Raven Chapter 19 Bad Men and Blanket Burritos 241 #2
Then my brain catches up, slotting the memory of the weaselly, sweating man from the budget meeting into place. Right. No one else in that room had looked at me twice. Eamon, the guy with enough power to make the air hum, only glanced my way once. The pendant had worked on everyone. Except one.
And based on the furious set of Forrest’s jaw, Davison’s life expectancy just took a catastrophic nosedive.
His eyes hold mine for a long, breathless second, and I swear I can read the words he’s refusing to say, hovering in the air between us like smoke. They touched what is mine. He only gets like this—this cold, focused, world-ending kind of furious—when one of his own is threatened.
So… does that mean I am one of his?
The thought sends treacherous ripples of hope through me, a feeling so warm and dangerous I immediately try to shove it down. Choosing to be a disappointed realist over a heartbroken idiot.
“Come,” he commands, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from grabbing the comically low-hanging fruit. The man just told me to come. He has to know the war I’m waging against my own mouth. “We’re going home. Anik and the others are waiting.”
My stomach chooses that moment to let out a loud, plaintive growl, as if reminding everyone of my one true, unwavering priority. Forrest’s gaze flicks down, and his jaw clenches again. Why is he mad at my stomach? I don’t control the feral beast. The thing has a mind of its own.
He settles me into the plush leather passenger seat, snapping my seatbelt in place, before circling the car and getting in.
The doors lock with a definitive thunk. He taps a button on the dashboard screen, and I listen as he coolly orders a clean-up crew to the garage to "detain the three individuals. "
He calls it an attempt on him. Which makes sense when they're trying to hide my existence, but seriously?
Who's going to believe that? Three randos—ones with very low-level magical signatures—jumping the Forrest Hatcher? And in his super secure building’s super secure parking garage, no less. Not exactly plausible.
“I think two of them might be past the point of ‘detainment,’” I tell him after he ends the call. “They cracked in a way that seemed pretty… permanent.”
He shakes his head, pulling the sedan smoothly out of the parking spot. “Shifters can heal almost anything. All three of them were some kind of predator or reptile. I don’t have Anik’s nose to know for sure.”
“So, how do you kill them?” I ask, a cold dread settling in at the thought of one day facing down a mob of un-killable tanks.
“Beheading, exsanguination, or burning.” He squints, thinking it over, then adds as a casual afterthought, “Unless it’s a dragon, of course. Dragons need their hearts torn out and plunged into a bucket of ice water.”
“What the fuck,” I breathe, the gruesome visual now permanently seared into my brain.
“Their hearts are engulfed in flames,” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s how they’re able to wield and breathe fire.”
“Oh-kay then,” is all I can manage.
How does your heart being on fire even work? Isn’t it all wet inside of you? Supes are insane. Wait. Would I die if I’m beheaded? I feel like gods, or demi-gods in my case, have to be made of sturdier stuff. When I voice that particular question though, his skin flashes all stone like again.
“We’ll never find out,” his voice, flat and final, leaving no room for argument.
I deflate against the leather seat. A really morbid part of me wants to know. I need a failsafe. I need to recruit someone to learn how to do it and follow me around with a cosmic off-switch, just in case I go nuclear. I refuse to kill a bunch of people because I’m a mess that lost control.
The guys would never get behind it. They’d see it as an unacceptable surrender. But Widget… I could probably talk the little ferret into it. Fates, Silas might even be down to learn. The real question is, do I want to give a madman the key to my demise?
Yeah, let's just shelf that thought for now. I’ll come back to it when the adrenaline has worn off.
Speaking of which, I totally get the term ‘adrenaline junkie’ now.
My blood is singing, and my knee won’t stop bouncing.
I know, logically, that this high is a loan shark with brutal terms—the crash is coming, and it’s going to be ugly.
I’ve seen it happen hundreds of times. But for now, I’m riding this high.
I even start taking bets with myself on how quickly I can talk Kieran into taking me on a rollercoaster. I give it thirty seconds. Maybe less.
The car gliding to a stop pulls me from my musings.
Forrest is out and around to my side before I can fumble for the handle, opening the door.
I reach up to take his offered hand and realize mine is trembling.
