Ravens Ruin MC: The Complete Series

by Marie James

  If it were humanly possible, my jaw would unhinge and hit the floor. The dark screen transforms, and in front of me are dozens of pictures of a girl I hardly recognize. Gone are the low-cut tops and skirts that barely cover her ass. The girl smiling back at me from the screen is jubilant and wearing pastels and fucking cardigans for Christ’s sake.

  Oddly, seeing her this way still makes my dick twitch in my jeans as fantasies of her in knee-high socks, plaid skirts, and pigtails infiltrate my brain. She’s a knock-out in her private school getup.

  I cough, clearing my mind of Britney Spears and all things resembling Oops, I did it again. I’ll save that shit for later, right after kicking my own ass for not googling her earlier. I don’t focus on my regret of refusing to be concerned about her past right now.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Pointing at the screen, I wait for Virus to click on the image.

  “Her parents. Former mayor of Newbury, Royce Stewart and wife Victoria.”

  “I can find all of this shit myself,” I mutter. “Dig deeper.”

  Walking across the room, I fall into Boston’s office chair and let Virus get to work.

  Of course she’s from a political family. Why would she make this any easier for me? Disappointment settles in my gut at the realization that she’s just another girl with daddy issues. Granted, she’s destroying her life to get her family’s attention, but a spoiled brat seeking validation from her most likely neglectful parents does nothing for me.

  “Holy shit,” Virus hisses.

  He has my attention, but my discontent keeps me rooted in the chair. “What?”

  “Her baby brother died when she was a teenager.”

  “That sucks.” And it does, but we all suffer loss along the way. It still doesn’t explain her self-destructive behavior.

  “She was the one watching him when it happened.” I continue to watch his lowered head, but he doesn’t look up from his computer. “Reports claim she valiantly tried to resuscitate him and failed.”

  “What happened?” I ask because it feels like the thing to say.

  Maybe we have more in common than I thought; both losing someone we loved right in front of our faces. I don’t wish her heartache, but my need to have some connection to this woman increases if she suffered the way I did watching my own mother die because of me.

  “Choked on some toy.” His fingers continue to click for a long moment before he speaks again. “Her father was already running for office, but he switched campaign strategies from industrial revitalization to child safety and education. It propelled him into the spotlight, and he was elected mayor by a huge margin.”

  “Did she give him the toy?”

  His eyes snap up to mine. “Why does that even matter?”

  I glare at him until his eyes narrow and refocus on his computer.

  “It says a friend of the family gave the toy, but it doesn’t go into further detail.”

  Could she have killed him because he was pulling her from the limelight and she demanded that attention, or is it just the guilt of being responsible for him when he died that is driving her self-destruction?

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Did she kill him?”

  “What?” Confused, Virus looks back up at me, but he only holds my eyes for a split second before he looks down again. “You’re not going to believe this shit. Who is this damn girl to you?”

  His words are enough to get me out of the chair and back around behind his desk.

  “What the fuck?”

  Virus clicks on the screen, enlarging the article, but I can’t stop looking at the dirty, bruised, and emaciated image of Kaci-fucking-Stewart on the screen. The only semi-clean parts on her body are the lines washed away on her face from her tears. This is the broken girl I’ve become familiar with over the last several weeks.

  “Tell me what happened,” I demand past suddenly dry lips.

  Virus does some clicking on the laptop before turning slightly. A desktop screen to his right flashes to life, and he’s smart enough to realize I can’t stop looking at her, so he turns and focuses on the other screen for details.

  “Abducted at eighteen during a family vacation in Honduras. This article doesn’t go into much detail about what happened to her, but it hints at sexual slavery. She was gone for nearly ten months before she was rescued by—” My eyes snap to him when he pauses. “Fucking Cerberus.”

  That information is almost enough to make me pull my eyes from her haunting image, but not quite.

  “During a rescue mission,” he begins to read from the article, “for Colby Davis, the twenty-year-old daughter of actress Gwen Davis who was abducted from a beach in Costa Rica two weeks prior, six other girls were also recovered from a compound in Venezuela. She was one of them.”

  “Ten months?” I swallow back the bile rising in my throat. That’s too much for any one person and a complete contradiction to what she’s been putting herself through lately. My palm stings with the urge to spank her ass.

  “One girl they rescued had been there for over two years,” he mumbles quietly as he reads more of the article. My eyes stay fixed on the image of the broken girl. “She killed herself.”

  “What!” My throat is on fire, heart slamming against my chest as my hands reach for my phone. When I’d left her this morning, she was fine. If it was internal injur—

  “Colby Davis.” Virus points to his desktop screen at an image of a beautiful, smiling brunette. “A week after she was rescued, they found her dead in her apartment. She overdosed on pain pills.”

  “Fuck.” I’m both sickened that they got to her like that and for the relief washing over me that he wasn’t talking about Kaci.

  “I can’t even imagine what those girls went through,” Virus says as if he’s inside my head and speaking for me. “I knew a girl in high school once that got hooked on drugs and ended up a hooker.”

  “It’s not the same fucking thing,” I spit as I step out from behind his desk and reach for the office doorknob. “Keep looking. I want to know everything there is to know.”

