15
RAVENSWOOD
DOMINIC
We went to Cal's flat first because my bike was parked three streets over and I wasn't leaving it in Clerkenwell overnight where anyone could tamper with it. Cal walked beside me in tense silence, still wearing the suit that had gotten us through courthouse security, his hands shoved in his pockets like he was resisting the urge to catalogue threats in every shadow.
The tail had dropped off two blocks ago and I didn't trust it.
His eyes moved over the motorcycle with the same assessing focus he applied to everything else. “Never been on one.”
“It's straightforward. Hold on. Don't fall off.” I unlocked the helmet compartment and pulled out the spare. “You'll manage.”
He took the helmet and turned it over in his hands like he was memorising its construction. “Ravenswood. That's where we're going.”
“Where we agreed to go. Yes.” I straddled the bike and felt the familiar weight settle.
Cal pulled on the helmet, fumbled slightly with the strap, and I reached out without thinking and adjusted it properly, myfingers brushing the underside of his jaw where the bruises were still fading. His breath caught. Our faces were close enough that I could see his pupils dilate behind the visor.
“Get on,” I said.
He swung his leg over and settled behind me with careful precision, as though he was trying not to touch more than necessary. “Now what?”
“Arms around my waist. Lean when I lean. Don't fight the momentum.” I felt him hesitate, and then his arms wrapped around me — tentative at first, then tighter when I revved the engine. “Hold on.”
The bike roared to life and Cal's grip on my waist clamped down hard against the surge of acceleration as I pulled into London traffic.
“Relax,” I said over my shoulder. “Tension makes it worse.”
“Easy for you to say. You're not the one trusting someone else with your survival.”
“You trusted me in that fight today.”
He didn't answer, but I felt the slight shift in his body and I smiled despite myself and leaned into the first turn, felt him lean with me, his body adjusting faster than conscious thought could manage.
“Bastard,” he muttered against my shoulder. “You did that on purpose.”
“Needed to make sure you'd hold on properly.” I leaned into the next turn and felt him follow without hesitation. “You're a natural. Stop overthinking it.”
“I overthink everything. It's how I stay alive.”
“Tonight you let me do the thinking. Hold on and try not to die.”
We rode through London as evening settled into night, through streets that blurred into streaks of light and shadow, and Cal's grip stayed firm and warm around my waist — notpanicked, not reluctant, just present in a way that felt like something he wouldn't have admitted to on the ground. By the time we reached Ravenswood's grounds his body had fully relaxed against mine, his breathing steady, his hands warm through my shirt.
I took the bike around to the east entrance, the one servants had used a century ago that nobody monitored anymore except me, and cut the engine. The sudden silence felt heavy with everything that hadn't been said since the courthouse.
Cal dismounted first, pulling off the helmet with movements that were slightly unsteady. His hair was completely wrecked, sticking up at odd angles, his face flushed and his eyes slightly wild.
“That,” he said, his voice still tight, “was absolutely terrifying.”
I swung off the bike and couldn't quite suppress the smile. “You handled it fine.”
“Fine? You took corners like you were trying to scrape my knees off on the pavement. You accelerated through traffic like physics was a suggestion you'd decided not to follow.” He stopped and ran a hand through his destroyed hair. “I think my heart is still somewhere near my throat.”
“You didn't complain during the ride.”
“I was too busy not dying to complain.” But his mouth was curving despite the words. “Do you always ride like that, or were you showing off?”