I chalk it up to the leftover current zipping through my veins and ignore it.
A part of me wants to bolt into the setting sun and run until I’m empty.
Another, louder part, wants to curl up in a dark room and pass out.
Preferably after no less than five earth-shattering orgasms.
As we stand in the metal coffin shooting us twenty floors into the sky, I can feel the wonderful, dizzying high beginning to drain away.
I try to cling to it, to fist it in my hands, but the harder I grip, the faster it slips through my fingers.
Soon, the fine tremor in my hands has become a full-body shudder, a jittery, bone-deep vibration I can’t control.
Forrest, on the other hand, is an absolute statue of controlled fury.
His suit jacket is back on, and aside from looking slightly rumpled, the faint cut on his cheekbone is the only evidence that anything happened at all.
Well, except for me. I feel like a half-drowned, electrocuted rat next to his composed perfection.
We step into the penthouse. The sound of the guys—their voices, their movement—drifts from the kitchen just off the entryway.
We can’t see them yet, but the scent of Anik’s cooking wraps around me like a promise.
I bend to wrestle with my boots, but the laces have transformed into a demented, impossible puzzle in the face of my violent shaking.
Before I can even form a curse, Forrest is there.
He gets down on one knee, his movements deliberate and calm.
His large, steady hands gently push mine aside, and he carefully unlaces first one boot, then the other, sliding them from my feet.
He stands, places them neatly by the door, and without a word, walks into the kitchen, leaving me standing there in my taco socks, gaping like a fish.
I follow him, and the minute we’re fully in their sight, silence falls like a guillotine.
Dre is the first to move, a blur of motion that I don’t think has anything to do with vampire speed and everything to do with the focused intent glinting in his eyes as he comes to a stop before me. He doesn’t ask what happened; he just assesses.
“Raven. Look at me.” His voice is calm, preternaturally steady, as his eyes scan my pupils.
His fingers, cool and gentle, come up to gently grasp my wrist, checking my pulse.
His other hand rises to cup my cheek, his palm a blessed, icy balm against the part of me that seems to throb now that the adrenaline has deserted me.
A pathetic, relieved groan escapes me before I can stop it.
“Are there any more injuries I can’t see? Any pain? Dizziness?” he asks as he physically moves to stay between me and the others, like he’s trying to keep me in a little protective bubble.
It works. For a moment, I forget about the others—until a rapidly building, dangerous energy registers in the back of my mind. I look past Leandre's shoulder, my eyes landing on Anik.
He’s frozen behind the island, a wooden spoon in his hand like he was just taste testing whatever is bubbling away on the stove behind him.
The air around him is wrong . Darkness seems to undulate from his form, a living shadow that snaps and curls at the edges.
His eyes are glowing, a pure, feral green-gold that is all panther.
His nostrils flare, and his stare is locked, unblinking, on the blooming bruise on my cheek.
The absolute, predatory stillness of him is a thousand times more terrifying than any yell could be.
When he finally speaks, it’s in a low, gravelly rumble that cuts through the room and silences everyone else.
“Who. Hurt. Her.”
It’s not a question. It’s a death warrant, notarized and signed in triplicate.
And my body, in a moment of sheer genius, substitutes one problem for another. The shaking ebbs, replaced by a different, warmer quiver deep in my core. An upgrade, if I'm being honest.
A pathetic little whimper escapes me.
Everyone’s eyes snap to me at the sound, as if they’re only just now processing the full, disheveled picture.
Forrest is focused on Anik. “Call your man. We need to bring Davison in. Now.”
Kieran’s charming smile is gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. He cracks his knuckles, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
“Davison, ye say?” he asks Forrest, his accent thickening with the anger I’d apparently missed the briefing on. “Weel, the bastard chose the wrong side tae play for.”
Forrest’s eyes are still on Anik. Not having left him since the moment he ordered the call.
Anik’s head gives a barely there shake before the phone gets set down.
“No answer. GPS tracking is deactivated.” Is all he says.
Kieran turns, his body literally vibrating. “How long until ye find where he’s hidin’?”
I follow his gaze to Emerson, who is also staring at me. Not with worry, but with a cold, furious intensity that makes that inconvenient quiver in my stomach flare into a bonfire.