The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

10. Nora

Nora

My lust-crippled brain falls into stunned silenc e

“ W ait.” Shaking his hand off mine forcefully, I step back. “Just wait. We can’t go to The Heights. Ricky will kill you, and I don’t mean figuratively.”

My fingers pull into a fist at my side as an indecipherable look flashes in August’s eyes, followed by the slightest tick in his jaw. The urge to settle whatever unease is rushing at him is overwhelming. Biting down on my lip, a bullshit attempt to quell the misplaced sense of intimacy that’s flashed to life since our not-a-date dinner at the harbor.

Haunting dark brown eyes watch me. “Are you going to tell him?” he asks softly.

“No.”

I’m deeply uncomfortable—the intense heat in his gaze, the way the corners of his mouth lift with the whisper of a smirk—all of it unsettles me in the most wonderful way.

“So how would he know, Nora?”

I can tell him Ricky’s unnervingly perceptive. I can mention he has a way of uncovering the tinie st deception. I should say that while there’s always room for wickedness in this house, there’s absolutely no room for lies. But my mouth clamps shut because stupidly, my heart is fueled by the same hunger for adventure that drove me the first night with August. I am desperate to live.

I am the raven.

Idiotic and brave and reaching for things I have no business chasing. I’ve made my decision.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But if anyone asks, it was your idea.”

He smiles, nodding slowly before turning and leading us out of the house onto the gravel driveway.

“Let’s take your car,” he gestures to my white G-Wagon and I beam.

“Catch," I yell, a millisecond too late as my keys sail through the air, hitting the side of his head with a satisfying smack. “Reflexes need some work, Auggie.” I wink before climbing into the passenger seat of my car.

The car dips as my fingers hover over the seatbelt. Clicking it in, I twist to face August. He’s trying to arrange his massive body in a space that’s perfectly adjusted to accommodate my much smaller frame. Wrestling with the levers and buttons on the side of the seat, he attempts to give himself more legroom, and then he tries to lift the steering wheel. I could help, but watching him struggle fills me with a sick sense of gratification.

Finally, he gets into what seems like a comfortable driving position and glares over at me. His eyes blaze a path from my lips to my eyes. And that’s where he stays, holding my stare until I shift nervously in my seat.

“I’m sorry for…” I point to the side of his face. “…Assaulting you with the keys.”

“Y ou’re not, but do it again and you will be.” He winks then, teleporting my mind straight to the gutter; the words are threatening, but the tone? The dark, velvety stare he levels at me? The way that deliberately seductive pitch of his voice brushes across my senses like the agonizingly slow touch of a lover? None of that feels like a threat. No, it feels like a promise, one I’m desperate to hold him to.

My lust-crippled brain falls into stunned silence as we start the drive to Hell’s Basin. I don’t know how long it’ll take. Realistically, I know it’s further away than it looks, but maybe fifteen minutes? Longer? Spending over thirty minutes in the car with August feels impossible when five minutes has rendered me a horny mess.

W e’re close to the city; the smell of exhaust fumes and the sight of skyscrapers replacing the fresh air and coastal suburban homes outside my window. Innocuous, light clouds that dotted the skyline early this morning now look heavy and dark—an omen that weighs me down with unease.

Anxiety gnaws away at me. I try to push it aside, to appreciate the scenery. Port Manaus is beautiful. And while Ricky’s over-the-top rules keep me from fully enjoying the beauty of the city, his rule about staying out of Dahlia Heights has always felt reasonable. I don’t belong there. It’s insane that we’re driving toward a place where Ricky’s so hated .

“It’s about thirty-five minutes further,” August says as he joins the double-lane highway that will take us into The Basin.

The long stretch of road ends in Hell’s Basin, a flat bowl of land dotted with government housing projects. Ricky and The Court Cartel control The Flats, but beyond those housing projects stands Dahlia Heights—controlled by King and the Devil’s Knights. No one comes here unless they live in the projects or The Heights or work in one of the many factories lining the highway. Coincidentally, if you work in the factories, chances are you live in Hell’s Basin. The government uses it as a tool to exclude the poor from the city. Let them live in squalor, let them work in squalor, and ensure they have no reason to leave said squalor. I can’t tear my eyes away from the blur of scenery rushing past my window.

“How much do you know about The Heights?” August asks, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

“Not much. I mean, I know what I need to,” I reply, still not looking at him.

“There’s been some fighting lately. But there always is. A child was murdered. Have you heard anything about it?” he pries.

Turning in my seat to look at him, the anxiety I felt while listening to the hushed conversation of those men at the gallery resurfaces. “Yeah.”

“Ricky and The Court Cartel control all the movement. Because Dahlia Heights is on the mountain—and this is the only road in—anyone who wants to go in or out needs Ricky’s permission. King and the Knights, well, they want to control themselves. It’s a pedestrian, stereotypical struggle for power, but one that has and will continue to claim many lives,” August explains dispassionately.

“W hat’s King’s business?” I ask. It’s something I’ve asked Adam before, but he’s never answered me.

“Guns mostly, and then drugs,” August says.

“So, like us?”

He glances at me briefly. “Two for three, yeah. Ricky’s business is guns, then women and then drugs.” Nausea strangles my gut at his words. It’s been a nagging suspicion of mine, but until now, no one has confirmed it.

We move past factory after factory, the only sound in the car the rush of traffic. Buses carrying people to and from work zip by. Eventually the smokestacks from the factories clear and I see Hell's Basin properly for the first time. The sheer magnitude of it is overwhelming.

