Page 43 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
“Seen it done isn’t the same as doing it.” I let my voice go sharp. She needs to know that I’m neither her lover nor her tutor today. For now, I’m the wolf at her throat.
She flinches, but then her jaw sets. “Then show me.”
I can’t help but grin. “You’re not scared?”
She doesn’t answer, just lifts the bow and notches an imaginary arrow. The stance is all wrong—too stiff, elbows high, shoulders locked. She’s thinking too much.
I circle her slowly, picking apart every flaw. “You’ll break your arm with that draw. And your grip is shit.”
“Then fix it,” she snaps, a hint of fire in her eyes.
I step behind her, close enough to feel the heat pouring off her back. I slide my hands over her arms, pressing her shoulders down, adjusting her elbows, curling her fingers just right. My palms swallow hers whole. She trembles but doesn’t pull away
I smell her—fear and anticipation, and something that’s just Raisa. It makes my teeth ache.
“Breathe from here,” I say, touching her stomach. “Not from your chest. You’re not running from a bear. You’re hunting one.”
She breathes, deep and slow. The air expands her belly, pushing against my hand. I want to rip the shirt off her, but instead I let go and step back.
“Again,” I say.
This time, she moves better, more fluid. She’s still thinking, but I see the beginnings of the beast in her.
We practice for a while, no arrows, just motion. The rhythm is hypnotic. Draw, aim, release. Draw, aim, release.
She gets better fast.
Every time she glances at me for approval, I just nod, pretending it’s nothing, even though I want to fuck her against the tree.
When I think she’s ready, I reach into my satchel and pull out a handful of arrows. I hand her one, then notch another to my own bow.
“Follow me,” I say.
We move through the woods, every step a lesson, just like every other day. I point out scat, broken twigs, the faintest curl of fur snagged on a thorn.
She watches like always, absorbing everything. There’s a sharpness to her now. The woods are remaking her in their image.
I want to see how far they can take her.
We stalk a deer for nearly an hour before we find it—a young buck, stupid and slow, grazing in a clearing. I freeze, raising one fist, and she mimics me, crouching low. She’s close enough that her hair brushes my arm.
“There,” I whisper, barely moving my lips.
She nods silently. I can see the tremor in her hands, but she lifts the bow, draws it, her breath steady.
The deer lifts its head, ears twitching, but we’re downwind and the world is still.
I wait for her to ask if she should shoot, but she doesn’t. She just breathes, aims, and lets go.
The arrow flies wild, skimming past the buck’s haunch. The animal bolts, white tail twitching as it vanishes into the trees.
Raisa sags, disappointment carving lines around her perfect mouth.
I nudge her shoulder, grinning like an idiot. “First shot always misses,” I say. “You’ll do better next time.”
She looks at me, surprise flickering in her eyes. “You’re not mad?”
I laugh, loud enough to startle a bird from its nest. “Why would I be mad? You almost had it.”