  “This about sums it up.” He’s pointing at the screen when I spin around to glare at him. “I’ll keep looking.”

  My first instinct when I walk out of the office is to jump on my bike and head straight back to Kaci’s place, but I know that seeing her right now while I’m feeling murderous would only have negative results.

  I don’t understand her behavior at all. She doesn’t act the way you’d expect a victim of sex trafficking to act, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Trauma takes on all sorts of disguises. I should know. Pointing that play pistol at the police when I was a kid made me realize guns would never be my thing, but it didn’t prevent me from transforming into the man I am today. Guns are impersonal. Knives require a certain kind of finesse, and when confronted by a man with a knife, his intentions are very fucking clear.

  I can’t even begin to understand her psyche or dictate how she should act based on her experiences, but knowing that she was hurt years ago makes me sick to my stomach. Realizing she was mere yards away from my home last night when she was hurt again is what forces me to my knees in my bathroom.

  Chapter 15

  Kaci

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I grunt as I slowly turn over in bed.

  The pain all over my body has only doubled in the last twenty-four hours. It reminds me of that bunk scene in Full Metal Jacket as I wonder if someone snuck in last night and beat the shit out of me with a bar of soap in a sock.

  I stiffen, blood running cold when I hear the rattle of a plastic bag and realize it was that very same sound which woke me up. I’m nearing heart attack territory when the door snaps shut with force, but my back is facing the intruder, and I’m too scared to turn around.

  I locked the door last night. I know for a fact I did because I felt creeped out lying in bed, too sore to move, but too awake to go to sleep while staring at the unlocked deadbolt. On my last trip to the bathroom, I made a
point to flip the lock into place.

  “If you stay in bed all fucking day, you’ll never get better.”

  Tears burn the back of my eyes as I wait for him to attack. More plastic rattles, but when I realize the sounds are coming from the other side of the room and not getting closer, I chance a glance over my shoulder just in time to see a tall guy with sandy blonde hair shrug out of a leather vest before swinging it over the back of the single chair in my make-shift dining room.

  It’s not just any damn leather vest, I realize as the demented eyes of a raven stare back at me.

  He isn’t facing me, but I know immediately who has invaded my space just by instinct. If I close my eyes and concentrate long enough, I’m certain I could conjure his heady scent from my murky memories.

  “Sit up,” he grunts. “I brought you soup.”

  Piercing blue eyes catch me staring in his direction, and if that isn’t enough to keep me frozen in place, he turns and flashes me a devious grin.

  “A-are you here to h-hurt me?” I stammer.

  “Soup first.”

  I’m certain I hear sarcasm in his voice, but at the end of the day, this guy just broke into my house, and I seriously doubt soup is all he has in mind.

  “Sit up,” he urges as he walks across the room with a bowl in his hands.

  My stomach grumbles with the aroma of what I’m sure is chicken noodle, but I’m reminded of my injuries when my tongue slips out to wet my lips to dab at the scabbing.

  “I’m not hungry.” My stomach growls in protest, and I’d beg it to do it on repeat when his face softens, his smile transforming from sinister to something resembling compassion.

  “I can feed you if you’re too sore.”

  He closes the distance, sitting on the edge of my bed. I attempt to tug the blankets closer to my chin, but his weight keeps me from hitching them up higher. I regret climbing into bed last night with only a tank top and panties.

  “Feed me?” I cough. “H-how did you get in here?”

  “Door wasn’t locked.” He shrugs as if I’m crazy before dipping his head and blowing on the soup.

  My eyes, fixated on his mouth, water unexplainably. I don’t cry in front of people. Normally his threatening presence would thrill me, but I came too close to the end the other night, and as much as I hate to admit it, dying here in this shitty studio apartment is the last thing I want.

  “The door was locked,” I finally manage.

  “You keep the key under the mat.” He shrugs, shoulders lifting a fraction of an inch, obviously unconcerned. “Sit up so you can eat.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I brought chicken noodle,” he says, ignoring me as he pulls the spoon out of the soup showcasing an egg noodle and a chunk of carrot. “The jambalaya looked great too, but I didn’t think you’d be up for something spicy.”

  Are we in the twilight zone? Am I dreaming? It’s like we’re having two separate conversations.

  “I also brought a chai tea latte, but the fucking lid came off outside, and I dropped the fucker on the ground.”

  “I don’t drink chai tea lattes,” I mumble absently.

  Only now does his focus turn to me. “You used to.”

  Cold chills sweep over my arms at his words. “How do you know that?”

  “Sit up.”

  Ignored again.

  Short, panting breaths escape my lips when I don’t move, and in turn, he places the bowl of soup on my bedside table before turning back in my direction. As if time stands still, I contemplate fight or flight, knowing deep down neither would end with me victorious over this man. Even if I were fully healed and functioning at a hundred percent, I have no doubt this man could overtake me without breaking a sweat.

