The Raven Game by Jessica Sorensen
Raven
The closet is freaking massive. Like, bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever had. It has a ton of shelves and empty hangers, and the sight of it almost makes me laugh. I can imagine how pathetic it’ll look when I hang up my three shirts and jacket in here. And my one pair of boots will look sad on the shelf.
Not that I care. It’s not like having a ton of clothes will make me happy. I’m not even really into fashion.
Then again, the boots Hunter gave me are awesome. They’re clunky, and black, and lace up all the way to my mid-thigh. They have a little bit of a heel, something I’m not used to, but they’re still pretty damn badass. On the other hand, the outfit … I’m not so sure about—a short, black velvet skirt and a black, off-the-shoulder top. Included with the outfit are two leather bands that I put on each of my wrists, one over the bandage, and a pair of boots with knee-high tights. Hunter also gave me a red ribbon. I’m not sure what it’s for, but all the guys have some red on, so I figure it’s some sort of theme or something. Hunter also give me a tube of red lipstick with the outfit, so … I don’t know …
Unsure what else to do with it, I tie the ribbon around my wrist. Then I wander over to a mirror hanging in the closet and put on the red lipstick. I feel like a warrior goddess in the outfit as I stare at my reflection. I’m not sure what to do with my hair, though. Put it up? Leave it down? Does it even really matter?
Probably not.
Still, I pull it into a ponytail since Hunter included an elastic with the outfit. Once I’m done, I look at my reflection in the mirror again and instantly frown. I can’t even recall the last time I wore a skirt. It seems so out of place on me. And there’s a sliver of space between the top of the skirt and the bottom of the top, showing a speck of a scar. Not enough that anyone can tell what the words upon my flesh say, but it makes me feel exposed.
I grab my phone from the pocket of my jacket and tuck it into my boot before wrapping one of my arms around my midsection and returning to the room where Hunter and Zay are sitting on the bed, talking. Zay looks a bit more relaxed than he did before.
“Who the hell knows?” Zay replies to something Hunter just said to him. “For all we know, there could be more to this than what they’re even telling …” He trails off as his gaze drifts me. Then he looks me up and down and swallows thickly.
Hunter looks at me then, his gaze doing the same thing. Then he bites down on his bottom lip. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he says shamelessly as he rises to his feet.
“And you’re such a flirt,” I tell him, willing my skin not too warm as he makes his way toward me.
“Oh, I know.” He stops in front of me. “But it doesn’t make what I said any less true.” He brushes his fingers along my cheekbone. “You’re fucking beautiful. I seriously need to photograph you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t photograph well.”
“Doubtful. Besides, you haven’t been photographed by me. I’m very good at what I do.”
I cast a glance at the framed photos on the wall. “I can tell.”
His lips tug into a grin. “So, you should let me take photos of you, then.”
“That’s really what you’re thinking about?” I question. “With everything else going on?”
He nods. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since the first day I laid eyes on you.” He moves around me, and I start to turn with him, but he places a hand on my waist, stopping me. “Can you imagine how beautiful those photos would be, especially now with you wearing our colors?”
“Your colors?” I ask him confusedly as his chest brushes against my back.
“Red and black are our colors”—he reaches around and takes a hold of my wrist—“for the games. Wearing them means you belong to our team—to us.” He unties the ribbon that’s around my wrist.
“I don’t belong to you,” I insist.
“You sure about that?” His lips brush my ear as he talks. “Because we belong to you. Have for over a decade now.”
I look at Zay, wondering what the hell he thinks about what Hunter is saying, since Zay doesn’t seem to be the sort of guy who wants to belong to anyone. But all he does is stare at me, watching as Hunter reaches up and ties the ribbon around my ponytail. Once he’s finished, he moves around in front of me and admires his handiwork.
“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he remarks with his head tilted to the side as his gaze drinks me up. “Don’t you think so, Zay?”
I can feel it—this warmth spreading across my skin. I rarely blush, but he keeps calling me beautiful, and I’ve never done well with compliments. I’m counting on Zay to put a stop to it.
Zay rises to his feet. “Of course she’s fucking beautiful,” he mumbles. Then, before I can even process that, he turns for the door. “Jax just texted me; we need to go.”
And, just like that, reality crashes over me.
It’s time to leave.
It’s time for the games to start.
