Page 91 of The Collector

He watched her chest rise and fall, each breath pulling him further from thoughts of his father, Raul. He didn't deserve this—her love, her trust, the comfort she offered without hesitation.

Last night, she had molded to him, filled voids he hadn't known existed. She'd seen the blood on his hands and still wanted him.

Dawn broke pale and gray. Birds sang. But Raven felt Death looming, sickle raised, ready to strike the Kings. A prickle of anxiety crawled down his spine.

"Just five more minutes," he thought, shaking the image away.

He studied her face—the pout of her lips, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks. She was stunning. Full of life. Curled against him like he was someone worth keeping.

Not a monster. Not the man who buried enemies and made the hard choices to protect the Kings.

He had traded mercy for power, love for loyalty. And now, with his father gone, the weight of leadership pressed heavier than ever.

But Mynx was here. Flesh and blood. Proof that something good could still exist.

She stirred with a soft snore, adjusting against the pillow. She accepted him. And Raven didn't know what that said about her—or about the man he might become because of it.

All he knew was that it felt right.

He lingered, memorizing the flutter of her breath, the glow of her skin in the spill of dawn. She was peace. He was ruin. And somehow, they fit together—two broken pieces locking into something that felt whole.

He wanted to stay. God help him, he wanted to stay. To relish in the quiet, the silence she gave the demons that roared inside his head—just for a moment.

He'd taken her three times and watched her break — surrender to him, to what they were becoming to each other. She'd succumbed to his hunger, shattered against him as their shared desire rose and crested through the night.

Raven smiled, remembering how she'd taken him so beautifully. Her every gasp, every tremor was stored in his mind and would keep him grounded today.

He pulled back from her still sleeping form, careful not to wake her.

Take-downs were never clean. No one fought fair. There were no rules in war—only survival, and whatever you could get away with before the blowback came swinging. And it always came. Inthe most unpredictable, violent ways. He needed to cover every angle. Secure every base, anticipate every betrayal.

And he couldn't do that from beside her. Not with her warmth softening his hard edges. Not with her breath anchoring him to a version of himself that couldn't survive what he needed to be.

He dressed in silence; the expectations of the day pressing on him as he watched in the mirror. He looked rough.

"Mm, where are you going?" She asked, her voice still thick with sleep. She rubbed at her eyes to wipe it away from them.

"I have to go. Today is going to be— hectic. I have a lot on my plate. But that shouldn't keep you from resting." Mynx reached out and pulled him towards her. Her smile was warm and sincere as she tried to pull him back to bed.

Raven kissed her on her forehead, knowing if he did more, he wouldn't have the strength to walk out of this room.

"I can't," he said, pulling back from her. "Why don't you snuggle back in for more sleep or go take a hot bubble bath. I'll be back in a few hours to check on you." She yawned.

"Sleep, I need more sleep." She rolled back over, and he tucked the covers around her.

"Raven, don't lose yourself out there today. Come back to me. I'm not through with you. Remember what we have and live through it—for me." The words were a murmur, her voice soft and waning as sleep began to wrap her back in its embrace.

"Sleep well, Butterfly."

Raven slid the harness of his gun holsters over his shoulder, tucked his blade at his ankle, and stepped into the hallway where impending war awaited him.

A sense of limbo gripped the mansion. Guards walked the hallways on full alert, radios buzzed with check-ins, and phones rang; tension was present in every movement, every conversation.

His cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID before answering.

"What do you have for me, Doc? Were you able to determine a cause of death?"

Silence. Not the kind that meant nothing. The kind that meant everything. He could hear her breathing—slow, deliberate, like she was choosing her words one by one, weighing how much truth he could take.