The distant horizon is cluttered with endless rows of towering, dilapidated apartment buildings. Dahlia Heights rises up behind them, like a snake wrapped along the face of the mountain, its silhouette stark against the sky. Like a rabbit warren, small houses packed together, made entirely of zinc, concrete, wood, and a desperate need to survive. People say it’s named after the flower that had once grown wild and free on the slopes of the mountain. Like me, those delicate flowers have long-since been crushed under the weight of violence and depravity that The Heights is known for.

The car slows to a stop, snapping me out of my trance, and I take in my surroundings once again.

“Where are you going?” I ask as he pulls into a multi-story parkade.

“Parking.” He says it like I just asked if the sky is blue.

“I can see that. But why?” The car's GPS shows we’re still eighteen minutes away from our desti nation. August looks at me and rolls his eyes.

“You think we’re driving your G-Wagon into one of the most dangerous places in this city, Nora?” I mean, when he puts it like that... “We need to take the bus the rest of the way.”

After sparing me one last glance, he climbs out of the car and walks to my side. My brain’s scrambling to make sense of it all.

“August,” I stammer as he opens my door. The anxiety I tried to ignore comes rushing back. “We can’t seriously go to The Heights. What if someone—”

“No one knows who you are,” he cuts me off. “It’ll be fine.” Leaning over me, he reaches inside the car and unbuckles my seat belt before gently pulling it away from my body.

“What about you, though?” I ask cautiously.

“I left the military and immediately came to work for Ricky. I haven’t set foot here in six years. Anyone who remembers me is dead or in prison.” He sighs. Whatever well of patience he tapped into for this conversation has run dry. “Let’s go, Nora. If you move your ass, we can get the next bus in five minutes.”

My knees bounce as I dawdle for a few more seconds before finally climbing out of the car. After mentally bracing myself for all the unknowns waiting for me, I stash my purse under my seat, slam the door, and turn to August.

My eyes drag over his body, over the standard all black outfit that seems to be his default uniform. My outfit—the black leggings currently hugging my legs, Adam's t-shirt still covering my pink bikini top—is a mess. A part of me wonders whether I’ll fit in but there’s no time to dwell on it because August has already started his stoic march to the bank of elevators in the corner of the parking garage.

Rush ing after him, my feet clamber to a stop just in time to witness him impatiently stabbing at the down button until the scratched metal doors finally slide open. He holds his arm across the door, waiting for me to enter. Stepping into the cramped space, the elevator closes in around me. The doors shut; and we stand in silence as it moves. At a snail's pace, we descend from the fifth to the ground floor.

The smell of soap, fabric softener, his delicious cologne—woodsy and herbaceous—saturates the air surrounding me. Does my perfume even cut through even a tiny amount of his sin-drenched aroma? Is his nose tickled with the lingering essence of me, like he has invaded my olfactory senses? Is August also battling a growing need to take a deep breath? To allow himself to be consumed by my scent? I find it hard to believe.

The doors ping as they open; we exit onto a busy street. Fumes from the freeway we’d just exited blow into us, washing away the last whispers of August’s cologne.

“Here,” he points to a small metal bus shelter, covered in graffiti.

We wait for what feels like only a few moments before a run-down bus rumbles toward us. It struggles up the road, weathered after too many years of use. Rust dots the faded paint, the glass panes of the windows buried under layers of deep scratches and indecipherable graffiti.

The doors creak open. August fishes some coins out of his pocket and feeds them into the ticket machine before guiding us onto the overcrowded bus.

There’s no space to move, never mind sit. August grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and leads us to the back of the bus to another set of doors. He drops my hand just as the bus jerks into motion. Instantly, I lose my balance and stumble forward with nothing to hold on to. But before I can topple over, an arm, wrapped in hard muscle, circles my waist. The movement is so gentle; it reminds me of the night we first met, another moment spent stumbling into his waiting arms.

In one confident motion, he pulls me against his chest, the scent of his cologne enveloping me once again. The urge to lean into him is overwhelming. Giving in is dangerous, but here, on this bus, with all these people pressed against us… It’s easy to surrender myself to his body—to let the promise of safety that seems to drip from him cocoon me. The bus jostles forward, my eyes close relishing the feeling of his arm tightening around me.

The closer we get to The Heights, the more the bus fills up. Each new person stepping on board pushes me further against August’s body. As we pull up to another stop, my body freezes momentarily as he slips his hand under the hem of my t-shirt. The rough pads of his fingers brush against the warm skin of my stomach. His touch is cautious, slow, like he isn’t sure why he’s doing it, but can’t make himself stop. Long, thick fingers fan out, hungrily moving across my middle. I feel each barely there press of them throughout my entire body. A furious rush of need starts in my core and races through me. My breath catches in my throat as his thumb drags small circles against the dip of my waist. Then he moves, sliding his fingers lower. Each touch feels desperate, that ache between my legs turning into something more, something unbearable.

Have I ever wanted any man with the depth of intensity my body has clearly reserved for August?

I shut my eyes against the agonizing movements of his fingers. My heart pounds. His hand drifts lower, lingering just above the waistband of my tights. No one can s ee what he’s doing to me. The way he’s touching me… No one notices the way my breath hitches as he dips his fingers beneath the band of my pants. A secret that leaves me undone on a public bus; he’s unraveling me, one touch at a time. I want him to push his hand lower. To slide it beneath my underwear. To press those fingers inside me. To destroy my body until I scream his name. Here. On a public fucking bus. The rough scratch of his five o’clock shadow brushes my temple.

“Adam was right, you know,” his voice drops to a whisper that sends shivers down my spine. “Your body is incredible.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Come on,” he pulls his hand away from my body and tangles his fingers through mine, pulling me gently toward the doors at the back of the bus. “This is our stop.”