Raven Chapter 21 Exhaustion and Ecstasy 270 #3
An apology is at the tip of my tongue, but gets shoved right back down as a little shadow—a wisp of cool darkness—streaks from him and wraps possessively around my calf like an affectionate cat. It lasts for a single, shocking heartbeat before it snaps back to him so fast the air crackles.
Okay. Well. Now he's confusing me as much as Dre.
I don't get to dwell on it, though, because Forrest starts speaking, the report he was reading lying ignored on the counter.
“The system has separate controls for a reason,” he states, his voice low and flat, the way he gets when he’s forced to explain something he considers fundamentally obvious.
“The thermostatic valve controls temperature with precision. The pressure control is independent. The steam function, massage jets, rain head, and standard head are for targeted hydrotherapy. It’s not a control panel. It’s a tool for optimizing recovery.”
The look he gives me is so profoundly, hilariously serious, like I just insulted his firstborn child instead of his shower, and I count his utter inability to recognize a joke as a win in the Raven column.
I also decide that the fact he sees his shower as a tool for optimized recovery but refuses to nap on anything but a roll-up mattress—because anything else would be classified as decadence—is going to be the first order of business with our future therapist.
For the next chunk of my morning, I discover several of my new favorite foods.
Apparently, chorizo breakfast burritos are a top-tier physical experience, and all those random items he was plating were various toppings.
The chorizo, the fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy little breakfast potatoes, the guacamole, the pico de gallo, the cheese, and the tortilla itself all get my stamp of approval.
But then Anik sets down a small bowl of something white, flecked, and molten. Queso, he calls it. I dip the edge of my burrito in on instinct, and the moment it hits my tongue, my soul briefly leaves my body. It's warm, it's creamy, it's absolute perfection.
And the gods had nothing to do with it.
Some human—or supernatural, whoever—looked at milk and heat and some other stuff and thought, what if I made this better? And then they did. No divine intervention. No cosmic blessing. Just someone who really wanted melted cheese and figured it out.
I can respect that. I can worship that. The gods can keep their blessings. I'll take the queso.
I immediately rip my burrito open and start smothering it everywhere.
Inside. Outside. I pause with the bowl over my potatoes and consider.
Queso on potatoes? Absolutely. Queso on vegetables?
Probably. Queso on chocolate? I stare at the bowl, then at the little individually wrapped chocolates in another bowl on the counter.
Even I have limits. Actually, I think I've just discovered another hard limit. Now I'm up to two: solitary confinement and putting queso on sweet things.
I've also decided that whatever refried beans are can crawl back into the fiery pit of whichever hell they belong to.
Anik and Forrest can keep their "protein" and "fiber" and "it's a complete protein when paired with rice"—I'm not eating that nonsense.
At least Kieran is on my side in the Great Bean Debate, the two of us united against the chalky mush enthusiasts.
Everyone gives a quick rundown of their day, and I find out I’ll be holding down the fort with Kieran and Em until Forrest comes home for our thrilling afternoon training session.
I am extremely excited for the next part of the day, but significantly less excited for the hellish session that will involve rallying my muscles from where they’ve crawled off to die.
Breakfast gets cleaned up in short order, and the penthouse begins to empty. Before Dre can make his escape, I dart over and clasp his hand.
"Thank you for the conditioner," I say, squeezing his fingers. "I was going to ask who left it, but then I remembered you're the only one who actually thinks about things like 'hair maintenance' and 'basic self-care.' So. Thanks."
He freezes. For a heartbeat, his cool hand is rigid in mine. Then he pulls away as if my touch is acid. “It’s nothing,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes before he practically sprints from the apartment.
The door clicks shut, and I deflate. What the hell did I do? The question echoes in the sudden silence, reverberating around inside my head.
The sound of the front door closing again—this time behind Anik and Forrest—snaps me out of it. The energy in the room shifts instantly.
Emerson is suddenly just there, his focus narrowing on me like a laser sight. “Silas has acquired new texts. Their relevance to our study is significant.”
It's not a request. He's already heading for the door, a man on a mission, and I'm already moving before my brain catches up to my feet. The man gives orders without giving orders. It's infuriating. It's also working.
Godsdammit.
A pattern starts forming in my brain.
