Raven Chapter 19 Bad Men and Blanket Burritos 241 #3
Right. Of the two options I’d considered earlier, running until I collapse is officially off the table. The only viable course of action is a thorough, repetitive dicking down that only stops when I can no longer feel my own legs.
“End of the hour,” Emerson states, his voice clipped. He throws a glance at Kieran. “I have a book on advanced interrogation techniques from the 1700s. I’ve been meaning to field-test the chapter on psychological disintegration.”
“This emotionalism is unproductive,” Forrest declares, his voice like chipped ice. “Torture is statistically unreliable. We need a strategy, not a vendetta.”
The room freezes. The air crackles with the challenge, each man drawing himself up, ready to argue. I can’t stand it. If I don’t move or speak soon, I am going to shamelessly assault one of them in a desperate attempt to get the party in my pants to calm the hell down.
I beam a ridiculously bright smile at all of them. “I smell food. What are we having?”
Kieran, bless his chaotic heart, senses my desperate need for a lifeline and shifts with me seamlessly. “Anik’s lamb korma is a fuckin’ treat. Which you deserve after havin’ to put up with this grumpy oaf all day.” He jerks a thumb toward Forrest, and I snort.
It’s enough. The spell of impending violence breaks. Shoulders relax by a fraction, and everyone begins a slow, tense migration toward the table, shelving the discussion of vengeance for the semblance of a normal dinner.
Leandre pulls out a chair for me. “You need to eat something, kjaere. You were skirting shock when you walked in. It’s good to get your blood sugar up.”
“You won’t hear me complaining. I’m starving,” I agree, my attention already hijacked by the aromas from the kitchen.
Leandre’s eyes narrow, his gaze slipping toward Forrest. “How busy was it at the office?” he asks, the question deceptively casual.
“Very,” I say around a mouthful of air, my stomach growling in agreement. “I think Ro-ro called lunch ‘collateral damage,’ which is just so many shades of wrong.”
A giant bowl of rice is slammed down in front of me with enough force to make the table shudder.
I barely notice. The world is already narrowing to the steam rising from the rice.
I transfer a small mountain onto my plate, then bury it under a river of glorious, golden sauce, meat, and vegetables.
The first forkful is in my mouth before it even has time to cool down properly.
I just breathe through my mouth as I soak in all the sensations.
The texture alone could start revolutions—creamy sauce clinging to meat so stupidly tender it practically dissolves on my tongue.
It’s a chaotic mess of flavors that have no business working together, and yet, it's the most right thing I’d ever put in my mouth.
“How sure are you that you’re a shifter?” I ask Anik around a mouthful of transcendent sauce.
He blinks, pulled from his rage induced silence. “Yes.”
“Well, if I were going off your cooking alone,” I say, waving my fork, “I’d say you were a culinary warlock who traded his soul for seasonings and an absolutely biteable ass.”
I definitely meant to stop after ‘seasonings,’ but my mouth decided to keep going.
A strangled sound comes from Kieran’s direction. “Wisp, if you think his cooking is good, just wait until you try his ma's.” He closes his eyes, a look of pure rapture on his face. “She'll make you think the gods are worth abandonin.”
I snort. “Well, I’m already there, but that won’t stop me from appreciating the food anyway.”
A sudden silence crashes down around me. I lower my fork, confused, and look around the table. Every single one of them—even Forrest—is staring at me with a mixture of shock and dawning horror. All except Kieran.
“Yer ma is a literal goddess, wisp,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
“Doesn’t guarantee she’s not a power-hungry psychopath,” I shrug, the casual gesture at odds with the acid creeping into my tone.
“I floated in literal isolation for decades and watched people suffer on a daily basis. My opinion on the gods is about the same place you find the rats—in the gutter.” I cock my head, reconsidering.
“Actually, no. Scratch that. My head is the thing in the gutter. My opinion on the gods is in the sewer.”
Kieran just snorts, breaking the tension, and everyone else reluctantly picks up their forks. It doesn’t take them long to finish, and, to be honest, I’m done quicker than I’d have preferred. I was just so hungry, and that korma was so freaking good. Like, sell-your-firstborn-child good.
“Now that everyone is fed, perhaps we’d like to move into the living room to discuss strategy?” Forrest proposes, his CEO voice firmly back in place.
