Raven Chapter 17 Hedonism and Household Appliances 200 #2
A soft hum fills the room and for a moment I’m lost in the peace of it.
Who knew something so mundane could be so chill?
Until, that is, Forrest turns to face me with his arms crossed.
I’m ready for the condescension so when I see a flicker of something else in his gaze—a quiet sort of satisfaction perhaps, I get lost in the depths of it.
“Can you replicate that procedure?” He asks and I catapult back into reality.
I can’t help but give a sloppy salute. “Sort, scoop, and don’t summon a suds elemental. I think I’ve got it, Sir.”
He goes very still at that and a very intense look crosses his eyes before it’s gone and he’s leaving the room. Unable to help myself I go to the other machine and use the little lever on the side to lift up the perfectly folded piles of clothes.
I quickly rifle through the five distinct stacks, assembling my own collection. I snag one of Kieran’s worn-soft band tees, one of Leandre’s impossibly comfortable knit sweaters, and a giant pair of wool socks that could only belong to Anik.
Then I find a pair of multi-pocketed pants that scream Emerson.
I hold them up, count the pockets—six. Six .
As I found out just a few hours ago, women's pants can barely manage two, and even those are usually fake. I glare at the pants like I could somehow reach through them and throttle whatever idiot decided women don’t need pockets.
That’s when I remember purses exist, are probably the reason women don’t get pockets, and tuck away my plan to throat punch the inventor of purses for when I have more time to workshop it.
For good measure, I add one of Kieran’s silk pajama tops because the feel of it is simply too decadent to pass up. Also, because I want to fuck with Ro-ro a little, a single one of his socks.
Clutching my treasures, I retreat to my room and stash them safely alongside the gear from Widget.
Since my own clothes are still a sudsy mountain, I slip into my new acquisitions.
I pull on Kieran’s silk top, and a full-body shiver wracks me as the fabric whispers against my thighs with every movement.
“Gods, I need some orgasms already. I’m getting turned on by a shirt.” I groan.
I turn to leave. Unfortunately, I forgot two things: that I now possess bones, and that I shut the door to stash my loot. Face meets wood. Floor painfully meets body. Me and the unforgiving hardwood, reunited at last.
My hand lands on my cheek and I let out another little groan. I feel like I got bitch-slapped by a door.
Oh, wait. I did.
Once I'm mostly confident I don't have a concussion—which is a guess, since I have no idea what a concussion actually feels like—and only have a probably-bruised cheekbone, I stand up and swing the door open like the confident, kick-ass woman I aspire to be.
Stomping out of my room, I'm immediately captured by a sinful smell drifting down the hall. I practically float towards it. The aroma cuts through the lingering scent of a hundred department store perfumes, yanking me forward like a puppet on a string.
I go willingly because, let's be real, the only deity worth worshiping is food.
“Gods below,” I groan, following the siren’s call into the kitchen. “What is that and what do I need to sell to get some? I haven’t thought about kids but this feels ‘sell your first born son’ worthy.”
Dre is at the stove, his back to me as his shoulders shake slightly in laughter. The sight is so domestic it’s almost jarring. He’s still in his sleek, dark-wash jeans and knit cashmere sweater.
“Welcome home, kjaere.” He says.
I have no idea what he called me. It wasn't English. It was just... soft. Warm. The sound equivalent of being tucked in.
I don't care what it means. I just need him to keep saying it.
“I trust the shopping was successful?” He gestures to the table, which is set with actual place-mats and a lit candle.
My eyes snag on the basket of golden, buttery, garlic knots. I've watched people eat these for decades. The sounds they made. The way they'd close their eyes. The shameless reaching for more before the first bite was even finished.
My feet move without my brain's approval.
“If by successful you mean I now own more fabric than a sailmaker and Anik almost got us kicked out of that massive department store for ‘conducting hostile perimeter sweeps’ then yeah. It was. Wasn’t expecting the world to smell so much though.
” My nose wrinkles. “Some smells I could have gone my entire life not knowing and been perfectly happy about.” I slump into a chair, my eyes still locked on the buttery knots in front of me. “Are those for me?”
He nods, “I wanted to introduce you to my favorite meal in town.” He sets down two plates and my mouth starts leaking. “The rolls in the middle are garlic knots and the pasta is called chicken alfredo.”
