Raven's Mark: (The Raven Queen's Harem Part One) by Angel Lawson

Author:Angel Lawson [Lawson, Angel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-08-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Morgan

It’s dark when I wake and the only sound in the house is a haunting melody drifting up from the first floor.

I feel an ache in my stomach and decide to go to the kitchen. Since I’ve arrived at the mansion I’ve felt unsatisfied with a constant, unquenchable hunger. A thin strip of light lingers under Sam’s door, and I almost stop to see if he wants something, but the music downstairs takes on a deep vibration that I feel in my bones. I’m lured down the steps.

Clinton’s door is shut but I approach it anyway. I pause before the mahogany panel and with a closed fist, rap on the wood. For a moment I worry he can’t hear me. I’m also terrified that he will. My heart pounds in my chest of what lies behind that door. I know Clinton won’t hurt me, the men swore their allegiance, but something about the smoldering, sexy man sets me on edge.

I’m about to turn away for the kitchen when the music abruptly halts and footsteps echo off the floor. The door opens and he stands before me, hulking in the small space.

We stare at one another. His eyes are gray and tense. His hair is tied at the neck, although short strands hang by his sharp cheekbones and my fingers curl into a fist to keep myself from pushing them back. I try to keep my eyes from his chest—it’s bare and so very, very perfect. From the brown, round nipples to the fine trail of hair that travels from his abs to the low-slung pajama bottoms hanging from his hips. A drawstring swings from the waist.

“I heard your music,” I finally say, well aware it’s come out in a whisper. “I was sleeping and then, the music and…”

He glances up the stairwell but the entire house is quiet. If Sam or Bunny are working, they’re too immersed to notice what’s happening down here.

He pushes the door wider—an invitation—and even though I still feel a sense of danger I step through and enter Clinton’s suite. There’s no mistaking the heat of his eyes on my back as I walk down the hall and I’m hyper aware of my clothing—or lack thereof. Tiny shorts and a thin, gray T-shirt. The air is cool in the room and I attempt to cover my aroused nipples by crossing my arms.

His suite is nearly identical—just below my own. The walls are dark wood paneling and heavy, red fabric drapes over the windows. His instrument, a cello, rests on a stand in the middle of the living space. I can’t help but walk over to the fine piece.

“You play beautifully.”

He speaks for the first time. “Thank you.”

I’m taken aback by the softness in his voice. It’s a sharp contrast to the hard muscles and hostility on his face. The tension ratchets up a notch and the ache, now moving across my body, up to my chest and down between my legs, grows more intense. “Will

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