Raven Chapter 30 Hangovers and Histories 370 #2
My eyes meet Dre, who is propped up on my bed, just like I was only minutes ago, dick in hand, a pair of underwear I had just spent a good amount of time looking for sandwiched between the two.
Would it be weird if I went over there and licked him? I really, really want to know what he tastes like.
His ice-blue eyes lock onto mine. A flicker of sheer panic widens them for a split second before he stands in one stiff, graceful motion. His hand moves slowly, deliberately, tucking himself back into his pants. My panties are dropped and quickly kicked under the bed.
No idea what he is hoping to accomplish with that particular move, but the flustered way he does it while also trying to be all cool, calm, and collected is adorable.
He won't meet my eyes. His voice is tight, strained, like he's giving medical instructions while someone's got a fist around his throat. "You should… put on something warm. There's a chill. We have no idea how illness might affect your new physiology."
Not waiting for a response, he walks to the door with a purpose that feels like escape. He opens it, pauses at the threshold, his broad back to me. “Breakfast is ready. We leave in thirty minutes.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I’m left standing there, naked, the phantom image of that absolutely life-altering weapon he’s been concealing in those dress pants now playing on a perfect loop in my mind, right beside the fact that the man doesn’t wear underwear.
Should I be mad he’s essentially running away? Probably. But I can’t blame him. That was intense. If he'd stayed sitting there, cock in hand, I would have vaulted onto that bed and latched onto him like a feral spider monkey.
I go to the bag I haven't even looked in yet.
I'd climbed into bed last night in the clothes I'd been wearing, sans pants, too exhausted to care.
At least I had the presence of mind to undo the knot on Kieran's silk shirt before I passed out.
Small victories. Dre walking in on that train wreck earlier—me on the floor actively dying—would have been a lot harder to live with if my ass had also been out.
Now, I have no idea what Dre and Anik chose to pack for me. They insisted since I have no personal experience packing this flesh vessel for a vacation.
Vacation is the wrong word. But I'm taking up residence on the island of denial a little longer.
Owning the truth means admitting we're here to learn about my past, a past I only have in shattered, pain inducing flashes.
Right now, those flashes are a nightmare reel on a constant, grinding loop in the back of my mind.
I'm not ready to tackle that darkness. Not when I'm still raw, still trembling on the edge after a training regimen from hell.
But then my fingers brush against something worn and familiar. I pull it out.
A hoodie. Dark grey, soft from years of wear, with singe marks along the cuffs. Emerson's. I shove my face into it and inhale. Old books. Tea. That fancy orange scent underneath.
I dig a little deeper and find pieces of all of them. A band tee from Kieran. A giant t-shirt that can't be anyone's but Anik. A pair of Forrest's fancy cashmere socks. And one of Dre's own wool knit pullover sweaters, worn soft.
There's no way Dre isn't the one who thought of all this.
His thoughtfulness makes my eyes burn, but I shove that aside and focus. Leggings. The fancy cashmere socks. A sports bra. All practical. All comfortable.
Then I'm left deciding which of my treasures to wear. I reach for Dre's sweater. Partly because it's cozy, but mostly because I need him to see that I see what he did for me. That I appreciate it.
I slip it on, let it swallow me, let his scent settle into my skin.
Then—because wasting time when Miriam's food is waiting is borderline criminal—I hustle out the door.
At the bottom of the stairs, Forrest’s voice snaps through the air. "We don't need breakfast. We need to complete the mission."
Miriam's reply is instant. "The world can't be saved on an empty stomach. You're going to shut up, sit, and eat."
Gods, I love that woman .
In the dining room, I don't register the people—just the food. I only look away from the spread long enough to find an empty seat.
Before I can ask what anything is, a plate lands in front of me.
I blink. Anik is beside me. I didn't even notice him sit down.
It seems to have a little bit of everything, and I have no idea where to start. When I look up, trying to see what everyone else is doing, my eyes catch on Miriam, who is smiling.
"I knew you would probably be in rough shape after last night, so I wanted to keep breakfast light." She starts pointing to things on her plate. "French toast, pancakes, assorted berries, bacon, and scrambled eggs."
And, because I trust this woman implicitly, I simply nod before digging in. The eggs are delicious—fluffy, salty, and not upsetting to my stomach in the least. The bacon is delicious too, but my stomach revolts a little at the first bite, so I set it back down and move on.