“Oh you glorious, beautiful man.” I say as I reach forward, take out two garlic knots and set them on his plate before putting the rest of the basket next to my plate.
He offers a smile that only barely reaches his eyes. “It is nothing. A simple meal.”
But it’s not nothing. He thought of all this, thought of me, then went out and made it happen.
As he settles in his own seat I look at him.
The elegant lines of his face seem sharper, the faint lavender smudges under his eyes more pronounced than I remember them ever being against his pale skin.
He moves with his usual fluid grace, but there’s a tightness to it, like there’s a current of exhaustion running through him that he’s desperately trying to mask.
“Dre,” I say, my voice softening. “You look really tired. Are you okay?”
The question seems to both please and fluster him. “I am perfectly fine. Please, eat.” he insists, motioning for me to dig in. “It is you who had a long day of new experiences. And your evening is not over.”
He meets my gaze, his expression shifting into something gentle yet unyielding. “After you eat, I'll draw you a bath. And I have tiramisu waiting. I was able to pick up some epsom salts, oils, and other essentials.”
I can tell it's not an offer, but a prescription. One I refuse to turn down. The thought of experiencing a bath for the first time sounds more divine than whatever the hell tiramisu is. I've spent hours fascinated by the bliss baths seem to bring people.
I've done my research. I'm ready.
As I take the first bite, the only sound I'm capable of making is a contented hum.
The entire world shrinks down to the plate in front of me—a perfect, cheesy, carb-loaded universe.
It's at this moment that I decide willingly giving up carbs is grounds for a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold.
Because how in the realms can those people be considered sane?
“I’ll come get you in a few minutes.” Dre says as he picks up a little box with a bow on it and heads down the hall.
He’s actually a dream. Not only did he feed me but he’s now giving me a minute to marinate in my own gluttony? Truly, a gem of a supe.
What kind of supernatural though, I have no idea. I try to come up with an explanation for what he could be but my food haze plus lack of first hand experiences with his abilities is getting in the way.
Sure, the man is fast and strong but that’s a Common ability.
Gods, you can’t fart in this district without crop-dusting a shifter that could probably bench press a car.
Him being comfortable in whatever temperature is weirder, leveling up to be considered Uncommon but definitely not something most would look twice at.
For example there’s frost fae who feel as if an air conditioned room is actually a sauna, fire demons who use blizzards like humans use those little misting fans, dragons who just naturally have internal temps that could rival black pavement on a peak summer day, the list goes on.
But mind-reading? That’s the one that always gets me.
It’s classified as Rare. It’s the kind of ability that gets you put on a Council watch-list or makes people stop meeting your eyes.
And he just… has it. Tucked away behind that whole ‘noble doctor’ schtick like it’s no more remarkable than a decent bedside manner.
I get why the telepathy is a secret, but the way he treats it like it's no big deal? That's a testament to who he is. Most supes with a Rare gift are insufferable about it—like they've won the supernatural lottery and need to cash the check in your face every five minutes. He just... doesn't.
Not that I'd know if he had more secrets.
I never spied on him with patients. It just feels too invasive.
And, let's be real, watching someone take blood pressure and diagnose the magical flu sounds boring as hell.
The only time I've seen him in action is during the free pop-up clinics at Anik's gym.
If he has another power tucked up his impeccably tailored sleeve, he's playing it perfectly.
Not wanting to stew in my thoughts anymore I stand up from the table to find Dre. Only he must have had the same idea because when I turn he’s right there, making my heart try to climb up into my throat.
“Fates! Do I need to put a bell on you?” I ask him.
He reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry usually I’m better at making noise to let people know I’m coming.”
“No problem, Dre. Your beauty distracts me all the time so if that’s what happened here I’ll just call it a compliment and move on.”
He goes still at the nickname. I'm pretty sure I've used it before, but it must not have registered. Because this time, a warm smile touches his lips—the kind that reaches his eyes, makes them crinkle at the corners.
I so want to kiss those little wrinkles.
"Then I'll take that as the highest praise, kjaere." His voice is a soft, heartfelt rumble I feel through my whole body. "And I'd gladly return it tenfold."