Raven's Mark: (The Raven Queen's Harem Part One)

by Angel Lawson

  “You don’t remember who gave it to you?”

  “No, just that it’s important to me.” I realize we’re still touching and my heart starts to race. It’s an odd moment, I feel like he may kiss me, and bizarrely I really want him to. An intense yearning fills my lower belly and I lick my lips. Something about this place or these guys make me horny as hell. I mean, they’re hot. That makes sense but at the same time I’ve never reacted to a person—much less people—like this.

  Damien’s eyes follow my every movement. “The food,” I mumble. “It’s getting cold.”

  He frowns, eyes on my mouth. “The what?”

  “The food Sue sent.” I take a step back and he drops the charm, as though he’s coming to his senses.

  “Ah, right. Yes.” He scratches the back of his neck. I move to get the plate—to put something—anything—between us.

  “So your studio is outside and not in the house?”

  He takes the plate and leans against the doorway. “Yeah, the fumes from soldering are toxic. It’s safer for me to work out here.”

  “And your specialty is metalworking?”

  “Jewelry and designs. Welding. I make whatever inspires me. Come on, I’ll show you.” He turns and drops the foil on the work table. Fishing around a drawer, he appears with two forks. He offers one to me.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sue clearly gave me enough to share.” He raises an encouraging eyebrow and the pierced hoop glints in the studio lights. Damien is covered in decorations. Tattoos, piercings, rings, and bracelets. Silver, mostly, but it shines in the light. Now that he’s bandaged and we’ve created some distance, I study him a bit closer.

  Two wolves are tattooed in dark gray and black on each shoulder, intricately designed. He lifts the fork to his mouth and a silver ring on his finger catches my attention. I ask, “Did you make all the jewelry you’re wearing?”

  “Most of it.” He eats a roll by shoving the whole thing in his mouth at once. After he swallows he says, “Like you, I have some sentimental pieces.”

  “Which one?”

  “Which do you think?”

  My eyes roam his body. His buff arms and chiseled chest. I only have an idea of what his abs look like and the thought twists me into knots. I skim over the studs lined up his ear. Beneath the tank I see the outline of metal and know his nipples must be pierced as well. I focus on the amulet hanging from his neck on a leather cord. Although it’s beautiful, I don’t think it’s special. Not like my charm.

  My attention returns to the ring and I catch his hand in mine as he takes another bite of his lunch. He chews as I run my finger over the carved silver. I realize almost immediately it’s a long blade twisted around his finger.

  “This one.”

  He watches me closely. “Why?”

  I shake my head but feel the hum of energy coming off the ring. “I’m not sure but I know it’s the one.”

  “Metals and jewels carry many properties. Protection and power. Health and wealth. I use different ones to accomplish a variety of things, endurance or even strengthening resolve.”

  I touch the ring again and feel the hum. “What about this one?”

  “It’s gold fused with palladium. It signifies guardianship.”

  I’m not sure what that means but simply say, “I could tell it’s special.”

  We stare at one another and he brushes a piece of hair off my cheek. “You’re the one that’s special, Morgan. Never forget.”

  Chapter 9

  Dylan

  Once dinner is complete, the table is clear, and Morgan’s room has gone quiet, the others, one by one, gather in the first floor library. Clinton arrives last and locks the door behind him. It’s the first time we’ve all met since she arrived at the Nead.

  We take our places; Bun and Sam on the plush couch, Damien sits on a leather armchair facing the expansive back windows. Clinton never sits, instead hovering by the entrance. Me? I stand.

  The five of us have known one another for eons. We’re not quite brothers, but close enough; soldiers, warriors, even a criminal or two. Assigned as guards between the worlds. For Morgan.

  “She seems to be settling in,” I say to the group. “Unpacked. Working. Freely walking around the house.”

  “She came to see me in my studio,” Damien comments. “Although she has a lot of questions and I believe a hint of intuition, she’s blind to her purpose here.”

