Chapter 2: Clean Sheets and a Loaded Silence
The rain hadn't stopped for three days.
Raven stood at the kitchen sink, her hands submerged in water gone cold and gray, scrubbing at a plate that had been clean twenty minutes ago. The sponge moved in circles. Her mind moved in circles too, round and round, a dog chasing its tail through fields of hangover and regret.
She'd washed the sheets twice. Twice. The first time, she'd told herself it was practical—sweat and sex and the general filth of two bodies colliding in the dark. The second time, she'd stood in the laundromat at 3 a.m., watching the machine spin, telling herself she was just being thorough.
She wasn't being thorough. She was being pathetic.
The pillow still smelled like him.
She'd caught herself doing it yesterday—burying her face in the cotton, inhaling deep like some lovesick teenager with a crush she couldn't name. Cedar and citrus and something darker underneath. Something that made her stomach clench and her thighs press together and her brain short-circuit into static.
She'd thrown the pillow across the room. It had knocked over a stack of books. She hadn't picked them up.
The apartment was a disaster. Worse than usual. Whiskey bottles lined the counter like soldiers waiting for orders, some empty, some half-full, their amber contents catching the dim light from the single bulb overhead. A mug sat in the sink, chipped at the rim, filled with water gone murky. She'd smoked a blunt an hour ago—maybe two—and the smoke had curled into every corner, mixing with the ghost of old cigars, the ghost of him, the ghost of everything she couldn't scrub away.
The rain tapped against the window. A slow, mournful rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Like a countdown.
She dropped the sponge. It landed in the water with a sad little splash. She dried her hands on her jeans and turned away from the sink, away from the dishes, away from the evidence of a life she was barely living.
The black card was on her nightstand.
She hadn't moved it. Hadn't thrown it away. Hadn't called the number. Just... looked at it. Every few hours. Like it might disappear if she stopped paying attention. Like it might grow legs and walk away and leave her alone with the silence and the rain and the memory of his hands on her hips.
She picked it up now. Ran her thumb over the embossed numbers. Silver on black. No name. No company. Just a phone number and the promise of something she couldn't name.
The note was underneath it. His handwriting on the back of her abandoned poem—the one about the ocean eating the shore, about how love was just another kind of erosion. He'd written over her words like they didn't matter. Like she didn't matter.
I'll call you.
Eight days ago.
He'd called. He'd come over. He'd fucked her against the door and then carried her to bed and then done it again, and again, and again, until Sunday morning bled through the curtains and she couldn't remember ever feeling anything but full.
And then he'd left. Again. No note this time. Just the ghost of his cologne on her sheets and a soreness between her legs that lingered for days.
She should have been angry.
She was angry.
But she was also wet. All the time. Thinking about him. Dreaming about him. Waking up with her hand between her legs and his name on her lips.
She lit another blunt. The smoke filled her lungs, hot and harsh, and she let it sit there until her chest ached. Then she exhaled, slow and deliberate, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
The TV flickered. Some reality show about people looking for love in all the wrong places. She wasn't watching. She was just... existing. Floating. Waiting for something she couldn't name.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't look at it. Not at first. Just took another hit, held it longer, let the world go soft and hazy at the edges.
Then she looked.
Unknown number.
Two words.
Come over.
Her heart stopped. Started again. Hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
She stared at the screen. The words didn't change. Didn't disappear. Just sat there, small and simple and devastating.
Come over.
Not "hello." Not "how are you." Not "I've been thinking about you." Just a command. An expectation. Like she was a dog he could whistle for.
She should ignore it.
She should text back something scathing. Something like "fuck you" or "who is this" or "I'm busy."
She should throw her phone across the room and go back to scrubbing dishes and pretending she didn't care.
Instead, she typed: Where.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
His address. Nothing else.
She stared at it for a long time. Long enough for the blunt to burn down to her fingers. Long enough for the rain to stop and start again. Long enough for her heart to slow from a sprint to a jog to something almost resembling calm.
Then she stood up.
She stripped off her jeans and t-shirt—the same ones she'd been wearing for two days—and stood in front of her closet in nothing but her underwear. Black lace. Not the same pair she'd worn to the party. Different. Clean. She told herself it didn't mean anything.
