Raven Chapter 21 Exhaustion and Ecstasy 270 #2
I was lost before I even realized it, cocooned in the space of a man I can never seem to get a read on.
He's like a bear. He keeps every instinct locked down under a layer of calm so thick you'd think his default setting is "chill as fuck, bro.
" But it's not peace; it's patience. The man doesn't have a placid bone in his body.
I think he's actually just wishing a bitch would.
That would give him a reason to stop pretending, at least.
In that second, I decide I'm gonna be the bitch who would.
In a fun, sexy way, that is. All that pent-up aggression has got to translate to nothing but top-tier experiences in the bedroom.
I'd totally let that man hunt me like the bear he so much resembles.
Maybe that's why his room feels like a warm and cozy cave.
"Are we positive Anik isn't a bear shifter?
" I ask. "Wait, where is he?" I look around, hoping for a glimpse of the shirtless shifter equivalent of a juicy sirloin steak.
Or whatever the best cut is. I haven't gotten all this food jargon down yet, but one day I'll be able to compare man meat to actual meat like the best of them.
“He’s already showered and in the kitchen, so ye can use his shower.” He walks in, opens up a drawer in the dresser across the room, and hands me a massive t-shirt. “Just in case there’s no’ a spare robe in there.”
I thank Kieran and make my way into the bathroom. Once I get a good look at the inside, my mouth gapes open and my brain short-circuits.
I'd given bathrooms a wide berth as a ghost. Not just because some lines even an invisible eavesdropper shouldn't cross—but because if I'd broken that boundary, even unknowingly, it would have poisoned something before it even started.
Without a body, without sensations, it was an easy line to draw. An important one.
I’d braced myself for utilitarian tiles in moody colors and some masculine soap. Not whatever paradise this is.
This isn't a bathroom. It's a godsdamn jungle.
The walls are a matte forest green, so deep and dark they seem to drink the light from the oil-rubbed bronze sconces, leaving the air thick and shadowed.
The floor is cool, flat river rock under my bare feet, and the scent hits me first—not soap, but clean, damp earth and the green, living breath of plants.
And holy god balls, the plants .
A whole damn wall is alive—a tapestry of mosses and ferns and philodendron leaves so glossy they look wet.
It’s all anchored by a freestanding tub so massive it could double as a baptismal font for giants.
From a pot in the corner, a pothos has staged a full-scale coup, its vines strung across the ceiling in a living canopy.
Above it all, a strip of soft, amber light runs along the ceiling, hidden behind the foliage. It's not a window—there are no windows in here—but it feels like one. Like the sun is perpetually setting over a jungle canopy, and you just happened to be underneath it.
Little shelves host smaller, draping things, their tendrils reaching like they're trying to grab a piece of anyone who walks by.
A trickling sound pulls my gaze to a waterfall built right into the living wall. It's the only noise, a constant, shushing whisper that makes the rest of the world feel like it's been muted.
I roll my eyes. Of course Anik's bathroom would weaponize peace.
It makes total sense his private sanctuary is a controlled, perfect little ecosystem where he gets to play both the apex predator and the nurturing god. The vanity is a slab of polished dark wood, the counter a honed black slate. Everything is heavy, solid, immovable. Just like him.
It’s the most aggressively peaceful place I’ve ever been.
I have the sudden, primal urge to press my face into the moss wall and inhale, or to stick my tongue out and catch that trickling water just to see what wild tastes like.
This room isn’t just a place to get clean.
It’s the lair of a man who is, at his core, pure, untamed instinct that’s decided to pull on tactical cargo pants and learn to cook.
And I want to lick it. And him. Not necessarily in that order.
When I step into the shower alcove—no glass or curtain to ruin the view of my new favorite jungle—I notice there’s just a single knob. I stand to the side and crank it all the way, waiting for the water to get scalding before dialing it back to the perfect, blissful temperature I prefer.
Gods, Anik and the rest of them need to give Forrest a masterclass in bathroom planning. For how minimalist Forrest’s bedroom is, the fifteen-odd knobs in his shower seem like a special kind of psychological torture. This? One knob. It makes sense.