  There’s been a fire in his eyes all evening. I expect us to all have one soon—Morgan is like an infection passing to one another. I glance at Bunny and note, even beneath the gentle exterior, he seems a little more spirited.

  “Did you get the same sense?” I ask him. “I’m aware she spent time in your studio. She took the mark well?”

  “She’s curious. I suspect she feels the energy between us.” Bunny looks at each of us. “She has no idea that the charm she wears is a protective symbol. The rune I marked on her cheek should reinforce it.”

  Morgan’s energy is volatile. There are a few ways to suppress it. Runes and charms seem to help. Relying on us will be even better. But she’s not there yet.

  I walk to the bar and pour myself a drink. The amber fluid tastes like fire against my throat but immediately warms. I need something to satiate the urges. I know the others do too, and I pour four more glasses and pass them around.

  Handing the last to Clinton, I ask, “How are you holding up?”

  He swallows the drink whole. “It’s hard to be around her and not…”

  “I know, brother. We all feel the same.” But even as I say it I know it isn’t true. Clinton has a deeper sense than the rest of us. He always has. He’s the one that knew the time had arrived for us to rejoin with Morgan. That watching her from afar was no longer possible. The demons are banging on the gates and without the bond forged by the six of us together, they’ll get through.

  I look at Damien. “You’ll create her ring?”

  Damien nods. “She seemed receptive to the one I’m wearing. The metals are infused with magic that will allow her memories to flow a bit faster, while not overwhelming her.”

  It’s the best we can do. The clock is ticking but Morgan’s powers are great. Unleashed all at once, she could destroy exactly what we’re trying to protect. Ultimately, she must initiate the bond. It can’t be the other way around.

  I look at the other guards; we’ve been chosen for our strength and abilities. We’re here to forge a bond with Morgan, a girl with more power than she could ever imagine she possesses.

  “What happens if she doesn’t figure it out?” Sam asks, but he knows the answer. The gates will open and death will spill into the streets, consuming any and all living things.

  “We won’t let that happen. Each of us will do exactly what it takes and what is in our personal skills to build the bond with Morgan.” I give each man a knowing look that they all return, including Clinton, who nods before glancing away. “We can’t allow the apocalypse to begin.”

  Chapter 10

  Morgan

  It’s dark when I wake and the only sound in the house is a haunting melody drifting up from the first floor.

  I feel an ache in my stomach and decide to go to the kitchen. Since I’ve arrived at the mansion I’ve felt unsatisfied with a constant, unquenchable hunger. A thin strip of light lingers under Sam’s door, and I almost stop to see if he wants something, but the music downstairs takes on a deep vibration that I feel in my bones. I’m lured down the steps.

  Clinton’s door is shut but I approach it anyway. I pause before the mahogany panel and with a closed fist, rap on the wood. For a moment I worry he can’t hear me. I’m also terrified that he will. My heart pounds in my chest of what lies behind that door. I know Clinton won’t hurt me, the men swore their allegiance, but something about the smoldering, sexy man sets me on edge.

  I’m about to turn away for the kitchen when the music abruptly halts and footsteps echo off the floor. The door opens and he
stands before me, hulking in the small space.

  We stare at one another. His eyes are gray and tense. His hair is tied at the neck, although short strands hang by his sharp cheekbones and my fingers curl into a fist to keep myself from pushing them back. I try to keep my eyes from his chest—it’s bare and so very, very perfect. From the brown, round nipples to the fine trail of hair that travels from his abs to the low-slung pajama bottoms hanging from his hips. A drawstring swings from the waist.

  “I heard your music,” I finally say, well aware it’s come out in a whisper. “I was sleeping and then, the music and…”

  He glances up the stairwell but the entire house is quiet. If Sam or Bunny are working, they’re too immersed to notice what’s happening down here.

  He pushes the door wider—an invitation—and even though I still feel a sense of danger I step through and enter Clinton’s suite. There’s no mistaking the heat of his eyes on my back as I walk down the hall and I’m hyper aware of my clothing—or lack thereof. Tiny shorts and a thin, gray T-shirt. The air is cool in the room and I attempt to cover my aroused nipples by crossing my arms.

