Chapter 75
Raven
The night air hit my face as I stumbled from Maya's car, managing an impressively sober-sounding "later" before she drove away. The moment her taillights disappeared, I dropped the act.
Oh, hell. I'd forgotten how alcohol affects normal human bodies. In my previous life, I'd built up a tolerance that let me drink Russian oligarchs under the table while maintaining perfect aim with a sniper rifle. This pathetic teenage body, however, was betraying me spectacularly.
I zigzagged up the walkway, calculating the optimal silent entry route with the precision of a drunk cat burglar. Midnight had come and gone, and the darkened house suggested everyone was asleep. Perfect.
"Left foot... right foot... don't trip on the welcome mat..." I whispered to myself, fumbling with the keys. The lock finally surrendered to my assault, and I slipped inside, closing the door with exaggerated caution.
Mission accomplished. Now just a quick stealth operation to my bedroom and—
"Rough night?"
"FUCK!" I jerked backward, nearly toppling over before catching myself against the wall.
There, lounging in the living room like some predator waiting for its prey, sat Nash Wilder. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped casually over the couch, the other propping up his chin as his eyes—amused and calculating—followed my every move. A steaming mug of something sat on the coffee table before him.
I straightened immediately, attempting to summon dignity from the wreckage of my coordination. "I'm perfectly fine. Just tired."
"Tired and drunk are different states of being, though they can look remarkably similar," he observed, his voice carrying that infuriating smooth quality. "Come here."
"I don't take orders from—"
"It wasn't an order. Consider it an invitation."
I narrowed my eyes, weighing my options. My reflexes were compromised, but I could still take him if necessary. Probably. Maybe. My inner assassin whispered caution while my alcohol-soaked brain voted for confrontation.
"Fine," I said, making my way over with deliberate steps that I hoped conveyed confidence rather than the tightrope walk it felt like.
Just as I approached, he reached out and caught my wrist. Before I could react, he pulled me down beside him. The sudden movement sent the room spinning, and I found myself sitting uncomfortably close to Nash.
The contrast was immediate and disorienting—the sour scent of alcohol clinging to my clothes and breath versus the subtle, expensive cologne emanating from him. My eyes widened in horror. I was subjecting Mr. Clean Freak to my post-party miasma.
I sprang up as if electrocuted. "You should maintain your distance. I probably smell like a distillery."
To my astonishment, Nash didn't recoil. Instead, he picked up the mug and extended it toward me. "Drink this. It will help."
"What is it, poison?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If I wanted to kill you, Raven, I wouldn't waste good tea doing it."
Sober Raven would've caught the red flag in that statement. Drunk Raven? She just thought it was funny as hell.
"Fair point." My throat suddenly felt parched, and whatever was in the mug smelled like heaven—or at least, the kind of heaven that promised to make the room stop spinning. I accepted it and downed the contents in several large gulps.
It was only after I'd emptied the mug that I realized I probably should have been more cautious. The liquid had a sharp, herbal taste with hints of ginger and something bitter I couldn't identify.
Nash watched me with an expression that might almost be called satisfaction. "Better?"
Strangely, I did feel more centered almost immediately. "What was in that?"
"Old family recipe," he replied vaguely, standing up. "You should rest now. Come."
He extended a hand, and to my own surprise, I took it. As we walked toward my bedroom, I found myself hyperaware of his proximity. Despite my intoxicated state, alarm bells were ringing. This was dangerous territory—being alone with Nash, compromised by alcohol, letting him guide me.
"You know," I said, attempting to reclaim some control, "most guys wouldn't be this helpful to a drunk girl unless they had ulterior motives."
"Most guys aren't me," he replied simply.
We reached my door, and he opened it without waiting for permission. The moonlight filtered through my window, casting the room in silver. I hesitated at the threshold, suddenly uncertain.
Nash entered ahead of me, turning on the small bedside lamp. I followed, half-convinced I was walking into a trap. The alcohol was making it hard to maintain my usual vigilance, but even impaired, I kept track of every exit point and potential weapon.
"You don't need to babysit me," I muttered, irritation masking vulnerability. "I've handled worse than a few drinks."
"I'm sure you have." His voice held a note of amusement that suggested he knew exactly what kind of "worse" I'd handled.
As I wavered on my feet, Nash stepped closer and helped remove my jacket with methodical efficiency. His movements were clinical, almost impersonal—no lingering touches, no inappropriate glances. He folded back my covers with the same detached competence.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, genuinely puzzled.
"Ensuring you don't choke on your own vomit in your sleep." His tone was dry. "Believe it or not, I'd find that inconvenient."
"How chivalrous," I snorted, but allowed myself to be guided to the bed. The room was still tilting slightly, but the tea had indeed helped clear my head.
I sank onto the mattress, expecting Nash to leave immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, and something around my neck caught his attention.
Time slowed to a crawl. The Satan's Heart pendant had slipped out from beneath my shirt, gleaming eerily in the moonlight. Nash's eyes fixed on it, and something flashed across his features—recognition? Confirmation?
My hand slid beneath my pillow, fingers closing around the handle of my concealed knife. Fuck. FUCK. He knows. He recognizes Satan's Heart. The pendant was my signature, known only to the elite underworld. If Nash recognized it...
One quick movement. Blade across the carotid. Three seconds to unconsciousness. Death in under a minute.
I tensed, preparing to strike. If he moved wrong, said the wrong thing—I'd end him before he could betray me.
But Nash did something entirely unexpected. With careful fingers, he lifted the pendant and placed it gently on the outside of my shirt rather than tucking it back in.
"This pendant gives off a cold energy," he said quietly. "Not good against your skin when you've been drinking. Alcohol thins the blood, makes you more susceptible to cold."
He straightened up and stepped back, his expression unreadable. "Sleep well, Raven."
And then he was gone, closing the door silently behind him.
I released my grip on the knife, letting out a long, shaky breath. What the hell just happened?
Was Nash Wilder—the man I suspected of being my enemy—actually concerned about my wellbeing? The thought was so absurd it almost made me laugh.
Yet as sleep began to claim me, one disturbing question remained: if Nash wasn't the ruthless warlord I expected... ... then who exactly was he?