I leave the war room and head toward the back hall where the noise drops off and the compound exhales.The lights are lower here.The air cooler.Raven’s door is closed, but I don’t knock right away.
I don’t knock because I’m entitled.I knock because I want to know if she wants me there.
“Come in,” she says after a beat.
I open the door and step inside, closing it behind me without locking it.She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, boots kicked off, black hair loose around her shoulders like she’s already decided the day is done.She looks up at me, green eyes sharp, assessing.
“You look like you’re carrying something,” she says.
“I always am.Part of the job I guess.”
“Do you want to drop it off here?”she asks and pats the bed beside her.
I consider that.Then I nod.I don’t move closer right away.I lean against the wall instead, arms crossed, letting the space speak first.
“You’re spending capital to keep me here,” she says, knowing how this works even if she already feels comfortable.
“Yes.”Another truth.
“And you aren’t trying to hide it.”
“No.”
“That’ll piss people off.”
“Of course.”
She smiles faintly.“Good.”
I push off the wall and move closer, stopping just in front of her.Close enough now that I can feel her heat, smell the faint trace of soap and desert air clinging to her skin.
“This isn’t gratitude,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“And it’s not repayment.”
“I know.”
Her hands rest on her thighs, relaxed but ready.“Then what is it?”
I answer honestly.“It’s where the noise stops.”
She studies me for a long moment.Then she stands, closing the distance herself.Her fingers slide into the front of my cut, not gripping, but anchoring.
“Then you need to stop thinking,” she says.
Her mouth finds mine without hesitation, without testing this time.The kiss is deeper than before, hungrier, familiar enough to skip pretense.I respond instinctively, one hand settling at her waist, the other threading into her hair.
She exhales against my mouth, body pressing closer, heat flaring sharp and immediate between us like we haven’t missed a single fucking beat through the years.I don’t pull away.I don’t slow it.This isn’t restraint, it’s consent moving forward together.
Her hands slide up my chest, pushing my cut off and dropping it on the chair behind me.Her fingers splay on my torso like she’s memorizing bone and muscle.When she tugs at my shirt, I let her.The fabric goes over my head and hits the floor somewhere behind me.
Her eyes flick down, then back up.Approval flashes there, quick and unguarded.
“Savage,” she murmurs, mouth already tracing along my jaw.
I answer by pulling her head back with the leverage I have from fisting my hand in her hair and kiss her again, slower this time, deeper.My hands slide down her back, thumbs brushing bare skin where her shirt has ridden up.She shivers and it’s not from cold.