I work my way through the spread methodically. Pancakes on their own? That's a yes. French toast on its own? Hell yes. But then I see everyone else piling berries on top of those and drizzling something golden and sticky over everything.
I try the berries first. Fresh, tart, a little sweet. Approved.
Then the syrup. Sweet, rich, a little smoky. Also approved.
But the syrup combined with the warm, fluffy carbs underneath? Game changer. Add in berries? Decadent.
Slipping into a food haze, I barely restrain myself from clawing Forrest's eyes out when he starts organizing the cleanup.
But as he moves past me to gather plates, I catch a glimpse of his face in the morning light slanting through the window.
The shadows under his eyes are so deep they look bruised.
His jaw is tight in that way it gets when he's running on fumes, and I realize with a jolt—I haven't seen him take his statue nap.
Not once since we got here. Maybe not since before the training nightmare started.
When was the last time he actually slept?
I open my mouth to ask him but he's already gone, disappearing into the kitchen with a stack of plates.
Well. Guess I'll just add "noticing when my people are falling apart" to the growing list of things I'm terrible at.
I really need to work on this whole... caring about people thing. It's way harder than it looks.
Maybe I can convince Leandre to teach me his ways. He's the only one who seems to have it figured out.
Like, what was I supposed to say? "Hey, Forrest, you look like a gargoyle who forgot how to statue"? We just stopped fighting. I'm not about to start another one by pointing out he's terrible at basic self-care.
Once the combined guilt and food bliss fog lifts a little, I wander into the kitchen.
The guys are piling plates into the dishwasher while Dre hand-washes the "special" ones. I’ve learned that some dishes are too delicate for the machine—a concept that makes no sense to me. If something can’t survive a dishwasher, it definitely won’t survive me. So why bother?
Letting them live in their fantasies, I make my way over to Selena. She’s leaning against the wall, looking disgustingly fresh-faced for someone who matched me drink for drink last night.
“How are you not on the floor right now?” I ask her.
She laughs. “Shifters have a crazy metabolism. I never actually got drunk last night, just skirted tipsy.”
I frown. “Not sure if I feel sorry for you or if I’m envious.”
Forrest’s voice cuts through our little moment like an ice pick through an eye socket.
“Once we leave, it will take us less than 10 minutes to reach our target. By the looks of everything both Emerson and I were able to review last night, it’s an abandoned church.
” His gaze sweeps the room, landing on each of his brothers.
“I have two Alpha teams on standby. We don’t know what we’re walking into. Prepare for a fight.”
They nod in grim unison—even Kieran’s usual levity is gone. Then everyone is moving toward the door.
Selena, the true friend she is, sneaks me a bag of assorted snacks. Nothing looks familiar, and I know why she’s doing it: food is the easiest way to short-circuit the anxiety ratcheting up in my chest.
“Don’t need you going into combat on a hair trigger.” She winks and squeezes my hand before I’m dragged away.
The woman is an absolute fucking gem. She and Miriam should handle world domination—I'm officially stepping down.
That's a world I'd actually want to live in.
Mine would've been some chaos gremlin nightmare—semi-nudist anarchy with chocolate tithes.
They'd probably build an efficiently run matriarchal society for the betterment of all living-kind.
Sure my version of the world seems fun but theirs would actually work .
After that somber parting moment, I assume the car ride will be all grim silence. The second the SUV comes into view, Kieran shatters that assumption.
“Shotgun!” He sprints for the massive, blacked-out vehicle. Anik trails him like a shadow, as if the one time he doesn’t sweep it for bombs will be the time it actually blows.
Anik takes the wheel with Kieran chattering in shotgun. Forrest and Dre claim the back. Emerson slides into the middle seat beside me.
“Time to begin our wee wisp’s musical education,” Kieran announces. He plugs in his phone, and a generic pop beat floods the cabin.
“That isn’t music.” Emerson’s voice is flat. A knife spins lazily between his fingers—a gesture that would be life-threatening from anyone else. “It’s noise.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Okay, gramps. What’s real music?”
Emerson’s eyes sweep over me. He probably hates the nickname—not that he can blame me. He sounds like a grandpa. Hell, he’s dressed like one today: a knit fisherman’s sweater, a duster jacket with a collar that screams Film Noir , and wool paperbag pants.