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

15. Nora

Nora

like Chiron, broken, but still capable of healing others

“ N ice day for a walk.” Her voice is light with humor and it takes a second for my eyes to find her. But there she is, halfway down the staircase, sitting on one of the cracked stone steps.

“Were you waiting for me, detective?” I ask cautiously, suddenly desperate to go back to my cage, back to my violent men.

“I hoped I might see you, but no. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking?”

“Yeah, the steps are quiet, and the sound of the ocean helps the thoughts that get stuck wiggle free.”

“They’re actually private, for residents only,” I say. She glances up at me and dangles her little police badge like it’s some kind of all access key to any part of the city; maybe it is. My dislike of her is instant and lingering, and while I have no idea who she is, or what her business with Ricky is, I know not to trust her.

The police haven’t come to the house before. Her persistence unsettles me. So, I don’t fucking trust her. Not just because I’ve been raised not to, but because I kn ow just how easily she’ll bend toward the highest bidder. They all do.

“Where were you headed?” she asks me, pushing her sunglasses up from where they’re perched on her nose.

“I was going to the beach.” I smile, moving to get away from her.

“I’ll walk you.” Rachel jumps up, practically skipping down the few steps that separate us.

“That’s unnecessary, really.” Fuck.

“It’s getting dark,” she insists.

“It’s four PM.” I look up at the clear blue sky and the sun shining brightly above us.

“Are you Ricky’s girlfriend? Mistress?” she asks after a few tense seconds of silence. A hysterical laugh bursts out of me.

“Gross. No. He’s my godfather.” I offer the information willingly. There’s nothing she can do with it. She nods like she never really cared about my answer, anyway.

“A little boy was killed.” Her words stop me in my tracks. I turn slowly to look up at her. “A few days ago. I don’t know anything about it other than the police in Dahlia Heights lost the file, and a mother called our office to ask for an update. An update on a murder we knew nothing about. An update on a body we’ve never examined.”

Shame, guilt, and something I don’t want to define twists inside my heart. I turn away from Rachel, trying to hide the shock clouding my face.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That must be hard.” She smiles at me but says nothing. “You don’t think Ricky had anything to do with it?” Finally, the question that’s been tugging at me since I left Dahlia Heights is set free.

“N o. Maybe. Who knows? I just wanted to talk. The mom, she said someone came to take her statement. A tall man with a snake tattoo and a young woman with kind eyes. I thought maybe Ricky had answers. But while I was sitting out here, my partner called. Apparently, the mayor’s office wants us to look in another direction—the Devil’s Knights. You heard of them?” I shake my head, and she grins manically. Like all of this—the murder, the questions—is just a sick game. “Well, enjoy the beach, Nora. Hopefully, we don’t have to see each other again.”

T he hard concrete ledge of the tidal pool cuts into my ass. I’ve been sitting here for the last two hours. As the ice-cold water laps against my legs, I lose myself in thoughts of a murdered little boy, a man with a snake tattoo, and a godfather who’s somehow become my jailer.

Feeling trapped isn’t new to me. I’ve wrestled with this particular brand of helplessness since my early teens. But it’s never felt this suffocating, this wretched… I can’t see a way out, a path to freedom. Despite my previous optimism, my plans, my work with Alley, the extra money from Dima, I can’t see a way out of this life. I don’t even know how to plan for it.

The colors in the sky change from bright blue to warm pinks and soft orange. I stand. It’s time to go home. I left in such a rush; I don’t have my phone. I have no idea if anyone’s looking for me, if they’ve even noticed my absence.

My walk back to the house is slow and deliberate, a funeral march. With each step, the weight of my situation grows heavier and heavier. Each step is a silent reminder blasting the walls of my mind. Screams that if I don’t move soon, I’ll end up like that little boy, bleeding out on the steps, as I drift toward the only freedom that waits for me: death.

T he sound of the ocean twists around the labored huffing of my breathing. Only halfway up the steps and I’m fucking winded. I’ve walked these stairs for over a decade, and still, they exhaust me every time. Pausing to regain control of my ragged breaths, my eyes squint, trying to measure the remaining distance between where I stand and our house. I freeze.

