Chapter 27 Roger/Riven
Chapter twenty-seven
Roger/Riven
The turkey and Swiss on sourdough was halfway to my mouth when the kitchen door swung open. The hinge groaned just enough to announce her before I even turned my head. It was that quiet, deliberate force Mandie reserved for moments she meant to disrupt.
I lowered the sandwich slowly, watching the way her boots ate up the distance between us without a sound. Her black hair was pulled back in a loose knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face. The way her hazel eyes locked onto mine, unflinching, unapologetic, made my pulse kick up a notch.
I wiped my thumb absently on my jeans, smearing grease from the mayo, suddenly aware of how much space I took up in the chair, and how the light turned her edges sharp.
"Come to your room," she said with a wave of her hand.
I glanced at the sandwich. The cheese had just started to melt the way I liked it, the edges crisping under the broiler’s heat. But she didn’t need to tell me twice. I was always ready for an afternoon delight. I got up and followed her.
We didn’t speak. The silence between us always held weight, like the heavy pause before a storm breaks.
I reached for the handle of my bedroom door, but Mandie’s fingers brushed mine away. She pushed it open herself, stepping aside to let me see.
And then I stopped.
The walls were gone.
Not literally. But every inch of them was covered in paintings. Dozens. Hundreds.
All of me.
No, not me.
Riven.
The ceiling, too. I craned my neck, pulse hammering in my throat.
There I was, mid-flight, cape snapping behind me like a living thing, city lights reflecting off the red and gold of my suit.
Another painting showed me landing a punch, my fist connecting with a faceless villain’s jaw, the impact rippling through the air.
I took a step forward. The floorboards creaked under my weight. My breath came fast and shallow, like I’d just sprinted a mile.
"What the hell is this?" My voice was rougher than I intended.
Mandie shut the door behind us. The click of the latch was too loud, too final.
"Donovan let me use his painting supplies," she said quietly. "I thought since you keep seeing yourself as a murderer, I needed to show you who you really are."
"That’s what this all is?"
"You need to see yourself for the hero you are," she said. "Not the killer you think you are."
I turned to face her. My chest felt tight, like someone had cinched a band around my ribs. "Mandie, I—"
"Shut up and look." She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t need to. She jerked her chin toward the walls, arms crossed, tattoos shifting. "Every single one of these is you doing something good. Something necessary."
I swallowed. My gaze flickered from one painting to another.
There was one of me catching a falling civilian mid-air, her face blurred but her relief vivid in the brushstrokes.
Another showed me standing between a burning building and a crowd, hands outstretched, holding back the flames.
My fingers twitched. I wanted to reach out and touch them. Prove they were real.
"There are hundreds of women thanking Riven for stopping the Crimson Rapist," Mandie said, voice low but cutting through the silence. "Thousands more you probably saved by ending him. You remember that, right? Or are you too busy drowning in guilt to see it?"
I exhaled through my nose. "It’s not that simple."
"Bullshit." She uncrossed her arms and stepped closer. I could see the flecks of gold in her irises, the jump of her pulse in her throat. "You think Vince would’ve stopped? You think he’d have magically changed if you’d given him another chance?
" She scoffed, sharp and humorless. "You did what you had to do. And ever since, you’ve been doing what needs to be done. That’s not a killer, Roger. That’s a hero."
I looked away, jaw clenching. Directly in my line of sight was a painting of me kneeling in the rubble after the battle with Capital Punishment’s goons. My gloves were torn, cape singed, but I was helping someone up. A kid, maybe. Their face was turned away, but their hand was in mine.
Mandie moved to the shelf by the window. She grabbed my helmet, Riven’s helmet, and held it up between us. The late light caught the reflective surface, throwing a distorted glow across her cheekbones.
"You told me this thing is reflective, so villains can’t see you. They only see themselves." She tilted it slightly. "What do you see when you look at it?"
I stared at the helmet. My own reflection warped back at me, fragmented. Ten years ago, I would’ve said strength. Justice. Now?
"I don’t know," I admitted.
Mandie’s grip on the helmet tightened. "Come on."
I flinched. Not from the word, but from the way she said it, like she’d peeled back a layer of me I hadn’t realized was there.
"You do know," she pressed. "You just don’t want to say it out loud. Because if you do, you can’t hide behind the guilt anymore."
The helmet’s reflection blurred. I blinked, realizing my vision was going fuzzy at the edges. I dragged a hand over my face. "It’s not hiding. It’s—"
"What?" She cut me off, stepping forward. The helmet was between us, but she might as well have been pressing it against my chest. "Penance? Atonement? Newsflash, Roger: You don’t get to martyr yourself forever. The world doesn’t work that way."
She stepped closer. "You save lives. You stop bad guys. You make a difference. You think those women give a damn about your guilt? They’re alive because of you. Their kids are safe because of you. That’s not something you get to shrug off."
I swallowed hard. The paintings seemed to press in, the colors too bright, too loud. "I killed my best friend."
"Yeah." Mandie’s voice didn’t soften. "And if you hadn’t, how many more would’ve died?
How many innocent people would’ve burned because Vince lost his damn mind?
" She exhaled sharply. "You made a choice. A hard one. And you’ve been making the right ones ever since. That’s not weakness, Roger. That’s strength."
I looked at the helmet again. My reflection was still there, but it didn’t feel as distorted. Or maybe I was just getting used to the shape of it.
Mandie lowered the helmet slightly. "When you look in the mirror," she said, quieter now, "you should see a hero."
I let out a shaky breath. The weight of the paintings, the weight of her words—it was too much and not enough all at once. "What if I don’t?"
She didn’t hesitate. "Then you’re an idiot."
A laugh burst out of me, unexpected and raw. Mandie’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
I reached out, slowly, and took the helmet from her. The metal was cool under my fingers. Familiar. I turned it over in my hands, tracing the seams where the reflective coating met the reinforced alloy.
"You really think I’m a hero?" I asked, voice rough.
Mandie’s gaze didn’t waver. "I know you are. I just need you to know it."
I exhaled, long and slow. The paintings watched me. I watched myself. Hundreds of versions of myself, all doing the right thing. All fighting.
I set the helmet down on the shelf. Turned to face Mandie fully.
"What now?" I asked.
She tilted her head. "Now?" A ghost of a smirk touched her lips. "Now you start believing it."
I nodded. Once. Sharp.
Then I pulled her in and kissed her.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t some grand romantic gesture. It was desperate and hungry and real. She kissed me back just as hard, hands gripping the front of my shirt like she was afraid I’d pull away. The paintings blurred again, but this time it wasn’t from tears.
Her lips were warm, insistent. I could taste the faint hint of coffee, bitter and dark. My hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she made a sound against my mouth that sent a jolt down my spine.
"You keep these paintings up," she murmured against my lips. "I want these to be the first and last things you see each day."
"Subliminal messaging. I like it."
"If this doesn’t work, we will try hypnotherapy."
"No." I smiled down at her. "I think this is going to work. Thank you."
"Took you long enough," she muttered.
I laughed, breathless. "Yeah, well. I’m a slow learner."
Mandie’s fingers curled into my shirt. "Not anymore."