by Angel Lawson
Table of Contents
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Ebony Rising
The Raven Queen’s Harem
Part Two
By
Angel Lawson
Cover Design
AngstyG
This is the second book in the Raven Queen’s Harem. Please make sure you read Part One, Raven’s Mark, before you dive in!
The apocalypse has been here before, carried on the wings of a goddess. Her anger spilled blood with a blade. Her tears brought plague down on the earth. Her fear hovers in the shadows, waiting for the next heartbreaking rejection. The next betrayal.
She knows it will come.
It always does.
Because the goddess leads with her fist but kills with her heart.
No one can alter destiny.
Not even the chosen.
Chapter 1
Morgan
Sweat clings to my skin, pooling in my lower back. My hands are slippery, encased in the heavy, padded gloves.
“Two minutes,” Clinton commands, starting his stopwatch. “Now.”
With arms that feel like lead, I pummel the sandbag, hardly making it sway. I’m not weak; I’m just exhausted. I wake at dawn for three hours of nonstop writing to fulfill the obligation of my acceptance into the University arts program. But once that’s complete I move on to the rest of my required lessons.
Two hours of physical training every other day. Two in ancient history. The same divided between art, chemistry, and divination. Evenings, after our mandatory dinner, I mostly spend alone. I’ve noticed the guys tend to slip off—sometimes leaving the building. No one has extended an invitation for me to join them.
“Faster!” Clinton shouts.
I glance at him in the mirror. Just seeing him ignites a spark of energy that fuels my movements. Clinton is not just good-looking—he’s hot. He’s a huge man with muscles on top of muscles. His abs are more nine-pack than six, and I’m pretty sure his jaw is sharp enough to cut glass. I swipe at the bag, getting in a hard jab, eyes focused on the dark hair that grazes his shoulders. With each punch I pretend I’m trying to get my hands in his hair, which is one step closer to getting his mouth against mine.
The Goddess’ power flares deep within.
His eyes watch my every move. He assesses my form, speed, and skill. Tomorrow we’ll work with blades. The next day, hand-to-hand combat. His job is to help me become strong enough to fight the Darkness. Because it’s not about if it will come, it’s about when it will come. And I need to be ready to fight it off, unlike last time.
“Focus, Morgan,” he says. But the energy wanes and my muscles scream. My biceps feel like Jell-O, barely able to make contact. Clinton steps behind me, easing his arms next to mine. He takes over, guiding each punch, landing them with more power than I’ve ever mustered.
The stopwatch beeps and he cradles my arms in his.
“Time,” he whispers huskily in my ear. Goosebumps ripple across my hot skin. Even though I’m burning up, a shiver rolls down my spine and I push my body against his.
“How was that?” I ask, knowing the physical part of the training is over. Well, maybe not all of the physical. We’re just not going to need the punching bag any longer.
“You’ve improved.” He holds up the watch and the number blinks.
02:15
“Wait,” I snatch it from him. “I did an extra fifteen seconds?”
“Yes, you did. You’re stronger than you think.”
I spin, pressing my palms against his chest. It’s impossible to think of my own strength when faced with his. I run my hands down the soft cotton of his shirt, feeing the hard muscle beneath.
Clinton is so tall that when we stand like this, face to face, he rests his hands just under my ass and lifts me up until I wrap my legs around his waist. He does that now, amplifying the tingling shiver in my spine. The only thing I can think of is his mouth and--from the way he looks at me, like a hungry wolf--he’s thinking the same. I get a tickle of anticipation and lick my lips.
“I think I deserve a reward for a workout like that.”
“Do you now?” he replies gruffly. But I feel his hardness against my lower body.
“Hmmhmm.”
A wicked grin appears on his mouth. “I’m not one to deny my queen.”
Queen. It’s weird. So, so weird.
He tightens his grip and tosses me onto the thick, padded, training mat. I yelp as I fly through the air, but it’s out of excitement, not fear. Leaning back on my elbows, watching the hulking man stalk toward me, I inhale.
Okay, there’s maybe a little fear.
The kind where I’m terrified I’ll break my own rules. Cross the barriers I’ve firmly established between me and my potential mates.
Clinton crawls over me and I wrap my hands around his massive biceps, reveling in his size. He’s the strongest of my guardians—the ancient shape-shifters that followed my spirit through the millennia. When his lips finally meet mine I feel a surge of mystical power—our connection—and I move my hand to the back of his neck, tugging on his hair. His hand travels down my body, grazing my bare stomach, and ghosting over the heat of my core. I steal his breath, absorb his strength, and whine when we part.
The stopwatch, lying a few feet away, beeps.
“My time is up, sweetheart,” he says, grimacing as though he’s in pain. One look between his legs and I understand his struggle.
I grab him by the shirt and tug him back down. His eyebrow lifts. “Just one more minute. Bunny won’t mind.”
