Page 44 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
She grins back, all teeth.
We track the deer. It’s easier now. Fear leaves a trail even an idiot could follow. Raisa is silent, moving through the woods like she’s always belonged here. We lose sight of the animal, but I’m not worried. There’s more game out here than we could eat in a year.
After a while, we stop to rest. She sits on a boulder, breathing hard, her arms limp at her sides. I watch her, my chest tight, wanting her in ways I can’t name.
“What?” she asks, defensive.
“You did good,” I say.
A flush rises on her neck. “I missed.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I look away, pretending to scan the woods. “You’ll get it next time.”
She stands, brushing the dirt from her pants. “Thank you,” she says. The words are soft, almost lost in the wind.
“For what?”
“For this,” she says. “For treating me like I can handle it.”
My heart stutters, just once.
“You can handle anything,” I say. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
She smiles, all shy princess again. “Even you?”
I step closer, crowding her against the boulder. My hands bracket her hips, pinning her in place. Our bodies are inches apart, and I can feel her pulse thrumming through her skin. “Especially me.”
For a second, I think she’ll pull away. But she lifts her chin, daring me to move first.
I press my lips to her temple, just once. It’s not a kiss. It’s a promise.
She shivers, but it’s not from the cold.
“Ready to try again?” I ask, pulling back.
She nods. “This time I won’t miss.”
“Damn right you won’t,” I say.
The world sharpens as we walk. Raisa keeps up, her breathing barely louder than mine. The forest is awake now—birds chirping, mice rustling under dead leaves, dew glistening on every blade of grass—but none of it matters except the trail in front of us. Every patch of mud, every snapped branch, every drop of piss on the bark is a sentence in a story.
I teach her how to read it as we go. Not in words—words are for Bran—but with small gestures, the way I point or tilt my head or slow my step.
She learns quickly.
The next time we spot the buck, it’s in a hollow, up to its knees in a tangle of ferns. The animal is young, but already cocky, tossing its head every few seconds like it’s daring the woods to come at it.
We drop to our bellies and crawl the last ten paces, the ground cold under our palms.
I put a hand on Raisa’s lower back, feeling the muscles jump under my touch. She stiffens, then relaxes, waiting for my next move.
I lean in, so close my lips brush the shell of her ear. “Breathe slow,” I whisper. “Two beats. Hold on the exhale. Then let it fly.”
She nods and raises the bow. The string trembles, hungry for the shot.
I watch her, not the deer. The little line between her brows, the way she licks her lips before drawing. She’s beautiful, but there’s something harder under her skin now, as if the princess is dying, and the monster is being born.
She lines up the shot. Lets it go.
