Raven Chapter 21 Exhaustion and Ecstasy 270
Raven
My lungs are on fire. Is this the blissful, post-sex haze of a woman who just got absolutely railed?
I fucking wish. No, this is the specific, soul-crushing inferno lit by a drill sergeant who’s profoundly disappointed in his pupil.
Which tracks, because apparently, I’m massively disappointing in the arena of physical prowess.
My muscles—not caring how we got here, just that we’re here—have officially filed a formal complaint and are threatening to unionize.
Anik is circling me like the panther lurking under his skin, his expression disapproving. “Your stance is still too wide. You’re off balance.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to take up more space,” I gasp out, sweat dripping into my eye. The sting is vicious. “You know, assert my dominance. Be the bad bitch I know I am.”
Note to self: sweat doubles as a biological weapon. Who knew?
A tendril of cool, living shadow detaches from the pissed-off shifter and brushes against my aching calf, a bizarrely comforting caress. Anik snarls, a sound of pure frustration, and the shadow snaps back to him.
It’s the third time that’s happened. It would be sweet if it weren’t so confusing. The only other time I've seen him wield his shadows is on missions, and he always has absolute control. I guess I'm just enough of a failure that even his indomitable will is slipping.
I probably shouldn't take it as a win, but I do. The “win” column is getting pretty full. It’s the only thing keeping me from falling into a pit of self-loathing at this point.
"C'mon, Wisp!" Kieran calls from where he’s using a complex-looking series of martial arts dance moves just to adjust the speaker volume. He’s been a one-man entertainment system for the last hour, juggling knives and telling outrageously embellished stories, trying to keep my spirits up. It’s not working, but I appreciate the effort. It’s better than the alternative.
The alternative being Forrest.
“Again,” he commands, his voice not taking on the sultry quality I prefer in my commands, and I decide to steal more of his single socks. I’ll have to do some conspiring with Kieran because he needs to be dropped down a peg or two.
He hasn’t called me Raven since we stepped into this training room.
I am a project. A problem to be solved. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but here we are.
I thought, after yesterday, he was softening.
I was completely wrong. If anything, he’s hardened, and it’s taking everything in me not to press every button I know exists just to watch him explode.
“No,” he snaps. “That block was too slow. In a real engagement, you’d be disarmed and vulnerable.”
No shit, Sherlock. In a real engagement, I’d probably turn the guy into a toad, then vomit on his shoes from the effort. But I don’t say that, I don’t say anything.
Why does he keep doing this? It's supposed to be Anik's session. Morning is his time. Afternoon is Forrest's. But he keeps stepping in, taking over, and acting like he's the only one that can do the job properly. And Anik is just letting him. Which is its own kind of confusing.
I don't have the energy to figure it out right now.
I just nod, my throat too raw to form words anyway, and reset my stance.
However badly I want to complain, I know I can’t.
I'm the one with the target on my back. I'm the one who can't control the world-ending power stuffed inside my soul like one of those turduckens I once saw a human attempt to make.
The least I can do is not bitch about the free, top-tier, supernaturally gifted personal training while hoping this turns out better than the whole catastrophic Thanksgiving exploding foul fiasco.
Because I know, deep down, that I’m the weakest link.
Well, that part is broadcast loud and clear for anyone to see, let’s be real.
The part I’m sure about, down to my very bones, is that if I complain too much, if I’m too much work, their fascination with the shiny new ghost-girl will wear off.
They’ll realize I’m just a broken thing, and broken things get left behind.
“Your grip is incorrect.”
Emerson is suddenly there, his presence a quiet intensity.
He guides my hands on the bo-staff he insisted I learn.
“It’s about geometry and leverage, not brute force.
A pivot point here,” his long, dexterous fingers adjust my hold, “transfers the energy here.” He taps the other end of the staff. “Efficiency.”
For a glorious second, it makes sense. Then my arms shake with fatigue, and the geometry that was just so clear in my brain devolves into pathetic, wobbly lines.
I blame my exhaustion and his hands. I didn't know hands could be attractive, but his are obscene about it.. They’re like works of art, and I want them on me.
And then there’s Leandre.
He’s been hovering at the edge of the room like a gorgeous, brooding monument.
He’s the one who forced a sports drink into my hand ten minutes ago and practically threw an ice pack at me during our last water break.
