated greed.
I rip it open, and the colorful array inside makes my head spin.
A strong hand settles on my shoulder—Kieran, guiding me to a stool before my legs give out, as I blindly select my first piece.
“That one’s milk chocolate,” he says, leaning against the counter, watching me with undisguised fascination. “Creamy. Sweet. The crowd-pleaser.”
I pop it into my mouth, and my eyes roll back.
It’s different from the brownie—softer, smoother, and dangerously addictive.
It’s so good it almost makes me regret having a functioning nervous system, because now I know what I’ve been missing for literal decades.
I also finally understand why physical beings spend their lives chasing sensations like this.
I'd sell a minor piece of my soul for the recipe. Only a minor piece, though—a recipe requires me to do work. For a lifetime supply as is? Take the whole thing. No hesitation.
"Then there's dark chocolate," Kieran continues, his voice a low, instructional purr. "Bitter, complex. An acquired taste for some. And white chocolate, which is… well, pure decadence, that. All sugar and cream."
Just then, Emerson pads into the kitchen, drawn by the sound of voices or perhaps the psychic disturbance of my craving—it really was that intense.
Ope, never mind. He’s just getting some tea.
“Technically,” he corrects, making his way to the stove and turning on the kettle, “white chocolate isn’t chocolate at all. It contains no cocoa solids, only cocoa butter. It’s a confectionery imposter.”
I ignore him and leave him to his tea as I am way too busy letting a second piece coat my tongue. Kieran just winks at me. "Dinnae listen to him, wisp. If it tastes like heaven, it is heaven. Rules are for folk that dinnae like fun."
The moment is shattered by the doorway filling with a thundercloud that I lovingly refer to as Ani-bear.
His gaze sweeps over the apocalyptic state of his kitchen—the open cabinets, the scattered contents, the absolute carnage—then lands on me. On the box of chocolate in my hands. The evidence.
He doesn't say a word. Just stares.
I hold up the box. "In my defense, I couldn't find any at first. And then Kieran showed up with this, and really, the mess is technically his fault for enabling me."
Something in Anik's jaw tightens.
Forrest is right behind him, impeccably dressed even though he’s in training clothes. He doesn’t even glance at the mess. His focus is on—and you'll never guess this one—the schedule.
“The state of the kitchen is irrelevant. We can clean it up after we discuss Emerson’s preliminary analysis. We’re wasting daylight. Our time would be better spent training and assessing any new threats this new information reveals.”
I look from Anik’s rage to Forrest’s cold efficiency, then down to the half-eaten box of chocolates in my lap.
Kieran is smirking as Emerson is mumbling nonsense about my “prioritization of immediate sensory reward over critical information,” which might sting more if I couldn't feel Anik's stare boring into the side of my face.
And I realize, with a jolt of guilt that is almost stronger than the sugar rush, that I had completely forgotten. Emerson had answers. About the runes. About me.
But in my defense… chocolate. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Like, are orgasms really any better than this? I doubt it at this point.
A light seems to turn on in my brain, and my head snaps up.
“Guys!” I say, as seriously as I can with a mouth still lightly coated in chocolate. “Is all food this delicious?”
“Aye, I’d hope so,” Kieran says as he leans forward. “I enjoy listening to you make so many scrumptious sounds.”
He reaches out and swipes a thumb across the corner of my mouth, coming away with a smudge of chocolate.
I watch, mesmerized, as he brings it to his lips and licks it clean, his eyes locked on mine the entire time.
To say I'm hot and bothered would be an understatement.
If I weren't clutching this chocolate box for dear life, I would have launched myself at him.
Then, an idea materializes. Holding his gaze, I slowly drag the tip of my tongue over my lips. I select a piece of dark chocolate and, as seductively as I can manage, bring it to my mouth. His smile falters as I wrap my lips around it and bite down.
But the sexy seduction attempt is instantly ruined as the rich, complex, and slightly bitter flavor explodes across my tongue. A low, involuntary moan escapes me as my eyes flutter shut. The sound is met with laughter. When I open my eyes, Dre is there, clapping a stunned Kieran on the back.
When in the nine realms did he get here?
"I think you've met your match, brother," Dre says, humor glinting in his light blue eyes.
"To answer your earlier question," Emerson interjects, "not all food will be as potent as chocolate. But given your… lack of prior experience, I suspect it will all be, at least, intensely novel."
I shoot Emerson a grateful smile before sliding off the island stool.
I should have known that getting down from an elevated stool would be too much for my newly corporeal legs to handle.
The universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided this was the moment to remind me that gravity is still a thing.
I hop down and immediately go toppling forward, a small squeak escaping me.
Anik catches me effortlessly, as if he'd been expecting it. I look up at him, suspicious, and find the rage has vanished from his eyes, replaced by a spark of amusement and a low, simmering heat.
“How did you know I was going to do that?” I ask.
He just gives me a smirk. “You aren’t the most graceful thing, little one.”
I scowl. "You can blame these stupid corporeal jelly legs." Then I gasp, leaning down to pat my thighs apologetically. "I'm just kidding, you're not stupid." I wait a beat, half-expecting them to vanish in retaliation for the insult. When they don't, I smile triumphantly up at Anik.
His smirk deepens, but it's Dre's voice that cuts in from somewhere behind us. "I don't think parts of you will disappear simply because you insult them."
I shrug without looking away from Anik. "I don't want to take any chances.
I've been a weird ghost thing for forty years, and I would rather keep this body." I scrunch up my face. “Something tells me I won’t be getting a second chance. Sadists aren’t into second chances unless it includes more pain than the first time around.” I shudder at the concept.
Everyone just stares at me, a little confused, before Forrest breaks the silence, all business as usual.
"Shall we sit in the living room and discuss?"
“What happened to wanting to train?” I ask him.
I can’t help but poke him a little. I’ve decided that, no matter what, I'm going to break through that cool, calm facade.
I've seen how he is with his brothers—more relaxed, but always guarded. One of these days, I want to smash that guard down and crawl inside. I want to bury myself so deep he’ll never get me out.
And then I want him to do the same to me. Preferably in the most literal, sexual way possible.