The sun’s set completely, the inky darkness around me feeling alive. Narrowing my eyes, to focus on the space in front of me, the space where the night seems to shift in the way it tends to when someone you can’t quite see moves through its shadows. It’s not unusual to see residents on the stairs, but that’s not why my entire body stiffens.

My fingers grip the oxidized metal of the guardrail as I draw in deep, silent breaths. The man steps off a small stone path and onto the concrete staircase. Darkness conceals his face, but what I do see is imposing—tall, menacing. I know him instantly, and instantly I’m desperate to be anywhere but on this fucking staircase.

The hood of his black sweatshirt is pulled up, hiding the hair I know is cut in a sharp military buzz cut. Forcing my body to melt into the shadows feels hopeless because suddenly they feel bright as day.

My breath catches in my throat as my eyes track his slow steps. He’s moving away from me. It’s difficult to see properly in the dark, but I don’t need to. There ’s something in the way he carries himself—in the way he takes up space—it’s so uniquely August .

He stops, pats down the back pocket of his sweatpants and turns back to the stone path he just left. Did he forget something? Quickly glancing back to the house he’s just left, he turns. And that’s when my heart stops.

He’s looking directly at me.

Despite the darkness and distance between us, my stomach twists as the corners of his mouth lift in the most delicious way. Dark brown eyes devour not just me, but every inch of space around me; twin black holes, pulling me closer and closer. I take three steps toward him before I even know what I’m doing.

“Sneaking out again, little raven?” I bristle at the now familiar nickname. Memories of his first day and the little story he’d told me in the driveway assault my senses. The way he pushed against me, the slowly hardening length of his— Fuck .

Taking another deep breath, I force crisp ocean air into my lungs, hoping, praying the oxygen will bring some much-needed clarity to my brain.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, still hovering a few steps below him, clinging to the illusion of distance between us.

“I live here.” He glances at the small wooden gate and then back at me.

“You live— where ?” I demand, as his gaze continues to claw into me. Shaking my head, I examine his words without the cloud of lust fogging my brain. Pointing to the small white gate, I glare at him. “An old lady lives in that house. I saw her a few days ago. She looks like a coastal grandma, always with the linen pants and straw hats.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. I clutch the guardrail once again as he scrubs a hand along the back of his neck, f orcing his hood to drop lazily to his shoulders. Honestly, aside from being fucked to death by him, I can’t think of anything hotter than that subtle movement. “Her name’s Margaret. I’m renting her garden cottage.” I try to focus on his words, but he’s watching me too intently. Laughter dances in his eyes; I know that he absolutely knows the exact coordinates of the gutter my mind has fallen into. “Would you like to come in, Nora?”

The question floats from his lips, down the staircase, slowly drifting toward me like a spell, like some kind of voodoo. Like magic. Those words wrap around my limbs, tugging me forward. I take several steps and stop. Now standing just two steps lower than him, he towers over me as I look up at him.

“Come in?” I parrot idiotically.

“Come in,” he confirms, before pushing the small garden gate open and stepping aside, waiting for me.

I weigh up his offer, the way he stands at the small wooden gate, the lavender hedge bracketing his massive frame. I weigh the potential consequences of my curiosity.

Do I want to come in? Absolutely I do.

Am I terrified of being alone with August? Hells yes, I am.

So why are my feet carrying me forward?

Why have I come to a stop a breath away from his chest?

Why am I looking up at him with a smile slowly stretching across my face?

“Lead the way,” I say, cringing internally at the suddenly husky pitch of my voice.

August smirks at me, a glint of something—a challenge, maybe—sparking in his eyes. “Ladies first.” He points to the open gate and I scoff before elbowing my way past him and into Margaret’s quaint garden.

Even blanketed in night, I can see how much time and care she’s allotted to it. Beds of blooming wildflowers, lilacs, and hellebore snake along the narrow stone path.

“Down the stairs,” August whispers the instruction, his breath brushing along the nape of my neck. He’s so close it overwhelms every rational thought in my head.

A path of wide stone steps appears in front of me. I rush forward. Now that I’ve committed to this terrible idea, I’m eager to see it through, to see where he lives.

Eight steps later, we stop on a patch of plush grass. A tiny thatch garden cottage stands directly at the end of another stone path. The soft glow of lights from the front window washes the path in radiant golden light.