  His kind smile, nor his eyes so blue they’re reminiscent of husky puppies, are enough to fool me. His strength is evident in the long, lean muscles that move and bunch under his Henley shirt and in the length of his sure fingers as they reach out and grip the edge of my comforter.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper when he folds the blanket away from me before reaching out to me. Instinct takes over, and I release the blanket. Yielding, even in the face of harm, is the only thing that kept me somewhat safe when—

  I squeeze my eyes closed, shutting down those memories. They won’t help me here.

  “Do you need help sitting up? I imagine you’re pretty fucking sore.”

  “W-who are you?”

  “You know exactly who I am.”

  I expect frustration not the humor in his voice.

  “TJ.” He winks a bright blue eye at my confirmation. “I thought you were an angel.”

  “You’d do better thinking about real estate a little further south.” He grins. “I mean Hell, gorgeous. There’s nothing angelic about me.”

  “I knew what you meant,” I mutter. He’s a damn liar though. His voice, the scent rolling off him, even his calculating grin are tiny bites of heaven.

  “Let’s get you sitting up.”

  His hypnotic voice is familiar and strange at the same time.

  “Why are you here?”

  I cringe when his cold fingers gently sweep under my arms, lifting until I’m sitting against my headboard. I should be worried about his impending attack as he touches me, but instead, I’m wondering when I shaved my damn underarms last. He doesn’t move away immediately, and although I can’t feel the warmth of his body, his face is close enough I can hear soft pants on his lips.

  “I was in the neighborhood.” The gravel in his voice nearly lights my skin on fire.

  “Liar.” I freeze immediately, worried he’s going to hurt me even more for being rude, but when he sits back his face is fixed with that sweet grin of his.

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “You don’t have any food allergies, do you?”

  Food allergies? What the hell? Next, he’ll be asking my favorite color and if I’m a cat or a dog person.

  He picks the bowl back up from the bedside table, and a second later the spoon is being lifted to my lips. I’m unable to hide my wince when I open my mouth too far and feel the tender tissue in the corners split again.

  “I can’t.” I hold my hand up in front of my mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  And I’m apologizing to my future attacker. I’ll take the most fucked things in the world for two hundred, Alex.

  He nods once, places the bowl back on the bedside table, and walks across the room. From the inside pocket of his leather cut, he pulls out a paper sack with a familiar pharmacy logo on it. My mouth begins to water immediately.

  “What do you have there?” I’m not to the point where I’d climb off the bed and tackle him for a Percocet, but I also can’t deny my increased heart rate.

  “Aleve.” My face falls as fast as it did the year I didn’t get a puppy for Christmas.

  “Aleve?”

  “For the pain.”

  My frown doesn’t dissipate as he reaches into my fridge, and it only deepens when he walks back in my direction with a bottle of water and two blue pills.

  “What’s that look for?” He offers the pills and the bottle of water, but I don’t take either. “You saw me get them out of the brand-new package. I’m not trying to drug you.”

  I almost want to snort at his choice of words.

  “Some of those party favors like I had at the bar the other night might be a little better in this situation,” I counter.

  “Why?” He asks as he presses the pills to my lips until I open my mouth. He hands me the bottle of water. “So you can tempt me to hurt you while you’re high?”

  Ice cold water dribbles down my chin, and my quick movements to correct my error only make me hurt more.

  “You pushed me away the other night, and me being me didn’t appreciate it, but your eyes flared when I refused to let you go.” He pulls the bottle from my hands after I swallow the pills and screws the lid back on the bottle of water. “You were getting off on the fear.”

  Getting off on it? I
almost correct him, but somehow manage to keep my response to myself. Getting off is so far from the truth. I hadn’t even felt a hint of arousal until I was pressed against him on that dance floor, and that memory is groggy at best.

  “You purposely put yourself in harm’s way.”

  His eyes stay on me even when his hand moves to place the bottle of water beside the now cold bowl of soup.

  “I had a bad night,” I mutter.

  “You’ve had a lot of bad nights recently.” He leans in, but there’s something different in his eyes. It’s nothing like looking into the eyes of those frat assholes I’m so familiar with. It’s threatening all the same, but there’s also a thrill in his irises, an unexplainable promise of so many unspoken things.

  “You were there that night.” The words leave my lips the second my brain knows it’s true.

  “Which night?”

  I don’t shy away from him when his fingertip traces a design on my cheek.

  “You killed those men.” My voice is nothing but a rasp.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Terrified,” I confess.

  He pulls back the very next second, giving me his back as he walks across the room, and I realize I’ve never felt fear before in my life until he turns back around with a gleaming knife in his hand.

  “You’re a very smart woman then.”

  Chapter 16

  TJ

  I have to look over at Kaci twice to make sure she’s still breathing. I haven’t hurt her or anything. Other than sweeping my fingers over her cheek ten minutes ago and helping her sit up in the bed, I haven’t touched her. Resisting the urge has become a full-body workout.

  I know it’s the knife. Most smart people are terrified of it, as they should be. Her fear doesn’t keep me from twisting the tip into my palm, but I know she hasn’t taken her eyes off it for a single second.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” I almost follow up the statement with the truth but specifying today right now doesn’t seem like it would be very productive.

  “You threatened me at the bar.” There’s more than fear in her voice right now, and I know immediately what she’s referencing.