Page 78 of The Collector

"I want us to become the Kings now, shape it into our own version of what it should be. Take this thing where it's nevergone. You say I'm your right hand— and I always have been. And there's nothing, no one— that could change that."

Raven needed to hear those words desperately. Now he could step away for a few hours and feel like everything was handled. He grabbed Stoker by the hand and pulled him into a deep hug. Everything would be as it should be. His father was gone, that was true, but he could shape the King's into what he wanted it to be now with Stoker and Shelby at his side.

He released Stoker from the hug.

"I need to see Mynx. Keep me in the loop as the situation unfolds."

Stoker nodded as the elevator doors opened, and they went their separate ways.

Chapter 22

Mynx

Aknock came—low, deliberate—just before she unraveled completely.

The darkness had swallowed the room, and with it, her sense of place. Alone, uncertain, she sat suspended in the quiet, unsure of where she stood in the wreckage of the night.

The sound pulled her back..

Mynx moved like gravity was failing, her limbs slow and clumsy as she pulled herself from her thoughts. By the time she reached the door, she was sure it was him. The air shifted. The ache had narrowed its focus to what stood on the other side of that door.

Raven.

The smell of jasmine and tobacco enveloped her as the door widened. Raven pushed past her into the room.

He stood there, and the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding broke free in a sigh. She yearned to wrap her arms around him, hold him close, and be consumed by him. But the look on his face stopped her cold.

He didn't speak. Didn't smile.

His knuckles were raw and battered, covered in blood. His shirt was wrinkled, crusted with dried blood and sweat, the fabric stiff where violence had soaked in and hardened. But it was his face—hollowed, unreadable, quiet in all the ways that typically showed confidence—that made Mynx's stomach twist, ache for him.

She prayed none of the blood was his.

"Found you—Butterfly," he said. His voice was soft, tired.

And she folded. Didn't think. Didn't ask for permission.

She just stepped into him, hands finding the bruises, forehead to collarbone, trying to memorize his shape before grief stole it away. He didn't pull back.

His fingers found her back—slow, uncertain, like he didn't know if he deserved this. Like touch was a language he'd almost forgotten how to speak.

"What do you— need?" she asked against his neck.

"To get lost in you—, to forget."The words vibrated against her, low and deep.

She held him, feeling the warmth of his embrace and the rise and fall of his chest. Succumbed to the constant beat of his heart against her ear.

He walked them into the room, holding on like he didn't trust himself to speak. Like touch was the only truth he could manage in the moment.

Even as he stepped back from her, he didn't speak.

Moonlight turned her skin to silver, ethereal and exposed.

It wasn't until then—until his eyes met hers—that she felt the weight of being bare.

Raven's gaze caught on the lines of her collarbone, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands instinctively folded over her chest.

"I'm sorry, I should put on some clothes." As she turned to do so, he stopped her, catching her hand in his, stepping closer.