Page 47 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
Raisa makes a soft sound behind me.
I whirl, ready for the worst.
She’s crouched by the log, her hands over her head, but her eyes are wide and bright. She’s not crying. She’s not even breathing hard.
She sees me—sees the blood, the knife, the way my body vibrates—and she gets up, hurrying toward me.
I expect her to flinch, to turn away. I wouldn’t blame her.
Instead, she puts her hand on my arm, soft but unyielding.
And just like that, the rage drains out of me. The demands of the curse fall silent, as if smothered by whatever magic she possesses.
I stare at her, waiting for the disgust, the fear, the accusations. But they never come.
I drop the knife, looking away. I want to explain, but there are no words.
“We should move their bodies,” she says eventually, her voice steady.
I nod and drag them into the ravine, where she helps cover them with rocks and branches. It’s dirty work, but she doesn’t complain.
When we’re done, my hands are shaking again, but for a different reason.
I want to put her on her knees, right here in the mud and blood, and have her worship the battle rage out of me. Every cell in my body howls for her. Her skin, her breath, her soft, yielding mouth.
I try to turn away, to give myself a second to cool off, but her hand is on my arm, burning through my flesh straight to the bone.
She looks up at me, her gray eyes clear, fearless. She lifts her chin, as if daring me to do it. Daring me to take what I want.
I snap.
I grab her by the waist, hauling her up against the nearest tree. Her legs spread around mine, her hands fisted in the front of my shirt. I pin her there, one palm over her sternum, pressing hard enough to make her gasp.
“Tell me to stop,” I snarl.
She shakes her head, smiling that new, dangerous smile. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers.
My hands are everywhere, her face, her hair, her throat. I want to bruise her with my desire. I want to wreck her so thoroughly she forgets she was ever anything but mine and my brothers’.
I kiss her, hard, teeth, tongue…more violence than sweetness. She opens for me, the whimper in her throat a sound of pure surrender.
I slip my hand down the front of her borrowed shirt, her nipple tight and ready for me. I twist, just to watch her squirm. She arches into the pain like it’s something holy.
“You’re filthy,” I murmur, my mouth against her ear. I’m shaking, my blood still hot from the kill.
“So are you,” she pants back.
I rip the shirt open—it’s not mine, and Bran can go get fucked—and push it down her arms until her breasts are exposed to the air. Her skin is marked, a galaxy of bruises and bites from the last few nights.
I want to leave more.
I drop to my knees, teeth to her stomach, biting down hard enough to leave an imprint. She moans, dragging my mouth up to her breast.
“Do it,” she whispers, her voice a challenge. “I know you want to.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I close my lips around her nipple, sucking and biting until she cries out, then shift to the other, repeating until she’s shuddering, her hips grinding against my chest.
I want to fuck her right here, in the dirt and blood. I want to mark her with it, so every time she looks down, she remembers what we are.
