Raven Chapter 31 Matchmakers and A Madman 387 #3
Her explanation soothes something inside me. It seems to do the opposite for Forrest, though. He hands me the journal we retrieved earlier before turning to face Numbra.
Leave it to Forrest to make sure the super important bits don’t get lost somewhere. Because that’s exactly what would have happened if left to my own devices. I don’t even remember setting it down, just panicking and coping with snacks.
I flip it open and forgive myself immediately, because none of it matters anyway. I still can’t read the damn thing.
“Listen closely.” Forrest’s voice is low.
“You are an unknown variable with specialized knowledge. That does not grant you the license to undermine someone we consider one of us with condescension. This mission hinges on clear communication and mutual respect. If you cannot adhere to that basic standard of cooperation, this alliance ends here.”
Someone we consider one of us.
The words hit me like a man with a chloroform soaked rag, suffocating my sarcastic eye-roll before it can even happen.
One of us .
From Forrest. The man who interrogated me on sight. The air in my lungs feels suddenly too thin. He didn't say it to me. He said it about me, to someone else, as a simple, unshakable fact. It’s the most terrifying and wonderful thing I’ve ever heard.
The moment lasts a heartbeat. Then the practical part of my brain, the part that lives on chocolate and sarcasm, kicks back in. I force the breath out, roll my eyes like I'd planned to all along, take a step forward, and place a steadying hand on his back.
Sure, she has a tone, but when he uses one like this, it’s supposedly for the greater good.
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him, my voice soft but firm.
“She just knows more than we do and forgot that you guys know squat about high-level magic, and I’m basically a toddler with a god-complex.
We all need to take a breath and figure out how to move forward…
without the dramatic pronouncements.” I shoot Numbra a look that screams play along.
Before Forrest can form a rebuttal, Dre is there.
He doesn’t step between anyone, but his presence is a cool, calm drink of water after an hour dodging bullets.
One hand comes to rest on the small of my back, a warm anchor, while the other gestures toward the piles of books in the corner—a corner Emerson is already sifting through with the single-minded focus of a destitute man panning for gold.
“The priority is the texts,” Dre says, his voice a soothing balm. “We need to learn, to become better prepared. That means we must educate ourselves and formulate a plan.” I look down at the unreadable journal in my hands and frown.
Well, I won’t be learning anything .
Before that thought can fester, he gently takes the book from me. “Let’s get some tea and focus on what we can actually read.”
Gods, I love when he gets all diplomatic and validates my emotions. I have to physically stop myself from dropping to my knees right there to show him exactly how much I appreciate it.
The tension in the room dissipates, soon replaced by the soft rustle of pages and the scent of old paper.
Forrest and Izzy claim one side of the massive table, talking in low, serious tones.
Kieran and Dre slip out to help Miriam. Selena is tucked between Flare and Enra at the far end, while Anik's gaze shifts between them and me like a protective, silent pendulum.
On our side of the table, I end up stationed between Numbra and Emerson.
I feel totally out of place. We are surrounded by esoteric-looking texts and their methods are a mirror of silent, terrifying efficiency.
They scan pages with unnerving speed before placing books into two distinct piles in front of me.
I have no idea what the piles mean. My own process is less scholarly and mostly involves looking for pretty pictures.
My eyes snag on a heavy tome bound in what looks like bruised velvet. Since it’s one of my favorite textures I can’t help but pick it up for a feel.
The distraction ends the minute I catch sight of the gilded illustration on the inside cover.
It depicts a human figure radiating layers of shimmering, overlapping light in a dizzying array of colors.
The title, in elegant, looping script, reads: “The Luminous Weave: An Aetheric Guide to Auric Perception and Interpretation.”
I may not understand half the words in the title, but the picture paired with “Auric” gives me all the context clues I need.
“Finally!” I shout, clutching the book to my chest like a lifeline.
Numbra looks up, one sharply sculpted eyebrow lifting in a silent question.
“Auras,” I breathe out, my fingers tracing the gilded lines. “I can see them. I totally forgot I could do that!”
Her bored expression doesn’t change, but she sets her own book down. Emerson goes perfectly still beside me.
“You possess auric sight,” Numbra says, “and you forgot ?”
“It’s exhausting!” I defend, memories rushing back—the ghostly attempts, the crushing fatigue afterwards, the confusing colors around people that weren’t my guys.
“Plus it’s useless. It’s just… color. I have to really tune in, and I’ve never been able to get a read off the guys, so I stopped trying.
Besides, what does it even mean? If I see bright red with flashes of yellow, are they happy?
Horny? Do they need a sandwich?” I gesture frantically at the book. “This! This could actually help me.”
Emerson sets his book down with a soft, definitive thud. He rises in one fluid, dangerous motion. I can’t help but stand too. I look around for the threat he must have gotten up for but see nothing.
Then I realize his eyes are locked on me. And the way he’s looking at me—like MORDRED just spat out a catastrophic error message in bright red text—makes me feel like I should be running.
So I do.
I dart around the chair and make a break for the door.