“It’s like a fairytale,” I murmur before turning to face him. The house is picturesque—small and quaint. The only thing missing is a smokestack rising out of the perfectly placed chimney.

“From the outside, sure.” He takes a small ring of keys from his pocket and walks ahead of me.

I follow behind him, barely containing my excitement as the door inches open. “It smells like Dima in here,” I say, as the front door opens to a small entrance hall. The only decorations are his discarded sneakers and a gym bag.

“Yeah, she helped me clean up yesterday.”

“Truly?” I step into the open plan living and dining room. “Because it looks like you’ve just been robbed.” Turning to face him, my mouth drops open in mock shock. “You’re a slob, aren’t you?” My eyes jump around the space. “One of those guys who’s so controlled in every aspect of the ir lives, but their houses are like total dumpster fires?”

“If I’d just been robbed, there’d be less stuff in here,” he mutters the words before stepping into the space behind me, placing his hands on my hips and gently guiding me away from the living room, toward the wide arch that leads to the kitchen. “Come, I’ll introduce you to Martin.”

“Martin?” Confusion tugs my face into a frown as August walks me into the kitchen, his fingers pressing into my hips softly as we walk toward the back of the cottage.

Martin was the fake name he used when we first met. He’d said it was his friend’s name. I struggle to picture August sharing his home, having a roommate feels out of character for him… But then, I don’t really know his character.

August’s fingers hold my hips firmly as he squeezes, gently pulling me to a stop in the center of the kitchen doorway. Tilting my head back, I glare at him. The room’s empty. But he smiles and points to a spot on the counter.

A spot where a small round fish tank sits, looking comically out of place in the otherwise messy kitchen. Disappointment trickles through me when his hands fall away from my hips, but I can’t waste any time mourning the loss of his touch.

The graceful red and blue betta fish swimming in the tank instantly captivates me. “Hi Martin,” I whisper, smiling as I crouch down in front of the glass bowl. “Hey little guy.” I grin at the fish before turning to smile at the man still standing in the doorway behind me. “He’s a cutie,” I say, before softly tapping the glass bowl.

Gushing over Martin quickly gets old, especially considering he gives me nothing to work with bey ond fanning out his pretty fins.

After blowing him a kiss, I stand, taking in the rest of the kitchen. It’s a narrow, galley-type space that ends in two large glass doors that I assume lead out to a small garden veranda. I step forward, drifting closer to the doors, and peer out. August’s behind me, trailing each of my steps. The heat of his body brushes against mine as I stare out.

“When you said you were working out earlier, you were here, right? That’s why you got to the house so quickly.” Instead of a table or grill, the veranda is filled with gym things—a bench press, barbells, and more equipment I don’t know the names of.

“It’s easier than going to the gym.” He shrugs.

I tear my eyes away from the weights resting on the bar, scoffing at the number stamped into the thick iron—three hundred pounds, barf—and turn to face August.

“Does this little setup work on the girls you bring home? Because there’s no way you bench that much.”

He drops his chin slightly, casting shadows on his face, and grabs me by the shoulders, partially spinning me until my back is pressed against the glass doors and I’m forced to stare up into his amused eyes. “I bring women home, Nora. Not girls.” Squirming, as the heat of his eyes crawl down my body, their slow drag burning like the phantom touch of his fingers sliding over every inch of me.

“That’s like, seventy pounds less than my weight.” Cringing instantly as the words rushing out of me register in my brain. Fuck, fuck, fuck . It’s official, my sanity’s frayed, shot to shit—it’s soup, lusty, horny, simpering soup. And here in this cramped fucking kitchen with his eyes all over me, I can no longer stand the tension between us.

There were always going to be consequences for coming here. But when August moves, and every thought—every consequence—in my mind vaporizes. All hints of amusement leave his eyes; something inside me burns to life.

“Benching three hundred pounds means I get to do this.” A dark, hungry stare pierces my soul as he lifts me effortlessly into his arms. Broad palms settle over my ass as he fans his fingers out, holding me in place against his body. My legs wrap around his waist. “Do you have any idea how this feels, little bird? To hold you like this, to feel every soft, pliant inch of your incredible body wrapped around me, to know that I could fuck you hard and deep, and you won’t break? To hold you like this, knowing you could take all of me?” His questions rain over me as he carries me to the kitchen counter.

