Page 16 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
Raisa.
She’s asleep for now, hiding from misery in dreams. Her face is turned away from the window, soft in the way that only total exhaustion allows. The blanket is too thin for a palace, but thick enough that the rise and fall of her chest beneath it is an exquisite mystery.
She murmurs in her sleep, rolling slightly, and I nearly lose the threads of myself. My fingers dig into the stone to keep from reaching out, but the urge is there, hungry and primal.
The room is even smaller than I remembered, not a chamber for a princess, but a cell for a pretty, broken pet.
The walls are cold and pitted with age, every surface except her bed completely bare. There’s a table pushed against the far wall, the plate of bread and cheese they brought her for dinnerstill untouched. Beads of condensation shimmer on the pitcher of water beside it.
The ancient oak door, banded with black iron, is bolted from the outside and coated with magic to keep her caged.
I slide down from the window, my feet silent on the stones. The floor is so cold it sears my bare skin. I let the pain ground me, let it keep me from losing myself completely.
I circle the bed, slowly, carefully, not wanting to wake her, not wanting to break this perfect moment.
I could watch her forever.
Her hair is spread over the pillow, a tangle of darkness that gleams in the moonlight. There’s a smear of dried salt at the edge of one eye. She’s been crying again.
My stomach twists, something ugly blooming in my chest at the evidence of her grief. I’d kill for her, everyone in this miserable kingdom, if it would make her smile.
One day soon, maybe I’ll get that chance.
I stop at the head of the bed, so close I see the flutter of her eyelashes as she dreams. I reach out, my fingers trembling just above her hair.
If I touched her, she’d shiver awake.
But I don’t. I can’t.
Instead, I close my eyes and breathe her in. Her scent is a special kind of madness—honeysuckle and rain, but also the sharp, metallic tang of fear and the bitter ripeness of despair.
It’s perfect.
My cock stirs, hardening against my thigh, and I hate myself for it. But not enough to stop.
She whimpers, shifting again, and the blanket slips to reveal the slope of her shoulder, the skin so pale it’s almost blue. I imagine what it would feel like to sink my teeth into that flesh, to taste her, to mark her as mine.
A bead of sweat rolls down my spine at the thought.
I kneel beside the bed and watch her sleep. Every movement is a story…the way her fingers curl around the edge of the sheet, the way her knee twitches when she’s about to fall deeper into the dream. The way she murmurs my name like it’s a secret.
Grim.
That’s what I am, and what I’ll always be.
I rest my chin on the mattress, inches from her hand, and let myself pretend that she’s already mine. Already ours.
It’s enough.
I could stay like this forever, a monster at the foot of an angel’s bed, but I know I can’t. The king will visit again soon, bringing his threats and lies. She’ll need to be strong to survive another day.
So I stand, bones creaking, and walk to the table.
I take the bread and eat it slowly, even though it tastes like sawdust. The cheese is better, so I finish it in three bites. I drink water straight from the pitcher, leaving my mouth smeared with her taste.
I want to mark everything in this room as mine, especially her.
When I finish, I walk to the door and rest my palm against the iron band. It hums with the king’s foul magic, but I’m not afraid. If I wanted to, I could break it down and take her, carry her out of here like a prize.