I see Leandre give him a hard look before getting up without a word and heading to the fridge.
He returns, holding his hand out for me.
I take it, letting him lead me to the sofa with a steady hand on my back, my eyes glued to the fancy, stemmed glass in his other hand.
It looks like it’s filled with liquid chocolate.
Which means my brain has officially vacated the premises of "Strategy & Planning" and is now ready to dive headfirst into a new taste sensation.
I settle into my spot—the one I dibbed when I first became corporeal—and Leandre drapes a blanket over my legs. It’s one I don’t think I’ve seen before, impossibly soft and squishy. It’s wonderful. And it’s totally mine now.
I glance around, assessing who would see me steal it right this second. Kieran’s smirk is focused directly on me as Emerson talks with him quietly, pulling out a sketchbook.
Fine . I’ll just wait until after the guys have their tense, angry planning session. I can be patient when there’s murder to plan.
“This is called mousse,” Leandre explains, handing me the glass and a delicate spoon. “It’s rich, but I don’t think that will be an issue for you.”
He’s only halfway through the sentence before I’ve taken a massive, heaping scoop and shoved it into my mouth.
No point in small measures, not when there’s chocolate to be had.
Especially when it’s as divine as this. It’s like if chocolate had a baby with a sinful, velvety cloud.
An unabashed moan escapes me as I lick the spoon clean.
I wonder if Leandre could just fill an IV bag with this and hook me up for a continuous supply.
“Are you done?” Forrest asks, his voice tight, the moment I’ve practically licked the glass clean. I become aware of several sets of eyes locked on me, having watched the entire, undignified process.
Kieran flashes a grin that’s all teeth. “ We’re already working on it. Emerson and I are designing a multi-sensory interrogation experience for our friend Davison. We think he’ll find it… life-changing.”
I sit up straighter, the blanket pooling around my waist, and look across at Emerson. He’s sketching a disturbingly intricate device in his notebook, all straps and sharp angles.
He doesn’t bother to look up. “The initial focus will be on psychological disintegration. We’ll need to first: induce a primal state of fear to weaken his mental fortitude, followed by a targeted array of physical stimuli to systematically break his resistance.”
I probably shouldn’t find the cold, academic description of dismantling a man’s mind so wildly appealing. I’m blaming the chocolate. It’s definitely worked me into a mood.
Forrest scoffs from his post against the wall, a statue of judgment. “This is precisely how we make mistakes. You’re proposing a spectacle, not an investigation. Your lack of discipline will get someone else killed.”
The room plunges into a silence so deep I can hear the hum of the refrigerator from here. On the other side of me, Anik turns his head slowly. The movement is purely predatory, a panther tracking its prey. I would not want to be in Ro-ro’s shoes right now.
"You.” Anik’s voice is a low, gravelly threat. “Starved her. Let her get hurt. She’s exhausted and you don't get to speak."
He’s right—I am exhausted, bone-deep. But he’s also being brutally harsh, and I can practically hear the sound of Forrest tearing himself apart inside his own head.
“Guys,” I interject, my voice softer than I intended.
“Please don’t get mad on my account. No one could have predicted this.
It happened in the basement of a building that’s probably more secure than Fort Knox.
The blame lies with that turd nugget Davison, not Forrest.” I gesture vaguely toward my cheek.
“Ro-ro got there before this turned into something far worse. He did all the heavy lifting. Criticizing each other isn’t going to help anyone. ”
Forrest’s volcanic gaze, which had been locked on Anik, snaps to me.
For one single, unguarded moment, his expression is one of pure, unadulterated shock.
His brows lift, his jaw losing its ever-present clench.
It’s there and gone in a heartbeat, but I saw it.
I did that. I shook the unshakable gargoyle.
Then, the mask resettles, not into icy fury, but into a weary, grim resolve. He pushes off the wall, the movement tired but deliberate.
“I appreciate you saying that,” he says, and his voice is that lower, quieter tone I’ve only ever heard him use with his brothers. “But the fact is, we’re compromised. Our previous security measures were inadequate. We can’t afford that again.”
He meets my eyes, and the intensity is still there, but it’s focused, analytical. A part of me is also certain I’m not going to like what he has to say next just by the set of his jaw.