She pulled on a dress. Dark green. Tight. The kind of dress that made her legs look longer than they were and her waist look smaller than it was. She hadn't worn it in months. Hadn't had a reason to.
She put on makeup. Not much. Just enough to look like she wasn't trying. Red lipstick. Mascara. A little bit of gold on her eyelids that caught the light when she blinked.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
The phoenix on her shoulder caught the dim light, its wings curving up toward her neck. The octopus on her thigh was hidden beneath the dress, but she could feel it there, tentacles curling against her skin. Her marks. Her armor. Her story written in ink and pain.
"You're an idiot," she told her reflection.
Her reflection didn't argue.
She grabbed her keys. Her phone. The black card—she shoved it in her purse like a talisman, like a weapon, like something she might need.
Then she walked out the door.
---
His building was in the financial district. All glass and steel and doormen who looked at her like she was either a prostitute or a problem.
She was neither. Probably.
The elevator ride took forever. Or maybe it just felt that way because her heart was pounding and her palms were sweating and she kept second-guessing every choice that had led her here.
She should have stayed home.
She should have ignored the text.
She should have—
The doors opened.
His apartment took up the entire floor. Open concept. Floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below like a kingdom he'd conquered, all lights and shadows and the promise of things she couldn't name.
He was standing by the window. Back to her. Glass of whiskey in his hand.
He didn't turn around.
"You came."
His voice was low. Smooth. The same voice that had whispered filthy things in her ear while he fucked her from behind.
"You texted."
"I did."
Silence.
She stood in the doorway, purse clutched to her chest like a shield, and waited. For what, she didn't know. An explanation. An apology. Something that made sense of the eight days of silence and the two words that had brought her here.
He turned.
The lights from the city caught his face, illuminating the sharp angles, the blue eyes that seemed to see right through her. He was wearing a black sweater and dark jeans. Barefoot. Casual in a way that felt deliberate. Like he was trying to be something other than what he was.
"You're angry," he said.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not." She stepped inside, let the door close behind her. "I just... don't understand."
"Understand what?"
"This." She gestured vaguely. "You. The text. All of it."
He set his glass down. Walked toward her. Slow. Deliberate. The way a predator walks toward prey it knows can't escape.
"I told you I don't do repeats," he said.
"I remember."
"But here I am."
"Here you are."
He stopped a few feet away. Close enough that she could smell him—cedar and citrus and something darker underneath. The same scent that had haunted her pillow for eight days.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said.
The words hit her like a physical blow. She wasn't expecting honesty. Wasn't expecting vulnerability. Wasn't expecting anything but a command and a fuck and another disappearance.
"Why?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He reached for her. She let him. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing across her bottom lip. Red lipstick smeared on his skin.
"I should have called sooner," he said.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I didn't want to."
She pulled back. "You didn't want to?"
"I wanted to." His hand dropped to her hip, pulling her closer. "That's the problem."
"I don't—"
"I don't do this." His voice was rough. "I don't... feel things. I don't let people in. I don't..."
"Fuck them twice?"
"Three times."
She laughed. She couldn't help it. The absurdity of it. The ridiculousness of standing in a million-dollar apartment with a man she barely knew, discussing feelings like they were something that could be negotiated.
"You're insane," she said.
"Probably."
"I should leave."
"You should."
"But I'm not going to."
"No." He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "You're not."
He kissed her.
It was different this time. Slower. Deeper. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. Like he was trying to say something he didn't have words for.
She melted into him. Hands in his hair. Body pressed against his. The kiss went on and on, building heat, building need, until she was dizzy with it.
"Bedroom," she breathed.
"No."
"What?"
He pulled back. Looked at her. His eyes were dark, hungry, completely in control.
"I want you here."
"Here?"
"Against the window."
Her breath caught. "People could see."
"Let them."
He spun her around. Her hands hit the glass, cold and shocking, and she gasped. His body covered hers—chest to back, hips to ass—and his hands found her waist.
"Watch," he said.
"Watch what?"
"The city." His lips brushed her neck. "Watch the city while I fuck you."