  His suite is nearly identical—just below my own. The walls are dark wood paneling and heavy, red fabric drapes over the windows. His instrument, a cello, rests on a stand in the middle of the living space. I can’t help but walk over to the fine piece.

  “You play beautifully.”

  He speaks for the first time. “Thank you.”

  I’m taken aback by the softness in his voice. It’s a sharp contrast to the hard muscles and hostility on his face. The tension ratchets up a notch and the ache, now moving across my body, up to my chest and down between my legs, grows more intense. “Will you play something for me?”

  The look on Clinton’s face is one of resignation, but he moves to the chair and sits. His legs spread and the juxtaposition of the massive, half-naked, burly man playing an exquisite classical instrument is nearly too much to handle.

  He reaches for his bow and grips the neck with one hand. His biceps tense and his abs tighten. I sit on the leather couch across from him. The first notes are low and long, vibrating in my chest.

  I’m overwhelmed by the music and lean back, closing my eyes. The melody washes over me and soon I’m drifting…

  Maverick crosses her backyard into the woods. Her house is visible from the path and the fluffy gray cat leads her into the darker corners of the forest. The charm around her neck hums in warning as they travel. It’s not the first time they’ve made this journey, Maverick and the cat. They’ve tried several times but the ravens kept pulling her back.

  “They’re going to be angry,” she tells him. He glances at her with his aloof yellow eyes. “They don’t like me to leave the yard.”

  It’s true that the ravens get testy if Maverick travels without them. They’re a constant in her life. She’s grown now—more woman than child—almost sixteen. She doesn’t need the ravens as much anymore. She has a few friends at school. A boy named Jason asked her to the dance. She feels the judgment from her birds when she leaves in a vehicle or the night she kissed Jason by the front door.

  Even with those small rebellions, she knows better than to go off with the cat. Weird things happen in the forest. There’s a darkness lurking. It’s where the one raven lost use of his wing fighting with this very cat. It’s where the chickens from the coop went missing.

  It’s where the strange light flickers when she gets too close.

  She knows not to come here but the cat always leads her and truthfully, Maverick feels a compulsion to follow.

  Leaves crackle under her feet. Homecoming is next weekend. Even as the charm vibrates against her chest, Maverick is thinking of the dance and the dress she and her mother bought at the tiny boutique downtown. She climbs over a large log, the cat waiting for her patiently at the edge of a bend. The girl catches up and around the corner she sees the bright purple light, beckoning her forward.

  “Is that it?” Maverick touches the stone nestled in the key. The light a few steps away looks wavy, like a mirage.

  “Mew,” the cat replies, twisting through her legs. She no longer needs his encouragement. The light calls to her and she moves forward on her own. When she looks down it’s no longer the forest floor but a stone path. The trees have vanished and the sky is a royal blue overhead. The girl looks forward and the light is now a solid door, arched at the top with a purple stone in the middle. A golden door knob beckons her to twist. Her mission is clear. Open the door.

  Maverick feels the gentle touch of fingertips at the base of her neck and turns, finding a handsome blonde man removing the charm.

  “Who are you?” she asks, feeling an explosive warmth in her chest. He’s powerful—that is clear, and her body thrums from his touch.

  “I’m here to escort you to past the boundary line. Are you ready?”

  He tosses the charm to the ground and a second wave of power surges through her limbs—an exhilarating sense of freedom. A familiar cry screeches in the distance but the man guides her elbow and he whispers in my ear, “Open the door, Maverick.”

  Shadows fly overhead as she rests her hand on the knob—

  I snap out of my dream--or was it a vision--and sit up straight. Clinton stops playing and rests the cello on the stand.

  “What?” he asks, eyes wide.

  My skin is on fire and my heart races. I take one look at the man before me, at his bare chest and strong jaw and cross the room. Without asking—without a single beat of a pause—I walk the short distance and climb into Clinton’s lap, pulling him close.