Obviously, because I’m racing an elf, I lose.
It takes him only a second to get between me and my escape, his amber eyes flat and cold as frozen sap.
“Auras,” he says, stalking toward me. Not with a predator’s grace, but with the terrible, inevitable precision I imagine a guillotine’s blade falls with.
Why am I so wildly turned on right now? I probably shouldn’t be, but here I am, needing a wet floor sign to put up between my legs.
“Yeah. I, uh… I could always sort of do it? Before. I just… never could with you guys. So I forgot about it. It didn’t seem relevant.” I say as I take another slow step back.
“Relevant.” He parrots the word back, his voice soft. He looks like he just tasted it and discovered it tastes like beets.
“You possess a quantifiable, metaphysical sensory extension. A direct interface with the emotional and energetic state of all conscious entities.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and I have to check my mouth for drool.
“You harbor a diagnostic tool of unparalleled intimacy and strategic value. One you never mentioned in all our hours of study.” He takes another step closer.
My head tilts back to keep eye contact. “And you classified it as not relevant .”
“I didn’t classify anything. I forgot . It’s not like it works on you guys anyway! Anytime I’ve ever used it, my brain just skips over you five.”
Emerson’s head tilts. His hand moves—a blur in my peripheral vision—but there’s no mistaking the feel of the knife point resting against my cheek. Too bad it’s not even a little bit threatening.
Again, I should not be this turned on.
No one else is. Everyone is standing frozen behind him, and Forrest is physically holding Anik back from tearing into Em. Obviously, they don’t know him as well as I do. Him pulling a knife on someone is practically his version of saying I love you.
“You failed to tell me about it,” he says, his voice low as his knife moves, sliding down to rest at my throat.
“You are my primary study. My central thesis. Every variable, every datum, every flicker of your impossible existence is critical. You are what tethers me to sanity. You are my anomaly. You do not get to decide what is relevant. You do not get to decide what is important to me.”
He presses closer. The coolness of the blade is a stark contrast to the heat rolling off him. My heart pounds with a dark thrill—the feeling of being hunted for sport and having consented to it.
His words also hit something deep. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to one of them, and I know how Em works. He needs every piece of information to feel secure. Withholding data from him isn’t forgetfulness; it’s a betrayal.
“Withholding data is a form of sabotage, Raven.” His words echo my thoughts as his glamour drops in the wake of his fury.
His ears elongate, pointing through his shoulder-length hair, which shimmers with an opalescent sheen.
His skin takes on a purplish hue; his teeth sharpen minutely.
His eyes begin to glow as his pupils seem to vibrate.
“It introduces error. It breeds vulnerability. It makes you less known. And I need to know everything about you as much as I need air to breathe and tea to drink.”
An insanity shines in his eyes that I know, deep down, only I can quell. I’m not afraid of it. I’m the opposite.
“Okay,” I tell him simply, my voice a husky, approving murmur.
His breath hitches, almost imperceptibly.
“Map it. Map me. Decode me.” I lean forward, just enough for the blade to bite. “If I am your thesis, Professor… then grade me. Figure out what makes me tick and put that knowledge to use.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn't move. Just stands there, all wild fury and perfect stillness. Then that fury shifts into something hotter. A possessive, intellectual hunger that vibrates between us.
It feels dense. Delicious. Like a perfect slice of carrot cake: spiced and complex, a little baffling that it's made of carrots, yet deeply satisfying.
A soft, almost inaudible sound escapes him—not a growl but some sort of soft feral hum. The knife doesn’t waver.
“This is not a game,” he informs me.
My smile widens. "Isn't it? It's your game.
Your rules. Your… research." I let my head tilt back, fully exposing my throat to the blade.
To him. "But understand this, Professor.
I'll study you back. I want to know everything that makes you tick, too.
You think I'm the only fascinating thing in this room? You're wrong."
I make sure he can see the challenge in my eyes before continuing. "So what's the next step? Interrogation? Containment?"
My voice drops to a whisper. "Hands-on data collection?"
The blade vanishes, slipped back into its now-visible sheath with a sigh of metal on leather. He doesn’t retreat. Instead, his empty hand comes up, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of my neck. His grip isn’t threatening. It’s anchoring. Proprietary.
“The next step,” he says, his voice rough, “is recalibration. You will report every single thing you know of yourself and your abilities in exhaustive detail. Even the things you deem unimportant.” His thumb strokes over the frantic pulse in my throat, where the blade just was.
“And you will never again withhold a single sliver of information pertaining to you. Am I understood?”
I shiver, a full-body tremor of pure, undiluted need. The order, the threat, the obsessive focus—it doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels like a claim and my raging hormones just stood up and gave him a standing ovation.
“Crystal clear,” I tell him, breathless.
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, his eyes burning with the promise of relentless, obsessive discovery before he releases me, turns, and walks back to his chair as if nothing happened.
He picks up a pen and his leather notebook. Without looking up, he says, “Good. Begin.”
Hell yeah. Sign me the fuck up.