She should have said no. Should have protested. Should have done anything but what she did—pushing back against him, grinding her ass into his erection, making a sound that was half-moan, half-whimper.
He groaned.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're going to kill me."
"You said that before."
"And I meant it then too."
He reached around her, found the zipper of her dress, pulled it down slow. The fabric parted, revealing her back, her spine, the phoenix wings stretching across her shoulder blades.
He traced them with his fingers. Gentle. Almost reverent.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
"It hurt like hell."
"I bet."
He pushed the dress off her shoulders. Let it pool at her feet. She stood there in nothing but black lace and heels, pressed against a window, exposed to the whole fucking city.
His hands found her breasts. Cupped them. Squeezed. His thumbs traced circles around her nipples through the lace, and she arched into him, desperate for more.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what I mean."
He laughed. Low and dark against her throat. "Tell me."
"I need—"
"Tell me."
"I need your fingers." She was shaking. "I need your fingers in my cunt."
He pulled her underwear down. Let it drop. His hand slid between her legs, fingers finding her slick and ready.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so wet."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She ground against his hand. He rewarded her with two fingers pushing inside, stretching her, filling her. His thumb found her clit and pressed.
She cried out.
"Watch," he reminded her.
She looked at the city. At the lights. At the reflections of two bodies pressed against the glass. She could see his face—concentrated, hungry—and her own—flushed, desperate, completely undone.
His fingers moved faster. Deeper. Curling inside her, finding that spot that made her vision blur.
"I'm going to come," she gasped.
"Not yet."
"Please—"
"Not yet."
He pulled his hand away. She whined—actually whined—and he laughed again, the sound vibrating through her back.
"Patience," he said.
"Fuck patience."
He spun her around. Pushed her back against the glass. His hands found her thighs and lifted, and she wrapped her legs around his waist without thinking.
"Hold on," he said.
She did.
He pushed inside her.
This was different too. Slower than before. More deliberate. Like he was trying to feel every inch of her, every clench, every shudder. His forehead pressed against hers, breath hot on her lips.
"You feel," he said, and stopped.
"Feel what?"
"Like you fit."
"I don't—"
But he kissed her before she could finish. Kissed her while he moved. Kissed her while he fucked her against the window like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
She clung to him. Nails digging into his shoulders. Heels pressing into his ass. The city watched. The rain tapped. The world spun on.
"Harder," she begged.
He gave her harder.
"Faster."
He gave her faster.
"Please, please, please—"
He gave her everything.
She came first—shattering around him, crying into his shoulder, biting down on the fabric of his sweater. He followed a moment later, hips stuttering, cock pulsing, a groan pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.
They stayed there. Pressed against the glass. Breathing hard. Slick with sweat.
"I don't do this," he said again.
"I know."
"I don't..."
"Me neither."
He pulled back. Looked at her. The blue eyes were softer now. The sharp edges blurred.
"Stay," he said.
It wasn't a command.
It was a question.
She should say no. Should leave. Should protect herself from whatever this was.
Instead, she said, "Okay."
He carried her to his bedroom. Laid her down on sheets that probably cost more than her rent. Wrapped his body around hers like he was afraid she might disappear.
And for the first time in eight days, Raven slept without dreaming.
---
She woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
The apartment was quiet. No rain. No city sounds. Just the soft hum of appliances and the distant sound of traffic far below.
She was alone in bed.
She sat up, pulling the sheet around her, and looked around. The bedroom was minimal. Dark wood. White walls. A single piece of art on the wall—abstract, dark, something that looked like a storm.
The door opened.
Nikolai walked in carrying two mugs. He was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Barefoot. His hair was messy, like he'd just woken up. Like he'd been sleeping next to her all night.
"You're awake," he said.
"Observant."
He handed her a mug. Coffee. Black. The way she liked it.
She took a sip. Watched him over the rim.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"You're interesting."
He smiled. That small, devastating smile that made her stomach flip.
"I have to go," he said.
"Okay."
"Business."
"Okay."
He sat on the edge of the bed. Close but not touching.
"I want to see you again."
"You're seeing me now."
"Don't be a smartass."
She laughed. "You bring it out in me."
He reached out. Touched her face. Gentle. Almost tender.
"I'm not good at this," he said.
