Page 15 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
I look back just once. Bran is watching me, his expression a blend of sorrow and certainty. Shade’s face is unreadable, but the darkness in his eyes is a murderous promise I know he means to keep.
The guards haul me away, back through the woods, the black feather still clutched in my hand. It’s bent, broken, but I won’t let it go.
Father storms ahead, not even looking at me.
The men don’t follow, but I feel them watching.
I’m dragged through brambles and thorns, my skirt ripped, my hair a mess. The guards are rough, their touch nothing like the men who just held me. Edmond’s grip bruises my arm, and I don’t bother to hide the tears that run down my cheeks.
They don’t ask if I’m all right. They just keep pulling me toward the palace, ignoring my sobs and the way I stumble with every step.
I want to hate them. I want to hate myself for being weak, for wanting something so dangerous. But all I can think about is the heat of Shade’s hand on my skin, the way Grim’s voice made my bones melt, the way Bran looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. Sable’s taunting smile. Talon’s fierce beauty. The softness in Onyx’s eyes and the wisdom in Rune’s.
I don’t know what’s happening to me.
At the gates, Edmond shoves me toward Father.
“Father, I–”
“Get inside,” he snaps, his voice as cold as a winter frost. “And if you so much as look at the forest again, you’ll stay in the tower until you’re nothing but bones and ash.”
I nod, dazed. My legs carry me forward, but my mind stays behind. With them.
The castle doors close behind me with a boom that echoes through the stone halls. I’m home again, but not the same as before.
I climb the stairs to the tower with Edmond at my side, every step a reminder of how much I’ve lost, and how much more I want. My skin tingles with memory, my body aching in ways I’ve never felt before.
When we reach the tower, I collapse onto the narrow bed, the black feather pressed to my lips. I inhale the wildness, the possibility, the memory of their touch.
Below, the garden is silent. But I know in my bones that the ravens are still watching. Waiting. And I think maybe, inexplicably, they’re the seven men who just claimed me as their own.
I close my eyes and dream of them.
Of freedom.
Of belonging.
Of eyes like hunger and hands that know how to make me feel alive.
4
The Curse's Bite
Grim
The sky is adark bruise over the forest when I wing toward the castle, unable to stay away. Clouds clump together in silvery-purple bands overhead, the moonlight slicing everything into inky silver and black. From above, the palace is little more than a mausoleum, each window like a glowing, soulless eye. All except for the topmost tower, anyway. There, the glass is so old and thin it resembles a gaping, toothless mouth.
That’s her cell. I know it better than my own skin.
The wind cuts like a blade as I arrow toward that dark slant. My body aches for the familiar comfort of this form—feathers slick and cold, muscle lean and cruel—but I need hands tonight. I need eyes and my tongue and all the human weaknesses the curse tries to tell me to despise.
So I land on the stone ledge, my talons curling around the edge, and let the change begin.
It hurts every time. The curse is in love with pain, and it’s not gentle.
My bones rearrange themselves first—spine swelling, ribs stretching, the sickening clatter of my sternum splitting open so I can expand. Flesh follows, dripping down my new skeleton like wax. The worst part is the moment when the feathers retract, peeling away. It’s like being skinned alive.
When it’s done, I’m crouching naked on the sill, my breathing ragged, as the last black quill drifts from my hair to the floor below. My hands are shaking, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is the girl on the bed.