“You won’t fuck me, though,” I murmur, reminding him, as he dips his head lower, his mouth dangerously close to mine.

“My control weakens every day, Nora.”

I can’t look at him, I can’t breathe. He’s so close. My eyes are fixed on the snake twisting around his neck. Without thinking, my hand lifts, my fingers tracing its body, from the column of his throat, down to where it eventually disappears beneath the neck of his shirt. I want to see it. I want to see all of it, of him.

“Show me,” I ask or beg, no longer knowing the difference when it comes to August.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, but I can’t. I can’t meet his gaze. Instead, I watch as his fingers move slowly, watch as they grip the hem of his shirt, watch as he gradually drags it over his waist, chest, and finally, over his head.

The sight of him snatches my breath. Every inch of his torso is covered in tattoos, some small illustrations, others more intricate. The soft tips of my fingers begin to map each and every one until they land on the largest, the one covering his heart.

“A centaur,” I whisper, finally looking up at him. My hand covers the half man, half beast drawing inked into his skin as I stare up at August. “Centaurs are supposed to be violent monsters, lustful, pillagers.”

“Hmmm.” He sighs, closing his eyes as I continue to trace the outline of the elaborate tattoo. “But this isn’t any centaur.” He places his hand over mine, holding it in place. The soft thud of his heartbeat echoes against my palm, feeling like the only anchor tethering me to this surreal moment. “This is Chiron, the wounded healer.”

“Is that what you are?”

“My mother died when I was fifteen. At her funeral, Mimi—my grandmother—told me I was like Chiron, broken, but still capable of healing others.”

He watches me as I process his words. It’s not far from the truth. I don’t know anything about the broken pieces of August, but I know despite them, he’d always help the people he cares for.

Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss the top of his hand. Then I press soft kisses against each of his knuckles. My lips move over his chest, trailing a path of feather-light kisses along each of his tattoos.

He moves his hand, sliding it into my hair. I feel the tightening on my skull as he pulls his hand into a loose fist, but I don’t stop my assault of kisses. I don’t stop until he tilts my head back and lowers his lips to mine.

“Nora.” My name is a dark rumble, loosed from the depths of his chest. “Just once, sweet raven . One kiss. Just once more, Nora, and God, I hope it’s enough for both of us.”

His words are raw and deep, and I don’t understand them until his lips crash into mine. Lust and clarity burn through me, and I know once will never be enough. Not for me.

My lips part, his tongue sweeps into the warm heat of my mouth, fusing to mine. We move together, a tangle of strokes and licks and desperate moans that feels more and more like a claiming as each second ticks by. A knot of lust twists inside me, like a wildfire burning through my chest, down into my stomach, settling between my spread legs. With each slide of his tongue, each slant of his lips gliding over mine, he pulls me closer. Heavy palms land on thighs, pulling them wide, wider. Then, with his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my ass, August drags me forward, all the way to the edge of the counter, and grinds the turgid length of his cock against my soaked pussy. A moan that sounds almost animalistic slips from my lips as he deepens a kiss that already feels like it’s consumed my soul.

“August.” Panting, his name rushes out of me in a breathy whisper. His lips slow and brush gently over mine. I feel him everywhere—against my mouth, my core, inside my mind. His touch brands me. My eyes flutter closed. The sensation of being pressed against his body washes through me, so familiar, so foreign, so needed. “You stabbed a man for looking at me.” Sickeningly, the mental image of Bassey laying on the gravel driveway, blood pooling beneath his hands, does nothing to stifle the heat building in my core.

“Sure did,” he agrees, as his tongue traces the seam of my lips. My breath stutters in my throat, the press of his mouth once again settling over mine, gentle this time, soft, patient. My hands shift from grippin g the edge of the counter, to gripping his arms. And still, I hold my breath, waiting for him to deepen our kiss, waiting for more. But he pulls away; a miniscule amount of space now separating our lips. I open my eyes, and instantly I’m pinned beneath the heavy weight of his stare. He lifts his hand, using his thumb to trace the swollen curve of my lip. “I’m supposed to protect you from men like him.”

The breath trapped in my throat shudders free and I turn away from him. “Who’s going to protect me from you, though?”