"At what?"
"Whatever this is."
"Me neither."
"I don't know how to... be. With someone. I've spent my whole life..."
He trailed off. She waited.
"Keeping people out," he finished.
"So why are you letting me in?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at her with those blue eyes, deep and dark and full of things she couldn't name.
"I don't know," he said finally.
"Not good enough."
"It's the only answer I have."
She set her mug down. Reached for him. Pulled him toward her.
"Then show me instead," she said.
He did.
---
He left at noon. Kissed her goodbye like it meant something. Like she meant something.
She stayed in his bed for another hour. Just... breathing. Thinking.
The black card was still in her purse. She pulled it out. Looked at it.
Then she called Bree.
"You absolute bitch," she said when Bree answered.
"Hello to you too."
"You knew."
"Knew what?"
"About him. About all of it. You set me up."
"Set you up implies I was behind it." Bree's voice was smug. "I simply... facilitated."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Later. Tell me everything."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm still in his bed."
Silence.
Then Bree laughed. Long and loud and delighted.
"I knew it," she said. "I fucking knew it."
"You knew nothing."
"I knew everything."
"Bree—"
"Tell me you used protection."
"Bree."
"Tell me."
"We didn't."
Another silence.
"Raven."
"I know."
"I gave you instructions."
"I don't do instructions."
"Clearly."
Raven laughed. Couldn't help it. The absurdity of the conversation. The absurdity of her life. The absurdity of lying in a mob boss's bed, wrapped in sheets that smelled like him, talking to her best friend who'd orchestrated the whole damn thing.
"So," Bree said. "What now?"
"I don't know."
"Does he know you're on the pill?"
"We didn't... talk about it."
"Jesus, Raven."
"He didn't ask."
"And you didn't tell."
"It just... happened."
"Everything just happens with you."
She thought about it. About the party. About the text. About the way he'd looked at her across the room and decided she was worth the risk.
"Yeah," she said. "I guess it does."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"Are you going to see him again?"
"I don't know."
"Are you going to fall in love with him?"
"Bree."
"Answer the question."
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
And that was the scariest thing of all.
---
She left his apartment at two. Took an Uber home. Watched the city blur past the window, all glass and steel and secrets.
Her apartment smelled like smoke and regret. The dishes were still in the sink. The bottles were still on the counter. The note was still on her nightstand—I'll call you—and the black card was still in her purse—just a number, just a promise, just a door she couldn't close.
She sat on the edge of her bed. Looked at her reflection in the window. The phoenix wings curled across her shoulder. The octopus tentacles hid beneath her dress.
She was a mess.
She was falling.
She was in.
And she had no idea where this was going.
Her phone buzzed.
One word.
Tonight?
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she typed: Where.
Three dots. Then an address. A restaurant this time.
And underneath it: Wear something red.
She laughed.
Then she started getting ready.
---
She wore red.
A dress she'd bought years ago for a funeral she'd never attended. Silk. Tight. Cut low enough to make a priest blush.
She looked like a sin.
She felt like one too.
The restaurant was in the hills. Valet parking. White tablecloths. Candles that flickered like they were trying to tell secrets.
Nikolai was waiting at a corner table. He stood when she walked in. That small smile. That impossible blue.
"You came," he said.
"You texted."
"I did."
He pulled out her chair. Sat across from her. Ordered wine without looking at the menu.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're beautiful."
"You've said that."
"It's still true."
They talked.
Not about anything important. About her poetry. His work—vague, unreadable. The way he'd grown up in the city and never left, the way she'd moved here with a suitcase and a dream and nothing else.
He made her laugh.
She made him smile.
The food came. They ate. They drank. The candles burned down.
"Why me?" she asked.
He set his fork down. Thought about it.
"You looked at me like you saw something no one else does."
"I looked at you like you were hot."
"Same thing."
She laughed. "That's not the same thing."
"It is." He reached for her hand. Fingers intertwining. "You saw me. Not the suit. Not the power. Just... me."
"I don't even know who you are."
"You know enough."
"What does that mean?"
"It means..." He paused. "It means I want to tell you. Everything. But I don't know how."
"Then show me."
He looked at her. Long and hard.