  “Morgan?”

  His breath is warm, sweet from alcohol earlier in the night. I feel the power from my dream rolling through my veins and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I don’t release it, I will be consumed whole.

  Clinton’s hands move to my back and I squirm against him, seeking relief. He groans at the pressure and his grip tightens. I feel his excitement, large and hard, straining against the thin cotton of his pants, and the cold glint in his eyes from earlier is gone, replaced by a hunger that matches my own.

  “Do you feel it?” I ask in a voice that sounds like a whine. “The energy?”

  “Yes,” he replies gruffly.

  “Take it away.” I writhe against him. “Can you?”

  He nods and takes one last look at me before kissing me hard. I exhale at the feeling of his mouth against mine and crush my body against the solid weight of his chest. His shoulders and arms are rock hard and the cords of his muscles tense with the slightest move. His mouth tastes like sugar and I lick his lips, while curling my fingers into the fringe of his hair. Clinton shudders beneath me like a man on the edge and the hard exterior turns into something different—something wild.

  With each heated kiss the surge of energy diffuses, shifting from explosive to heady want. Our bodies collide and I feel the sharp tips of my nipples rubbing against the granite planes of his chest. I want to feel his skin against mine. I want to lick the sweat off his body. His fingertips lift the hem of my shirt and graze my belly. I’m overwhelmed, lightheaded and consumed. He kisses along my neck, his other hand cupping my breast. I want him to go further, and I encourage him by sinking my nails into his chest, but his hands don’t move and I finally pause, breathing shallow.

  “I don’t—” I start, feeling the lie on my lips. I do want. So badly, but this man, Clinton, I don’t know him, even if he feels perfect and familiar beneath me.

  He presses his forehead to mine. “Feel better?”

  Strangely, I do. Under the lust I have a renewed sense of balance. The power surges have subsided and I nod. I reluctantly extract myself from Clinton’s arms. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

  He tilts my chin up. “I’m here for you. Whenever you need it.”

  There’s a deep meaning to his words and before I take him up on his offer I decide to leave. An hour ago I was afraid of this man. Now I’ve felt nearly every inch of his body. Som
ething about this house has lit a fire in me—creatively and physically--and as I walk back up the stairs to my room I wonder how I’ll survive.

  Chapter 11

  Clinton

  Letting Morgan walk out of my room was the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done.

  Harder than my cock right now, which trust me, is like vibranium, the special metal Captain America’s shield is made out of. It’s like Thor’s hammer. Or the Hulk’s fist.

  Why the hell am I comparing my manhood to childhood superheroes?

  I lean my head against the front door of my suite and breathe, trying to gain a little composure. Dylan called it at our little family meeting tonight. Morgan is killing me. I feel her every mood, her every desire. It’s my special talent, in this form or any other. I sense it all: Danger, desire, fear, excitement. It’s how I know if there are predators around. It’s how I know if it’s safe to hunt. It’s my role in the group. It’s about survival.

  And right now the girl has brought all of those emotions into the house, giving the boys an extra dose of hormones and me a raging, never-ending hard-on.

  I turn and slide down the door, my heartbeat slowing. I could have had her tonight. Picked that virginity like a cherry from a vine, but despite the want, it shouldn’t be me. I won’t be gentle. Not like Sam or Bunny. Those two will take care of her. Make sure it’s done right. No, the urges she brings out in me come from deep inside.

  She needs a mate.

  Not just a fuck.

  I see my reflection in the cabinet down the hall and I push my hand through my hair. Like I told her, she can use me whenever she wants, but beyond that? I’ve got a job to do and it’s about her wants, not mine.

  Chapter 12

  Morgan

  Over the following days, I find a balance that I know deep down comes from my encounter with Clinton. I wake early and write, using my time to get down a flood of words. Not only did Clinton quench my lustful desires, the gates opened in my mind and I can’t get them down fast enough.