Raven’s the gasoline to my fire.
I close the distance between us in two strides, not caring about the blood on my hands as I cup her face and crash my mouth to hers. The kiss is violent, desperate—a collision of teeth and tongue and breath.
She responds immediately, knife still clutched in one hand as the other fists in my shirt, pulling me closer.
I taste strawberry ice cream and wine and something uniquely Raven. She bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the copper tang mixing with the sweetness. I growl into her mouth, sliding my hand to the back of her neck and gripping the fine hairs there.
We break apart, panting, foreheads pressed together. Her eyes hold mine, brown meeting gray, both wild with recognition.
“You had a knife this whole time?” I breathe against her lips.
She grins, the expression feral and perfect. “Always.”
What I’m feeling right now isn’t just want or possession or obsession. This is something I’ve never felt before, something I have no defense against.
This is love. Raw and dangerous and absolute.
And as we stand there, breathing each other’s air, bloody-knuckled and wild-eyed under the Cleveland streetlights, I know with bone-deep certainty that I will burn the world to ash before I let her go.
Chapter 21
Matteo
Blood stains her fingers as she works, red on gold like a sunset I could burn forever. My shirt soaks in her kitchen sink, abandoned minutes ago when she insisted on cleaning my wounds.
I watch Raven kneeling between my spread legs, her focus absolute as she dabs antiseptic onto my split knuckles. The sting feels like a reward, each pulse of pain a reminder of bone cracking under my fist when that motherfucker touched what’s mine.
“Hold still,” she murmurs, fingertips gripping my wrist firmly. “You really did a number on this hand.”
I flex my fingers, enjoying the way the torn skin stretches and pulls. “He did a number on my patience.”
The living room still bears evidence of our dinner—the empty wine bottles, the pizza box, the marker she used on her toes. Now there’s blood in the mix, turning our quiet night into something more honest. More us.
Raven works with unexpected precision, cleaning debris from the cuts with gentle pressure. But it’s her expression that catches and holds me. The slight parting of her lips, the flush spreading across her cheekbones, the way her pupils have expanded to nearly swallow the brown.
She’s not put off by the blood. She’s fucking transfixed.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, but there’s no concern in the question. Just curiosity, maybe even excitement.
“No,” I lie, because I want to see what she’ll do next. “I can barely feel it.”
She presses harder on the deepest cut, her eyes flicking to my face to catch my reaction. Pain flares bright and clean, and I let a hiss escape between my teeth, rewarding her test with truth.
“Liar,” she whispers, and there’s something like approval in the word.
The cotton ball she’s using is saturated now, stained crimson. She sets it aside, reaching for a fresh one, but hesitates. Instead, she lifts my hand, turning it in the light to examine the damage.
“You’re enjoying this,” I observe, watching her face for confirmation.
She glances up, not denying it. “Is that weird?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “It’s hot as fuck.”
Her smile in response is small but genuine. She returns to her work, dabbing carefully at the torn skin, cleaning away dried blood to reveal the damage beneath.
Before I can anticipate her move, she brings my knuckles to her mouth. Her lips press against the raw flesh, and the pain spikes into something sharper, hotter. Not pain at all, but its filthy cousin.
Her tongue flicks out, tasting my blood, and my cock hardens so fast I have to shift my weight on the couch. “Fuck, Raven,” I groan, unable to tear my gaze from her mouth, now stained faintly red.
