Raven's Mark (The Raven Queen's Harem 1)

“Sure, of course.”

She walks over to the refrigerator and extracts a plate covered with foil. I take it from her. “There’s enough for two in there.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on…” I glance down. “I just wanted some fresh air.”

Sue shrugs and waves her knife. “Well get along, then. Dinner is at seven sharp. We’re having salmon.”

“Sounds delicious,” I say, backing away and reaching for the door knob. “I’ll make sure Damien gets this.”

“Thank you, dear.”

The warm afternoon heat blasts against my skin the second I step outside and I unzip the front of my hoodie. I cross a small porch and follow a path of slate pavers around to the main part of the yard. A wide, bigger porch sits across the back of the house and nestled in the corner is a cement structure with a metal roof. The building is plain and wide ventilation shafts poke through the ceiling. A strange chemical smell wafts through the air.

The door is open and I’m given a moment to watch Damien before he notices me. He’s standing at a long, metal work table with a thick, leather apron hanging around his neck and tied at the waist. Leather work gloves cover his hands and he uses a small torch on his project. His muscular arms are bare, the hint of his white tank visible under the leather. His black work pants fit perfectly, snug across the butt. A pair of workmen’s goggles are pushed to his forehead and he concentrates on a small object under a circular magnifying glass.

Extreme heat rolls out of the room even with the large fans mounted to the walls. I shift uncomfortably, wanting to take off my hoodie, but unable to with the plate in my ha

nds. Damien is incredibly focused, but something happens and he drops the torch with a clatter on the table.

“Fuck,” he mutters, tossing his gloves across the room. He wrings his hand.

“Damien!” I step through the doorway uninvited and ask, “Are you okay?”

He looks up, wincing from the pain. “Morgan? What are you doing down here?”

I hold up the plate. “Sue wanted me to bring you this.” I set it down on the table and approach him. “Can I see it?”

“I just cut it. Nothing big. It happens.”

I reach for his hand and see the slice in his length of his finger. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

He stares at my hand for a moment before looking back up at me. He swallows. “Over there, in that cabinet. Blue box.”

I move quickly, grabbing the box among all the other supplies in the cabinet. I rummage though and find bandages and ointment. Leading Damien to a stool near the work table, I get out the medicine and slather it on the bandage. We clean the wound and wrap it up.

“Better?” I ask. I’m standing between his spread legs, his feet perched on a rung at the base of the stool.

“Much,” he says in a quiet voice. We stare at one another for a moment and I sink into his beautiful eyes. They’re the most unique shade of violet. He strokes a finger over my cheek, the one that Bunny painted and his lips twist into a wistful smile.

“What?”

“You look good marked like that.”

I reach to touch the dried paint. It should be flaking off by now but it’s not. Damien’s eyes and hand move to the charm resting on my chest. I removed my hoodie before cleaning his finger. The studio is almost unbearably warm and I’m well aware of the sweat drenching my thin tank.

“This charm,” he says, fingering my necklace. A shiver rolls up my spine. “Where did you get it?”

Normally I lie. I say that I found it in a boutique or an antique shop. The truth always clings to my tongue but not today. Not now. “I don’t know,” I say, placing my hand over his. “It’s like I’ve always had it.”

“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.