Raven Chapter 35 Cashmere and Questionable Life Choices 438 #2
My brain stutters when I realize the only shoes I brought are my leather boots—the ones still sporting one of Em’s cords as a shoelace. I try to care, but… I just don’t. They’re comfy, warm, and practical. They’ll have to work.
The decision will probably earn me an eye twitch from Ro-ro, but he’ll survive.
The shift in the air when I reach the bottom step is tangible.
Forrest’s gaze sweeps over me with something that feels a lot like approval.
Dre’s eyes soften as he smiles, warm and genuine. “You look radiant, kjaere.”
Kieran lets out a low whistle. “Och, Wisp. Ye clean up like a dream.” His grin resembles a platter of wickedly tempting chocolates, and I want to sample every single one.
Anik doesn’t speak. He just stares, his expression so fiercely possessive my breath catches as his shadows curl at his feet, restless.
Then I feel Em step up behind me, silent as the breath that just caught. I feel the faint heat of him before his finger traces a slow, deliberate line up the bare skin of my back—from the base of the plunge to the nape of my neck.
A shiver rolls through me.
“Delectable,” he murmurs against my ear, the word a low, private rumble that goes straight to my core.
Then he’s stepping around me to join the guys, slipping on his own boots while bending to lace them up, never once taking his burning eyes off of me.
Needing something to distract me before I start begging them to undo all of Selena's hard work, I quickly make my way to my own boots and lace them up. When I straighten, I see the eye twitch I knew was coming. Thankfully, no words follow.
The corner of Em’s lips tip up in a very hungry way when he sees my boot lace and the ring on my finger, but he doesn’t say a word.
The air takes on a thicker quality as it fills with unspoken things—approval, heat, possession. Before we all drown in it, Forrest pulls the plug.
“Portal manifests at the western edge of the pine grove. We move in pairs. Emerson and I will be up front; Leandre and Kieran will flank.”
No one argues, and Anik’s hand quickly settles on the small of my back. Not pushing. Not steering. Just there. A solid, warm weight through the cashmere, grounding and possessive in equal measure. Who needs words when a single touch can scream, you’re with me, and you’re mine.
We slip out the back door just as the sun starts to sink below the tree line. The woods swallow us quickly, the house fading behind the dense forest. The path is narrow, shadows pooling between the trees, but Anik’s hand never leaves me—a constant guide as roots and uneven ground catch at my feet.
When I look up at him, the sight captivates me. A silent, steady panther moving through his territory, keeping his mate close. Keeping me close.
Gods, I am one lucky witch. I quickly glare at the sky. No, that was not a compliment to you assholes.
Ahead, Emerson and Forrest move like ghosts. Deadly, sexy ghosts.
It doesn’t take long before the air starts to shimmer up ahead, like a heat haze in the deepening dark of the ever-thickening woods.
Anik’s fingers press slightly firmer against my spine as if to say, almost there.
The shimmer in the air solidifies into a tall, elegant arch of woven light—runes flickering along its edges like captive fireflies. Forrest steps forward and produces a single, intricate leaf of hammered silver. He slides it into a nearly invisible slot in the air beside the arch.
The portal starts to thrum audibly, the light deepening from barely-there gold to a cool silvery blue.
A figure steps through from the other side. Anik pulls me closer as the guys move to fan out around me.
The figure is tall, slender, with hair the color of ash and eyes like frosted glass. His robes are severe, embroidered with what looks like constellations. He looks at our group with the expression of someone who just found a bug in their tea.
“Forrest Hatcher.” The fae’s voice is crisp, each word edged with frost. “Your party’s early admission has been granted as a personal favor to the physician.
” He doesn’t look at Dre, but the slight incline of his head is acknowledgement enough.
“This is a privilege, not a right. The market is not yet open to the general populace. You will adhere to all etiquette. No sampling. No bartering without a vendor present. No straying into cordoned areas. If you even violate the most minor convention, your access will be revoked immediately—and the favor will be considered void.”
The elf’s gaze sweeps over us, lingering on Emerson’s armed silhouette. His lip curls in a faint, disdainful twist. He looks Em up and down as if inspecting a stain on his robes.
“And I must say,” he adds, voice dripping with glacial contempt, “allowing such… lesser beings to accompany you does little to elevate your standing. One might question the wisdom of bringing a cautionary tale to a place of grace.”