He laughs, shaking his head, because we both know that even if Bunny cared he wouldn’t say a word. He’s the sweetest of the group. Despite this, Clinton kisses me long and slow, dragging it out until I feel it in the soles of my feet. When we separate I lean back on the mat and rake his hair over his ear. “I guess there’s a reason for the time limit,” I say. “Another five minutes and the choice would have been made for me.”
Clinton helps me off the ground, plucking me with ease, like a flower from the grass. “Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that, Morgan.”
“I know, I know.”
No, I don’t get the luxury of letting the boys fight it out over me and letting the best man win. No. It has to be the right one. The one. And I have to make the decision.
I’m on a quest for my mate and the clock is ticking.
Chapter 2
Morgan
I wash the sweat and exhaustion off in the shower. The small tryst with Clinton recharged my weary muscles, and like each physical encounter with my guardians, I come away more balanced.
With a towel around my body I walk out of the bathroom and into the spacious bedroom. It’s all part of the suite given to me when I came here a month ago. I thought I’d won a prestigious writing scholarship. In truth, although I did win a coveted spot in the writing program at New York University, the housing grant was something different.
This house--or rather, this mansion--was called The Nead. Gaelic for The Nest. I’d come to live here with five skilled artisans. They each had
an interest in their craft as well as a deep bond with me—something I didn’t know until I arrived and the secrets of the past were spilled.
I walk past the bed, where two open books lie. Homework from Dylan. He’s insistent that I read up on every reference to the Morrigan that exists. Why? I stare down at the illustration of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Her eyes are dark with power, her lips full and red. There’s a crow perched on her shoulder and dead bodies at her feet. The Morrigan is a terrifying force that if betrayed will rain ruin down on the living.
I am the most recent incarnation of the Morrigan.
My guardians are doing everything they can to ensure I keep my power in check and find the chosen one out of the five. My mate will be the anchor to my soul. The tie that binds me to earth and keeps the Darkness lurking just outside our realm at bay. But, until I choose, my power has to be kept in check and the best way to do that is to let the guardians absorb my dark energy. The best way to do that? One sexy encounter at a time.
I’ve spent the last few weeks processing the strange situation. Some, like my friends back home, surely would think I’ve accepted it too easily. Who am I to just blindly accept that I’m an ancient goddess holding the fate of society in my hands? Maybe I should have laughed it off when Dylan told me the truth. Maybe I should have run like hell, considering that these men want me as nothing more than a sexual plaything.
But I knew instantly in my heart that the stories I’d been writing were true. That Maverick, the little girl in my book, isn’t a character I imagined. She’s a reinterpretation of myself.
Of my ravens.
When Dylan revealed my destiny he explained everything I’d been feeling since I was a child. The joy the birds brought me, the vision-like imagery for my book, the moments of anger and uncontrollable emotion. And the fact I knew, deep down, I was saving myself for someone special.
My phone chimes, letting me know I’m already late for my session with Bunny.
I grab my shoes and head out the door for another date with destiny.
*
“Sorry,” I say, entering Bunny’s attic studio. “I’m late. Totally my fault.”
He looks up from his low worktable, once wood but now just a thick pile of paint and goop. A cup with a stirring stick is in his good hand and his sweet smile nearly cracks my heart.
“It’s fine.”
I cross the room and stand next to him. The substance he’s mixing is gold and shimmery. I rest my hand on his shoulder and feel the instant heat between us. “It’s not. It’s important for me to keep my time with everyone equal.”
He nuzzles his face in my neck and I feel the ticklish prick of his spiky copper hair. “You took a shower after training and smell delicious. It was worth the wait.”
I wrap my arms around him. “You’re too good to me.”
With a light kiss to my neck he holds up the container and says, “Come on, I want to try something new today. Can you grab those brushes?”
Bunny lost the use of his left hand and arm when he was in the shape of a raven. I was there when it happened and it’s my biggest regret and most lingering guilt. I’d led an agent of the Darkness, in the form of a cat, deep into the forest. Bunny tried to stop us. The result was a terrible disfigurement, including limited use of his arm and hand. As a raven he could no longer fly, but as a human he miraculously still creates the most amazing pieces of art.
I pick up the slender cup holding a variety of brushes of all lengths and sizes. Bunny is already across the room where a table has been set up. A thick cloth covers the top.
“What’s this?”
“Today I’m going to paint you.” His eyes flash coppery-brown behind the dark frames of his glasses.
“Bun, you paint me every day.” I glance around the room at the dozens of massive canvases lining the walls, floor to ceiling. They each have the same theme. Me.
He smiles and moves closer. He smells like chalk and oil paint. A scent I’ve grown to love—almost crave.
“No, you don’t understand.” He rests his container on the table and runs his hand down my arm. “I’m going to paint you. Your body will be my canvas.”
This ignites a small fire in my belly. I’ve never been naked in front of Bunny before, even though he has a variety of paintings depicting me nude. Interestingly, they’re all incredibly accurate. The tiniest moles and birthmarks specifically detailed. I’m afraid to ask how he knows.
