Raven Chapter 28 Antique Trauma and New Sounds 349
Raven
After meandering down a hall blindly, my eyes snag on a tile floor, and I practically throw my body inside and close the door behind me.
Silence. Blessed, terrible silence.
For about three seconds.
Then my brain, the traitorous, overpriced electricity powered pot roast that it is, hits play on the last five minutes. In 4K. With surround sound.
You are my mate.
Okay. Yeah. Got that part. World-altering, check. Hormone-approved, check.
I slump against the door, sliding down until my ass hits the cool tile floor. I press my forehead to my knees.
My panther has known since the night you arrived. Possibly even before that. My shadows respond to you… Keeping them in has been impossible. You are mine to protect. To provide for. My instincts… my entire world, now revolves around you.
I run the script again and again, like I just fed my brain to MORDRED and now am running equations alongside him, trying to find answers.
The words are all about what I am to him. A fixed point. A responsibility. A claim.
But what does he feel ?
He gave me facts, no feelings. Your Choice . Clean. Clinical. Like he was handing me a contract to sign.
Then he went and growled enough filth into my ear I'm pretty sure it melted my spinal cord.
I want nothing more than to hunt you down, pin you to the ground, and make you come so hard you forget your own fucking name.
I don't think I'll ever forget the way his hand felt around my throat. And I'm okay with that. I'm thinking of starting a scrapbook titled "Things That Have Choked Me Sexually".
Granted, the future of that scrapbook depends entirely on if the guys are cool with dick pics, and I haven't covered that with them yet.
Just in case, I should come up with alternatives. Commission a painting. Get his handprint tattooed on my throat. Something that doesn't require their consent to immortalize.
I should probably be concerned that the highlight of my corporeal existence so far is a man growling about hunting me down. I'm not an ounce of concerned. Instead, I'm taking notes.
Mainly on the fact that none of that was about responsibility. The kiss, the growl, the way he held me like he was about to lose control—he wanted that. Maybe even as much as I did.
And now I don't know which version of him to believe.
Am I a duty? Or a craving?
The terrifying, hopeful, messed-up part of me thinks I might be both.
Of course, my epic romance confession comes with zero declarations and a side of psychological warfare.
He didn't say he had feelings. He said I was his.
For a control freak who communicates in grunts and shadow-tendrils, that's probably the same thing. Right?
Fates, I hope so.
A more cynical part of me is whispering that maybe he’s just stuck with me, and the hunger is just… biology. A side effect of the bond.
I groan, thumping my head back against the door. Why isn't there an off switch for my brain? I've only been a real girl for a month, and whoever designed this body needs to get punched in the junk. Because let's be real—only a man would make something this wildly complicated and flawed.
Right. Wallowing time is over. Can’t hide in the bathroom forever. Well, I could, but then I’d miss out on whatever was in that bottle Selena brought out, and that’s just a form of self-sabotage I cannot get behind.
I splash some cold water on my face—which does absolutely nothing except make me look like a damp, stressed possum—and head out.
My plan is a tactical retreat to the dining room, maybe avoid the guys for a second, and try to bathe in some female energy.
I could use a minute away from masculine energy.
But the low murmur of voices from the living room has me pausing mid-step. Pressing myself up to the wall, I curse the fact that I can’t just ghost out on command. If I were incorporeal, I’d just float in there and listen in without all this sneaking nonsense.
“—can start with the basics,” Emerson’s clinical tone is unmistakable. “A comprehensive list. Cinema. Amusement parks. Botanical gardens. The symphony. Every cultural touchstone she’s missed. We’ll systematize it.”
“Aye, and I’ve already got a list of pubs with the best atmosphere, live music, the works,” Kieran chimes in, his voice bright with scheming. “She needs chaos and joy, not just a spreadsheet, ye daft bampot.”
A low rumble. Anik. “She needs to eat. Properly. Meals from every region she’s never tasted. Experiences built around that.” A pause. “No more blind spots.”
“All of it,” Leandre’s weary, calm voice interjects softly. “She needs all of it. The nourishment, the joy, the… the beauty.” I can hear as he scratches at his beard. “Tell me what you need. Logistics, reservations, research on allergens for things she’s never tried. I’ll make it happen.”