His eyes slide to me, and something flickers across his face. Appreciation and a smarmy kind of greed. "Though I see you've brought something lovely along. Too bad it has to endure the taint of that thing’s ,” his eyes cut to Em again, “presence."
He's trying to flirt but it feels like being handed a turd wrapped in silk. Also, he called me it . Hard pass. I have self-respect, thank you very much.
My breath hitches for an entirely different reason than it usually does. Lesser being? That thing?
White-hot, blinding rage—like I’ve never experienced before—lights me up from the inside out. My fingers twitch at my side, and my eyes find the nearest sharp object—which, conveniently, is currently strapped to Emerson’s thigh.
I make a half step towards him when a large, warm hand locks around my wrist.
Anik.
He doesn't pull me back, just holds me there.
His grip is firm and unyielding, just like he always is.
I can feel the control he's exerting—the way his chest, a wall of heat against my shoulder, rises and falls with deliberate slowness.
He's counting. Breathing. Leashing the thing that wants to tear also that fancy fuck’s throat out.
I catch Kieran's eye from the corner of the group. His grin is still there, but it's wrong—too sharp, too still. Like a mask held in place by sheer spite. For once, the glitter is gone. His hands, usually in constant motion, hang loose at his sides. Ready.
Em, on the other hand, doesn’t really react at all. Not a flinch, not a blink. He just meets the elf’s gaze, his amber eyes cool and detached, as if the insult didn’t matter in the slightest.
But I see the faint tightening along his jaw.
This prick , I think, studying the elf under the arch.
He's absolutely pristine. There’s a calculated elegance to him.
Every fold of his robe arranged by someone with way too much time and not enough actual personality while that haughty expression tries to hide the tarnish underneath all the perfection. It fails miserably.
He's beautiful in that polished, sterile way. Like a museum piece. Something to be admired from behind glass but never touched.
My gaze slides to Emerson. Still watching the other elf with that unnerving, patient stillness, like he's calculating exactly where he'd make him bleed if it comes to it.
His un-glamoured appearance is out in full force, and it's the first time I've seen him like this for longer than a few minutes at a time.
Sure, I've seen him locked away in his workshop where he slips into a focus so deep the glamour just drops—but he's always been inside during all of that.
I've never seen him un-glamoured and outside .
His skin has gone all twilight. Darker than usual. Shifting like it can't decide what color it wants to be. And there are these thin, dark veins running along his temples and arms. Ink lines. Delicate, but somehow still unsettling.
His ears are the same as they've always been when the glamour drops, elongated to elegant points. Small silver cuffs I've never noticed before pierce the cartilage in a pattern that feels intentional. Significant.
And his eyes.
Gods, his eyes .
The ever-present amber is there, but it's no longer the subtle glowing, sunlit amber I'm used to when his glamour slips. No, this is deeper. Older. His irises are ringed with something that looks like molten gold.
And his pupils—
I've seen the intensity in his eyes before. The way they burn when he's watching me, sketching me, cataloging my every breath. I’ve seen the way they sometimes seem to vibrate. But I've never seen this.
They're not round anymore.
They're elongated. Vertical slits, narrowing as the last light fades, widening as he takes me in. Like a cat watching something small and edible. Like a predator finally off its leash.
The sun keeps setting, and he keeps changing.
That's when I notice he's no longer watching the elf under the arch. He's watching me. Gauging my reaction with that same intense, dissecting focus. Waiting.
My eyes stray to his hands. The tattoos on his fingers aren't just ink anymore. In this waning light, they glow. Faint, pulsing silver, synchronized with his heartbeat.
He's beautiful.
Not in the polished, symmetrical way of the elf at the gate. That bastard is artfully arranged, curated, designed to impress.
Emerson is beautiful the way a storm is beautiful. The way a blade is beautiful just before it draws blood. Wild. Unapologetic. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with intention and everything to do with nature.
He looks like he was carved from the space between stars and then left to fend for himself in the dark. Like he learned to fight before he learned to speak. Like every sharp edge and alien feature was earned, not given.
Yeah , I decide, the rage settling into something colder, more certain. I'll take the unhinged dark elf with murder plans in his sketchbooks over that porcelain doll any day.