"Okay," he said.
He paid the check. Took her hand. Led her out of the restaurant and into the night.
The city sprawled below. Endless. Brilliant. Full of secrets.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To see something."
"What?"
"Me."
The car was waiting. Black. Tinted windows. The driver nodded as they climbed in.
She didn't know where they were going.
She didn't care.
She was in.
And there was no going back.
---
The warehouse was on the waterfront. Abandoned-looking. All rust and shadow and the smell of salt and old machinery.
She should have been scared.
She wasn't.
He led her inside. Through dark corridors. Past doors that were closed and doors that were open. Men nodded to him as they passed. Men who looked like they'd seen things she couldn't imagine.
"You're in the mob," she said.
"I'm in business."
"Same thing."
He stopped. Looked at her.
"Is that a problem?"
She thought about it. Really thought about it. The violence. The danger. The life she was stumbling into.
"No," she said.
"It should be."
"Maybe." She stepped closer. "But I'm not very smart."
He laughed.
"You're the smartest person I know."
"I dropped out of college."
"You write poetry."
"So?"
"So you understand things most people don't."
He kissed her.
It was different. Harder. Hungrier. Like he was claiming her all over again.
"I'm going to fuck you here," he said.
"Where?"
"In my office."
"Where's your office?"
He pointed. A door at the end of the hall. A door that said "Do Not Enter."
"You're going to fuck me in your office."
"Yes."
"With your men outside."
"Yes."
"You're insane."
"Yes."
He took her hand. Led her to the door. Opened it.
The office was large. Dark. A desk that could fit three people and a chair that looked like a throne. Windows overlooking the water. The city lights reflected in the glass.
He closed the door. Locked it.
Then he turned to her.
"Sit," he said.
She sat.
On the desk.
Legs spreading. Dress riding up.
He crossed to her. Slow. Deliberate. The way he moved when he was about to do something she'd remember.
His hand found her thigh. Slid up. Slow. Torturous.
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you."
"That's not enough."
"I want your cock."
"Where?"
"In my mouth."
"Then get on your knees."
She slid off the desk. Kneeling on the cold floor. Looking up at him. He unbuttoned his pants, pulled his cock out, and she took him in her hand.
He was thick. Long. Flushed dark with blood. She leaned forward, dragging her tongue along the underside of his shaft—slow, deliberate—spreading the wetness of her lips over his skin. She lapped at the head, swirling her tongue around the tip, tasting salt and heat, before taking him into her mouth. Her lips stretched around him, sealing tight, and she hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard as she pulled back, then pushed forward again, deeper this time. She set a rhythm—sucking, pulling, taking him deeper with each pass—her tongue pressing against his length, sliding along the thick vein pulsing against her tongue. She reached up and cupped his balls, massaging them gently while she worked him faster, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth, her jaw aching, and she didn't stop. She looked up at him and saw his head thrown back, throat exposed, and something raw and animal crossed his face. His hands found her hair and fisted it, hard, pulling enough to sting, and he started to fuck her mouth—slow at first, then deeper, hitting the back of her throat, and she swallowed him down, took him, choking and gasping and wanting more.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, Raven."
She pulled back. Spit slick on her lips. Gasping.
"Fuck me," she said. "Please."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He pulled her up. Bent her over the desk. Grabbed her hips. Pushed inside her in one rough stroke.
She screamed.
The desk was cold against her cheek. His body was hot behind her. He fucked her hard—no mercy, no patience—just raw, brutal need. The sound of skin on skin. The smell of sweat and sex and power.
"You like this," he growled.
"Yes—"
"You like being fucked in my office while my men listen."
"Yes—"
"You want them to hear you scream."
"Yes—"
"Then scream."
She did.
He came inside her. Pulsing. Filling. She felt every spurt, every shudder.
They collapsed together. Breathing hard. Hearts racing.
"I've never..." she started.
"I know."
"I don't..."
"Me neither."
He pulled out. Turned her around. Kissed her soft and slow.
"Come home with me," he said.
"Okay."
He drove her home. His home. Their home—for tonight, at least.
And when she fell asleep in his arms, she didn't dream of the past.
She dreamed of the future.
She dreamed of him.