My heart does a weird, tight squeeze in my chest. They’re… planning. Not about gods or books or threats. About hot chocolate and symphonies and pubs and allergens.
"This is not a competition." Forrest's voice is way too close.
I look up. He's standing in the doorway, a few steps in and a little off to the side but not even six feet away. His gaze is fixed on the room ahead. Not on me. He doesn't know I'm here.
I stop breathing. Just in case.
“The hell it isn’t,” Kieran fires back, gleeful.
“It will be,” Emerson states, with the grim certainty of a man foreseeing a knife fight over museum tickets. “The variables are clear. The outcome is inevitable. And I will win.”
“Emerson is right. And so is Forrest,” Leandre adds, his sigh audible even to me in the hall. “It doesn’t need to be a competition. It can just be… a coordinated effort. For her.”
“Too late,” Kieran sing-songs. “The gauntlet’s been thrown, brother. May the best man win.”
“Understood,” Emerson says, and I can hear the faint shick of a blade being snapped closed.
I clamp a hand over my mouth. They're going to get way too into this. Kieran will more than likely start something on fire, and Emerson is going to stab someone over the proper way to introduce me to corn dogs. The warmth in my chest spreads, anyway.
So much for that female energy break. Apparently my soul is a homing pigeon and these idiots are my roost.
I can’t listen to this. If I hear more, I might do something embarrassing, like cry or march in there and kiss all of them, which would really work against this badass persona I have cultivated so far.
I wait until they’re all quiet and deep into their thoughts before I slip away and back into the dining room. Miriam is alone, nervously wiping down the already-spotless table.
She looks up when she hears me enter, and I watch as her expression crumbles into guilt. “Raven, dear, I am so, so sorry. I spoke out of turn, I was just so excited, I didn’t think—”
I hold a hand up, cutting her off. “Stop. Really.” I sink into the nearest chair. “If I have to choose between someone accidentally spilling a life-altering secret and someone carefully withholding it to ‘protect my feelings,’ I’ll take the accidental spill every time. At least it’s honest.”
I meet her eyes, offering a wobbly half-smile. “So, thanks for the honesty. Even if it did give me a minor heart attack. Now, where did Selena disappear to with that mystery bottle, or should I just go back and listen to the guys plan their competitive tourism war?”
She laughs before bustling over and wrapping me in a hug, lifting me clear out of the chair.
I go stiff with surprise. I’ve been marinating in a world of giants for so long, I’d forgotten what “average” feels like.
In this moment, I’m reminded that average around here is still "freakishly tall" compared to my five-foot-nothing frame. I dangle in her arms like a confused kitten, my face smooshed into a soft sweater, receiving what I’m pretty sure is a mom hug.
As I sink into the hug, she whispers, “I’ll be forever grateful for you, Che Sy'y.”
I have no idea what she just called me, but it’s very familiar. It reminds me of what she calls Anik. I have no idea what it means, but I understand that she didn’t just give me a nickname. She gave me a title. A place in her little family.
The feeling that stirs in me feels a lot like coming home to a room I never knew was mine.
When she lets me go, I smile at her with eyes that are a little bit more watery than when she first hugged me. Luckily, Selena intervenes before I lose it completely, tugging me away and talking a mile a minute.
“Okay, emotional overload, we get it, it’s a lot,” she says, steering me by the elbow. “But we have champagne in the living room that needs to be popped. We are celebrating a mating bond! And new sisters! It’s a huge deal!”
“Right, the… mating thing,” I say, my brain finally latching onto a practical question. “Do you have one? A mate?”
Selena’s bubbly energy stutters. She slows, her grin fading into something more cautious. “Uh, about that. I’m actually into women.” She says it like she’s bracing for impact, her eyes searching mine.
I blink. “Okay, cool? And?”
Her face goes slack with shock, then blooms into the brightest, most relieved smile I’ve ever seen. “Really? Just… ‘and’?”
“Yeah, ‘and’.” I shrug, completely lost. “It shouldn’t fucking matter who you like. But,” I add, my voice dropping into something darker, “if some prick decides it does and takes it out on you, I will totally rip off his balls for you. Or lady balls. Whatever the offending party is packing.”
Selena lets out a watery laugh, her own eyes glistening now. “Oh, I am definitely keeping you.” She grabs my hand and continues to enthusiastically drag me back into the living room, where all the guys are situated.