She doesn’t apologize, doesn’t even look embarrassed. Instead, her lips curve into a slow smile that tells me everything I need to know about this woman I can’t get enough of. She’s as fucked up as I am.
Her eyes meet mine, challenging, unashamed. Something silver catches my attention on the side table. I didn’t even notice her putting the knife down. But there it is, folded closed now but no less dangerous for it. I reach for it, the weight in my palm as I turn it over.
“Do you always carry this?” I ask, thumb testing the edge. It’s sharp enough to draw blood if I press harder.
She nods, still kneeling between my legs. “Always.”
“Ever used it?” The question feels heavy, loaded with implications neither of us can ignore.
Her hands pause on my wounds, fingers stilling against my skin. “My dad taught me how to use a knife when I was younger,” she says instead of answering directly. “He said a woman should always be able to protect herself.”
I turn the blade in my hand, imagining a younger version of Raven learning where to strike, how to hold the weapon. “Smart man.”
“He is,” she agrees, and there’s a softness in her voice that contrasts the hard edges of the confession. “Leo, my twin brother, got bullied a lot in school. Mostly for being gay—”
“What the fuck?” I sputter, rage coursing through my veins.
It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with hate crimes or how fucking stupid some people can be. But in a world where there’s already so much hate and destruction, it just seems like the most ridiculous thing ever to bully someone for.
Raven’s thumbs trace circles on my wrists, a rhythmic movement that feels like she’s calming herself rather than me. “I had to step in a few times.”
The image forms in my mind; Raven, fierce and protective, standing between her brother and harm. “Did you cut them?” I ask, unable to keep the anticipation from my voice.
She nods. “Sadly, I only got to do it once.” Her smile turns sharp at the edges. “I’d have loved to slice them all open for what they did to Leo. Fucking lowlife jerk faces. But I’ve pulled it on handsy men at clubs a few times. And I did use it once, in college when the guy wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
My throat goes dry. “Where did you cut him?”
“Across the palm. Not deep, just enough to make him back off.” Her eyes darken as she looks up at me. “Bullies make me see red. People who don’t ask permission make me want to see their red, if you know what I mean. I guess I get triggered by people who think they can just take.”
The confession lands like a match on gasoline in my veins. She’s darkness wrapped in trouble with teeth. My cock hardens so fast it’s almost painful.
“You’re not scared of that? What lives inside you?” I ask, voice rough with want.
Her fingers trace the tattoos on my chest, following the lines of ink that map my own violence. “Are you?”
I close the knife with a decisive click and set it back on the table. “No,” I answer truthfully. “I’m fucking turned on by it.”
I pull her up by her wrists until she’s straddling my lap. Her eyes—always so sharp, so knowing—widen slightly at the movement, but there’s no fear there. Only recognition. Only a hunger that matches my own.
“You pulled a knife on a man tonight,” I murmur, my nose brushing hers. “And all it did was make me want you more.”
Her breath hitches, her body going still against mine. Then she smiles. A wild, unrepentant smile that first made me want to consume her whole.
“Would you tell me why you’re wearing an eyepatch if I pull the knife on you?” she asks, shifting deliberately against my hardening cock.
“Maybe,” I admit.
My fingers trace the line of her jaw, feeling the delicate bones beneath soft skin. Such a fragile structure to hold that much wild energy.
“You should be terrified of me,” I murmur, studying her face for any flicker of the fear that never comes. “You saw me kill the night we met. And now you’ve just watched me attack another tonight. Most people would be running.”
Her weight shifts on my lap, the pressure against my cock making my thoughts stutter.
“But not you. Why aren’t you scared, Little Thief?” The last part is almost a groan as she gyrates her hips again.
Raven tilts her head, considering the question with genuine thought. Her fingers draw absent patterns on my bare chest, tracing the lines of ink and scar tissue like she’s reading a map only she can see.
“Maybe I should be,” she sighs. “Any sane person would probably be halfway to Canada by now.” Her lips quirk up at the corners. “But I’ve never been great at self-preservation.”
