She steps forward, scanning the flavors on display. “Strawberry,” she decides. “In a waffle cone. Extra sprinkles.”
“Of course she wants pink ice cream,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
She hip-checks me, grinning. “Stay on brand, that’s my motto.”
When it’s my turn, I order mint chocolate-chip in a cone. Simple. Clean. The opposite of the woman beside me, who takes her cone and immediately dives in, her tongue darting out to catch a drip before it can slide down her fingers.
I pay, waving away the employee’s insistence that it’s on the house. Some things should remain normal, even when nothing about this night fits that description.
We step back into the warm night, ice cream in hand, and continue walking with no particular destination. The silence between us is comfortable, punctuated only by the occasional sound of Raven’s appreciative hum as she works her way through her cone.
“Do you ever just walk?” she asks suddenly. “Not going anywhere, just… existing in the world?”
I consider the question. “Not often,” I admit. “I’m usually moving with purpose.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be.” I bite the top of my ice cream, letting it melt on my tongue. “But it’s kept me alive so far.” She nods as if this makes perfect sense.
We turn onto a busier street, one of the few that still has activity at this hour. The bar up ahead has just let out a group of people while others party on the sidewalk.
They’re loud with that particular brand of midnight bravado that comes from too many drinks and too few inhibitions.
A pair of men approaches from the opposite direction, their gazes locking on Raven with predatory interest that makes my hand tighten around hers. One whistles, low and appreciative, as we pass.
“Damn, baby, that ass is—”
Before I can even react, the second man reaches out and slaps Raven’s ass, palm connecting with denim with a crack that ignites something primal in my chest.
I release her hand and whirl on the man, movement so fluid it feels like an extension of my breathing. My fist connects with his jaw before he registers I’ve moved, the impact jarring up my arm. The satisfying crunch of bone. The spray of blood as his lip splits against his teeth.
I slam him against the brick wall, forearm across his throat, pressing just enough to restrict his airflow without cutting it off completely. My second punch catches him in the solar plexus, forcing the air from his lungs in a wheezing gasp.
“You touched what’s mine,” I growl, voice dropping to that register that makes even hardened criminals piss themselves.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement—the first man lunging toward me—but it’s not me he needs to worry about.
Raven drops her ice cream and pulls something from her pocket in one fluid motion. A small knife, the blade catches the amber light as she flicks it open with practiced ease. I guess I should have expected this from the daughter of a knife specialist.
“Back the fuck up,” she hisses, voice gone feral. She points the blade at the man’s crotch, her stance shifting to something predatory, balanced. “Or I start touching you.”
I freeze, momentarily shocked by this new version of her. Gone is the bubbly chaos-bringer, and in her place stands something sharper, wilder. A creature I recognize on a bone-deep level because she mirrors what lives inside me.
The man raises his hands, backing away from her blade. “Crazy bitch,” he spits, but fear dilutes the insult.
I release the one I’ve been holding, letting him crumple to the sidewalk, gasping for air. Blood runs from his split lip, staininghis shirt crimson. My knuckles are abraded, smeared with his blood and my own where the skin has torn.
“Never touch a woman without permission,” I tell him, voice deceptively soft. “Especially notmywoman.”
“Fuck you,” he coughs out, but there’s no conviction in it. Just the empty bravado of a man who knows he’s beaten.
Still, I kick him, loving the crack of his ribs that sounds before he lets out an inhuman howl. Then I let them scramble away and turn to Raven, who stands with knife still in hand, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
Her eyes are wide, pupils blown with adrenaline, and there’s a flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment. She’s beautiful like this. Dangerous. Alive.
The realization hits me like a bullet to the chest. I never stood a chance against her. From the moment I saw her across the room, she had me. And it was only cemented when she stole my lighter.
I’m hers.