As I shower, my brain gets to work, scheming up an excuse Anik will actually believe that’ll let me use his bathroom more often.
Don’t get me wrong, Em and Dre have a perfectly usable, luxurious bathroom, but it’s luxurious in a sterile, modern penthouse way.
This is a type of luxury I didn’t know existed—primal, living, and darkly cozy. I want to move in.
I wash my hair twice. Everything in here is labeled almond-scented, and while I've learned I'm a big fan of the way almonds smell, I figure the scent is mostly wasted on Anik.
This light, delicate sweetness against his raw primal thunderstorm and man scent?
It's like lighting a candle in a hurricane. Pointless.
After marinating in the stuff, I finally get out. I wrap myself in one of the big, fluffy towels hanging on a hook and pad over to his vanity, hunting for leave-in conditioner. Dre had stashed a tube in the other bathroom with a note, and my hair was infinitely more manageable because of it.
Finding nothing, I fling the door open and nearly step on the very bottle I was just thinking about.
Scooping it up, I dart back inside and work it through my still dripping hair.
I scrunch the unruly mass with a towel a few times to get out the excess water before slipping the shirt Kieran sent in with me on.
The action makes me smile as I remember my earlier discovery.
Last night, I could've sworn someone had been in my room. The mountain of laundry on my bed was gone, but I was too exhausted to care. This morning, I'd stumbled over to the built-in wardrobe—the one I'd barely glanced at since I landed here—and pulled it open.
And promptly lost five minutes of my life gaping.
It's like someone turned it into a TARDIS.
The inside is bigger than my entire bedroom.
Racks and racks of clothes, all organized by type, color, maybe even mood.
There are buttons on the inside of the door labeled stuff like "pants," "shirts," "dresses," and when you press one, the whole thing rotates to show you that section.
It's like the door machine from Monsters, Inc., if the door machine was designed by someone with a filing fetish.
It seems like a very Forrest way to organize a wardrobe but there’s no way he cares enough to sort and put away an entire mountain of wrinkled clothing. It’s a mystery to be solved. If I can remember to solve it, that is.
Making my way toward the kitchen, I think about running across the hall to my new magic wardrobe before shrugging and continuing down the hall.
Pants aren't necessary with how long this shirt is on me.
A small, vengeful part of me is deeply curious to see if I can make Ro-ro's eyebrow twitch at my "lacking decorum. "
Once I’m out of the hall and into the main living space, I march straight to the island like a woman on a mission.
I’m so focused that I don’t clear the little table behind the couch well enough and clip it hard with my hip.
After a few very colorful, very blasphemous curses that would make a sailor proud, I resume my mission.
I slide onto a stool and waste no time, pointing a finger at Anik, who's plating something that smells like heaven.
"Okay, new rule. I'm commandeering your bathroom.
First, your shower has one knob. Forrest's has a control panel that I'm pretty sure is wired to a nuclear silo.
Second, it's strategically closer to the food than Em's and Dre's, which is a great way to keep a gal motivated, you know?
Oh, and I've formed a symbiotic relationship with your foliage.
I've named your massive, probably sentient, pothos Larry, and I simply can't abandon him.
" I look over at Em. "I think we should set up some play dates between him and MORDRED. I think they'd vibe."
Taking a deep breath, my brain shifts gears. "Ooh, what's for breakfast? Smells amazing."
Kieran chokes on his coffee beside me before setting his mug down.
Em has gone perfectly still, his sketchpad forgotten as his gaze scrapes up and down my body with an intensity that feels downright sexual.
It’s not a leer, just his particular—and downright delicious—form of obsession.
Dre’s look just confuses me. He’s looking at me with this sad little forlorn smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Not knowing how I screwed up between us is going to eat at me, but I also am way too terrified to ask because then it makes it real, and sometimes living in the land of delusion is pleasant.
Anik doesn't even look up. He's too busy arranging food with the kind of focus most people reserve for surgery or maybe origami. The man takes his plating seriously.
“Chorizo and egg breakfast burritos,” is all he says, and I notice his jaw is tight with either strain or anger. My first guess is anger; maybe he didn’t like my claim to his space? I should have probably thought about that before just blurting it out.