Liam Davis & The Raven (Love Inscribed 1)

I stepped away from the goosebump-inducing Quinn. For whatever reason, whenever he spoke or laughed or moved around, the room didn’t seem to echo him. It was like he soaked everything up and added warmth to the room that had been missing since I’d moved in.

“Do we have a deal, then?” I asked.

He folded his arms, but his head was practically nodding in answer. “I’m getting the best end of the bargain here.”

“As long as I can quote you on that if anyone tries to throw a fist at you.”

“Deal.”

Quinn moved in the next morning. I insisted he come early so I could let him in before disappearing to the office. Monday, I’d cut him a key so he wouldn’t have to wait around for me.

He came ten minutes later than our eight o’clock arrangement.

I yanked the door open to a wet and tired-looking Quinn and company. Quinn stood holding a large box, his hair matted with rain that dripped onto the box. He looked like he might still be asleep.

Behind him, carrying a box in each hand, Shannon gave me a dimpled grin and swept a blue strand of hair off her face with a flick of her head.

Hunter was the first to speak, rolling past Quinn and into my apartment balancing a suitcase on his chair. “Let’s dump this before your bed and other shit starts elevator surfing.”

He dropped the suitcase at the side of the door, and slapped my ass on his way back into the hall. I jumped at the contact, letting out a noise that seemed to snap the rest of the guys into motion. They all piled in. Shannon rested her boxes to the side and pecked my cheek before following Hunter. Quinn zombied the distance between us and pushed his box into my arms.

“Thanks for the help,” he murmured, and then followed it up with a yawn.

The damp cardboard against my chest had me simultaneously grabbing the box to hold it away from me and shaking my head. I’d already removed an entire shelf of books for him and dusted the desk. “Actually, I really have to get to university. I’ve got a column to look over and some studying for—”

Quinn blinked, resembling a live human for a moment. Sort of. “Dude,” he said, “it’s the crack of dawn.”

“Not really. Technically, dawn would be—”

He reached out and pinched my lips shut with his thumb and forefinger. The pads of his fingers weren’t very soft or smooth but rather calloused. His fingertip tickled my lip in a way that gave me the shivers. “It’s eight on a freaking Sunday. Ten o’clock would still be dawn to me.”

My grip tightened on the weighty box. What was in here? Bricks?

“Be that as it may,” I tried to say around his fingers, but it came out more a vibration than anything. My voice must have tunneled over Quinn’s hand because he jerked his hand back. Suddenly he looked like someone had poured ice water over him.

“Is this work urgent?” he asked.

“The deadline is Tuesday, but—”

“Tuesday. Right. Then this is how it’s going to work, Liam. You’re going to suffer through a quick move for maybe an hour or so, and then I will take us all out for brunch to say thanks, man. After that, you can go to uni and type to your heart’s content, okay?”

I shifted, changing my grip to the underside of the box. “I’m not a fan of moving. It really bores me.”

Quinn veered around me and held open the study door for me. “You’re not the only one.”

I trudged into the room and lowered the box to the floor. Quinn had a point—if I’d been the one moving in, I guess I’d have appreciated the help. “What do you want me to do? Keep in mind, I’m allergic to power tools.”

Well, not allergic per se, but I couldn’t use one without hurting myself or getting shocked, so allergic seemed an appropriate description.

“Not keen on them myself. But don’t worry”—he pointed to the box—“I thought you could help me with my books.”

I snapped to attention, already nodding and moving toward some empty shelves in the bookcase. “Now that I can handle.”

The chuckle Quinn left me with bubbled around the room, and a sudden burst of sunlight escaped a gap in the clouds and flowed into the study.

I soaked in it a moment before busying myself with Quinn’s . . . comic books. They held a familiar weight. I leafed through a couple as I did with the Scribe. They were in pristine condition, no dog-eared corners, no coffee stains, no sticky pages.

Fanning a few dozen, I organized the issues before carefully stacking them onto the shelf.

Each new comic conjured more images of The Raven. Inky blue, graceful, face shadowed by his hood . . . part of my desire to go to the university today was to find more names of people who had seen or heard about The Raven.