First Anik weaponized peace in his bathroom, now Emerson is weaponizing certainty. These men are going to ruin me with their aggressive competence, and I'm just letting it happen.
The real treat here, though, is that his ass in the pants he's wearing would lead even the most pious individual straight to any of the various hells in the Dark Reaches.
Should I have asserted myself long enough to put on pants?
Probably. Underwear? Definitely. But what they don't know won't kill them.
Like the good girl I pretend to be, I follow Em like the sinner I actually am, eyes glued on his incredibly sculpted ass. He might not be leading me to literal ruin and damnation, but he is leading me to Silas, which is basically the same thing, just smellier.
We enter the workshop, and the ever-present, overwhelming stench of pipe smoke and old magic hits me in the face like a brick.
Silas doesn’t look up from my pendant, which is currently clamped in what looks like a medieval torture device as he prods it with a glowing stick.
He simply points a finger at a massive, leather-bound book on his cluttered desk.
“You’ll be needing that one. The foundational principles are in there,” he says, and I watch as the curiosity burns brighter the longer he stares at whatever contraption rests on the table in front of Silas.
“Go ask your questions,” I tell him with a smile. “I’ll just go look at some shiny things.”
He nods and slips away, immediately diving into technical speak that I have no hope of understanding. I weave through the cluttered work tables until I’m standing in front of my favorite mirror.
“Hello, beautiful,” I murmur. A part of me really wants to reach out and touch the glass, but a much louder, more sensible part is screaming dumb bitch at the idea. For once, I decide to listen to the responsible side and keep my hands to myself.
The responsible side, however, isn't objecting to me touching the super gorgeous, ornate frame. So, without a second’s hesitation, I reach out and trace my fingers over one of the closest gems.
If only Forrest’s stick-inserted ass was here to see this monumental act of self-control.
Before the thought can grow any more celebratory, an image flashes through my mind: shifting universes glowing under the surface of a slick, dark tentacle. As quickly as it came, it shifts again to a depthless, lonely eye that simply blinks once before it’s gone.
“Jim!” I gasp, yanking my hand back before slamming it down on the frame again. “Come on, you stupid mirror, work!”
I need to talk to him, tell him I’m okay, before he goes all squid Godzilla on this place to try and find me. When my hand starts getting bright red and sore, I admit defeat. I guess I’ll just have to learn how to use the bus system or some shit.
Not if you’re on house arrest, my brain helpfully reminds me.
“Godsdammit! What does a gal need to do around here to get a ride to the middle of the ocean?” No one answers, but the surface of the mirror shifts in front of me.
For a second, I’m looking at one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen—and he’s not one of the five I’ve been curating for years.
A sheet of thick, pin-straight black hair frames a face of sharp, elegant planes.
His eyes are a deep, warm brown, set with a slight, natural upsweep.
My gaze follows the line of his long, elegant nose down to a strong jaw covered in a few days' worth of stubble.
My eyes catch on a thick, pale scar running from his jaw to his eyebrow, missing his eye by a centimeter.
No. Bad Raven. I physically shake my head. You have five perfectly good men upstairs who already don't know what to do with you. This isn't Pokémon. You don't need to collect them all.
I glance down at the absolute hussy that lives in my vagina—that relentlessly demanding hub of want and chaos—and practically feel it vibrating. Calm the fuck down. Please.
The image vanishes, and the loss feels like a physical yank. It's so sharp and sudden, it pisses me off. I have five walking, talking, god-tier fantasies to focus on. My brain has no business feeling bereft over some scarred stranger.
A hot wave of shame hits me next. Making me feel like I've just accidentally emotionally cheated.
Needing a distraction, I go in search of Widget. I find him asleep in a large bowl of discarded trinkets. Leaving him a little gift I’d found while shopping, I sneak away, not wanting to disturb him. I make my way back to the workshop just as Emerson is hefting the leather-bound giant of a book.
Once I’m next to him, I smile up at him. “Shall we head back upstairs? I should probably put some pants on or something.”
His eyes snap to my legs, and I swear I hear a low growl rumble in his chest. "Why are you not wearing pants?" His gaze catches on the part of me that is, at the moment, very well ventilated for a room that smells like pipe smoke and anxiety. "No pants? Or… nothing at all?"