“We don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.” His eyes flash with worry.
“No,” I assure him. “I want to. I really do.”
The next moment is charged as Bunny turns to give me some privacy. I stop him and say, “You can watch,” because the barriers between us need to be broken and this is just one of them.
Bunny freezes in his spot, Adam’s apple bobbing as I reach for the button on my shorts. I shimmy them over my hips and push them aside with my foot. Reaching for the hem of my shirt, I quickly pull it over my head. Bunny’s right hand clenches into a fist at the sight of me in nothing but my pink lace bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes roaming over every inch of my body. He starts at my red painted toes and travels up my legs. He licks his lips, eyes skimming over my belly button. I reach for the clasp at the back of my bra when he blinks. “Wait.”
I frown. “What?”
“Can I do it?”
I nod, wanting nothing more than to feel his touch as he undresses me. The spark of energy flares between us. Like the others, Bunny is an extraordinarily handsome and unique man. He’s much smaller than Clinton and Dylan. They’re ridiculously large, tall and broad-shouldered. Bunny is thin but solid. A wisp of air but he carries the same intensity and power as the others. I wouldn’t want to see him angry.
In my adolescent memories Bunny holds a special place. Not just because of the injury but from before when he would hop around the ground, following me everywhere. That’s how he got the name Bunny. I gave it to him.
His artist’s fingers are long and agile. His movements are precise. He doesn’t need brawn, he has skill, and even one-handed he removes my bra with a quick flick of the wrist.
The strip of fabric drops to the floor. I feel his breath on my belly when he hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties. They fall in the pile and in less than two minutes I’m bare in front of him. I wrap an arm around my waist nervously.
“Can you take off your necklace?” he gestures to his arm.
“I thought I was supposed to wear it and the ring all the time.” Damien forged the ring from precious metals to provide protection.
“Just for a bit—it will be fine.”
I remove the necklace. Then the ring comes off, placing them in a small dish on his worktable.
With a dry paintbrush he presses the tip in the hollow of my throat and drags it down between my breasts, stopping only when it tickles the sensitive spot below my navel.
My nipples harden from the sensation and Bunny’s pupils constrict in reaction.
“I think you should get on the table,” he says quietly. I nod, keeping my eyes away from the bulge in his pants. As gracefully as I can, I hoist myself up on the surface, and following Bunny’s instructions I lay flat on my back. I’m thankful there are no mirrors or reflective surfaces, but at the same time, ever since I committed myself to this endeavor—searching for a mate—I’ve lost a fair amount of modesty. Mostly it comes from the constant hunger. The intense desire that courses through my body all the time. I know it’s the Darkness calling and the only salve is to dull the ache with the guardians.
No, there’s no time for embarrassment.
I stare at the ceiling as Bunny preps his supplies wondering what he thinks about me like this. He’s so quiet and shy. With the others, they let me take the lead, although I get the feeling I’m pushing their self-control to the edge. Choosing a mate must be my decision and they’re all willing to let me take charge, although they are active and engaged participants.
But Bunny? I’ve never felt his hand or fingers on me like I have with the others. I haven’t tasted his skin other than a few lingering kisses. Because of this, I think of him all the time. Curiosity may get the best of me.
He suddenly appears, blocking the high ceiling. He smiles and says, “This may feel a little cold at first but as it reacts to your body it will warm up.”
“Is it paint?”
“Sort of,” he pushes his glasses up his nose. “I mixed a base acrylic paint with a compound that Damien created.” Damien works with precious metals and jewels. “I thought maybe we could bring about a heightened experience.”
I tilt my head. “How so?”
“I’m hoping we can ground you to earth and strengthen the gate between you and the Darkness. Maybe open a conduit to your decision-making process, so you know,” he swallows, “you can make a choice between us sooner.”
“It’s worth a shot.” I lay my palms flat on the table. “Let’s do this.”
Bunny starts in the center of my belly, above my navel and below my breasts. The first touch jolts through me like a shard of ice and I jump on the table. “Holy shit.”
“I told you.”
But like he also said, the cold dissipates and turns into a blanket of warmth. I relax back on the table and with a focused look, he begins working diligently.
The tip of the brush sears like a piece of ice traveling across my skin, but I anticipate the slow, burning heat. It’s a strange mixture of pain and pleasure that only grows when he extends the paint away from my belly and toward the other, more sensitive areas.
He works with three different brushes—two held between his teeth. Since I can’t see anything but his face I watch his expression as he reacts to my every movement. His pupils constrict at the same time as my nipples. His mouth twitches when the bristles tickle across my hips. A line of concentration slashes between his brows. We both bite down on our lip when he decorates my left breast and then my right with the most excruciating patience.
The desire is not just from his touch, but from the properties in the paint. I feel the magic seeping into my flesh and my stomach tenses at the rush of raw energy.