But his eyes… they won’t ever quite meet mine.
It’s like he’s looking at a stain on the floor just past my shoulder.
And, to be clear, there isn’t one. I’ve checked about a dozen times.
Every time his gaze skitters away from me like I’ve delivered a physical blow, it feels like I’m the one taking the hit.
Did he finally see the messy, needy, nuclear disaster I am underneath all the snark and decide it’s not worth it? How long until the others do the same?
I push the thought down, along with the burn in my thighs. I can do this. I have to.
“Okay,” I wheeze, planting my feet and ignoring the screaming protest from every muscle. “Hit me with your best shot. Or, you know, gently tap me with it. I’m fragile.”
Forrest’s eyes narrow. “Fragility is a luxury you don’t have.”
Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.
Anik steps in before the torture can continue, declaring that we've officially used up all the time he allocates to the morning training session and need to get moving so he can feed us. I think I can forgive him for being a drill sergeant if it means he’ll feed me afterward.
To be fair, most of the session with Anik was okay.
We did some running—which was horrible, don’t get me wrong—before moving onto weightlifting.
That part really wasn't too bad. But it all paled in comparison to the sparring that rounded out this whole shit-show. I’ve decided I’ll be choosing a run with Anik over hand-to-hand combat with Mr. Grumpypants, literally any day, all day.
That’s when I remember: I have a whole other training session today. With just Forrest.
I might just walk off the balcony and see if the trip results in my final demise. If I’m extra lucky, I’ll end up as a ghost-thing again and won’t have to worry about pain ever again.
I shove the thought away the second I realize what it is. Wow. So that's an intrusive thought, huh? No wonder people in the human world were always bemoaning them. The little shits are rude, if not super accurate in the exact moment they happen.
Focus on the positive , I tell myself. Giving up now means admitting defeat. Don’t let him win.
“Aye, right ye are, Wisp.” Kieran says, and I’m too exhausted to even flinch at having announced my inner monologue to the world. Everything hurts too much to care. He flashes me a grin, and for a moment, I forget the pain and just bask in the sheer, radiant beauty of him.
His auburn hair is thrown into a half-up, half-down mess with a tiny, perfect bun perched at the crown of his head. It’s infuriatingly attractive. And how did it survive all his flipping and spinning?
“Why all the flips?” I can’t help but ask. “And why ‘Wisp’?”
His smile just widens. "The 'flips,' as you so cleverly put it, are a part of Capoeira.
A martial art born in Brazil. The enslaved folk who created it made it look like a dance so they could practice right under their oppressors' noses. If the polis showed up, it was just a celebration.” He gives a theatrical spin, landing perfectly.
“There's a power in the deception, in the rhythm. And you cannae beat the flair."
I nod. “And ‘Wisp’?”
“You’re a will-o’-the-wisp made flesh.” He smiles softly at me, the usual cockiness absent. “From the very first moment I saw you, you’ve been nothin' but a captivating, elusive, and brilliantly chaotic force of nature.”
I just stare for a moment, open-mouthed and at a loss as to what to say back to him. He simply smiles, chucks me under the chin playfully, then takes my hand and leads me to Anik’s room.
His room feels so much cozier now that I’m solid.
The walls are a deep, enveloping navy, like I'm tucked inside a safe, dark pocket of the universe. Everything else is made from that heavy, satiny dark wood—the thick trim, the no-nonsense bed, the scarily clean desk, and the massive built-in wardrobe. It all looks like him. Not only could it probably withstand the apocalypse, but it’s all ruthlessly efficient.
Though, not in the same stark way as Forrest’s room.
Forrest's space is a single soft surface away from being utilitarian.
But here, there's a softness I'd never truly noticed before.
It's the little things that make it a home, not just a room.
The bed is piled with a cream-colored duvet that looks stupidly comfortable.
A soft yellow throw is folded with military precision at the foot.
Then I see them. Massive rust-colored velvet curtains, pooling on the floor like they're too decadent to be contained. I drift toward them, finally able to touch. Before I can stop myself, my fingers are sinking into the fabric..
Oh.
I immediately grab a handful and hug it to my chest. Velvet. Thick, soft, expensive -feeling velvet. Another one for the list. I'm not letting go.
I know I've seen it all a hundred times, but physically being in the space is just so much… more.