11. Raven

Chapter eleven

Raven

Horrific? the one word that can summarize every one of my encounters in this house. Just when I try to recover from one thing, Ezra makes me go through another. There is no stop button with that man.

The sky is still dark out, though I am sure it’s the early hours of the morning. I toss around, the cool bed and soft comforter unable to lull me to sleep. I would be a psychopath if I actually slept, after all I had experienced in the past twenty-four hours.

The thought of the ‘stitch room,’ as Ezra called it, makes me wince. The image of the blue room was cramped with two operating tables, two recovery beds, and standing shelves that lined the wall and stored only essentials.

Despite scrubbing my hands a few times after returning to my bedroom, I still felt the blood on my hands. The face of the bleeding man storms my mind. He died right there on the table. I recall my desperate attempt at saving him, but it was not near enough.

The dead guy… “Who was he anyway?” I wonder quietly, turning around to face away from the window.

I have seen my fair share of men harmed by Ezra, and he has never made a move to save even one of them. So what’s so special about this one? Or is the mafia boss finally growing a heart?

My shoulders sag sadly…it doesn't matter anymore. It was my first solo operation, and I failed woefully. Being only a third of the way through my residency, I haven’t had the chance to perform any surgeries on my own until now. Still, the failure weighs heavily on me.

Dr. Wells would be deeply disappointed. “This level of performance is unacceptable,” he’d say, his lips curling into a scowl. “I expected much more from you.”

Harper would’ve wrapped me in a comforting hug. “You’ll get them next time, sweetie,” she would murmur, her voice soft against my neck. My chest tightens at the thought, a sense of nostalgia biting at me. I miss her .

Feeling a familiar sting behind my eyes, I hold my breath, my grip tightening around the pillow beneath my ear. Crying has never done me any good except make me look weak. I have to keep it together to survive. Harper is waiting on the other side.

With the loss of the patient that afternoon, the one chance I had to show Ezra that I could be very useful to his cartel has fallen through. My heart sinks in my chest.

I need a new plan. I climb out of bed and pace the length of the bedroom, my mental gears reeling with possibilities of freedom.

It’s evident that if I’m ever going to escape this shit hole, it won’t be by continuously challenging my captor. I have witnessed firsthand my fate if I stay on this path.

Think, Raven! It’s also evident that I must steer clear from being a liability; an asset is what this cartel needs. That is the only plausible reason Ezra fought tooth and nail to revive that man.

Abruptly, I stop, my eyes fixed on the flower vase in front of me. Slowly, a smile spreads across my face. A new idea takes root…a different kind of escape.

I shuffle to the bed before sitting, going over this plan in my head. I know Ezra wants me—it’s clear in the way he looks at me. His body language betrays a hunger he can’t quite hide.

This time, I’m going to use it to my advantage. My body…my charm, if I have any .

I must get Ezra to fall for me—make him desire me. If I can win his heart, maybe, just maybe, I can make it out of this hellhole. It isn’t a perfect plan; however, it is my last resort.

A key jiggling in the lock sidetracks my thinking. The first guard always comes with breakfast sometime around 9 a.m. I glance out the window and take note of the orange-streaked sky–the day is just breaking.

Could it be Ezra? Only he comes to my room at unexpected times. But this early is unusual, even for him.

The door finally unlocks and swings open to reveal a man in a long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans. He's the same one that brought my nightwear. “The Don wants to see you. Stitch room,” he says, his voice rough and emotionless.

Elation shrouds my heart. This is it? an opportunity to set the ball rolling. As I'm about to jump out of bed though, horrendous thoughts of the stitch room fill my mind again, but I don't let them linger. I'm not going to sulk and let a good opportunity pass me by.

I get out of bed, smoothing out the wrinkles in my flowery pink pajamas and running a hand through my hair. Forcing a smile to calm my racing pulse, I follow the guard out of the bedroom.

I can do this. I have to.

I need the ice-cold boss to see me differently—more than just a hostage, more than a woman who should not have stumbled into his world. I need to become an irresistible asset.

As I stroll with the guard down the corridor, I thoughtfully review my strategy. Subtle but clear. I have to walk a fine line—make him think he is in control while I slowly pull the strings.

Men like Ezra? They thrive on control. I’ll be more than happy to give him that illusion.

We arrive at the entrance to the stitch room, and the guard motions for me to go inside. A throbbing sensation vibrates through my body, yet my face is a mask of serenity.

Play it cool now. Don’t fuck this up, Raven.

I push the door open and enter. Ezra is sitting on an operating table by a set of tools under the brightness of the fluorescent lights, shirtless.

And we’re alone. How splendid!

When I get closer, a big gash on his shoulder begs for my attention. I immediately take a look. It isn’t too deep, and it doesn't look like a gunshot wound, but it is pretty nasty. My mouth moves before I can stop it. “What happened?”

Ezra barely glances down, like the cut did not exist. “You don’t want to know,” he replies, adjusting himself on the table such that both of his strong thighs are spread apart.

I gulp, feeling an overwhelming urge to sit on his lap, but I peel my eyes from the sight. He’s probably right. I really don’t need the gruesome details.

Pushing the thought aside, I channel my concentration on the wound. This is why he called. I furrow my brows as I eye the wound with scrutiny.

The blood has dried up, and it doesn't look like it bled too much, either. Did he clean it? No, the wound still looks messy. Or did he just hesitate to call me? Because he’s still mad at me for not saving the man from yesterday?

My hands are steady, which surprises me, but I focus on the task.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn him, lowering myself to his shoulder. This part of his shoulder is bare, with no tattoos.

I don't know why, but he chooses that exact moment to stare at the wound.

Now the problem isn't him staring. It’s his breathing that falls directly on my face. Our proximity raises the hair on my spine and almost makes me lose balance as my knees quake. I hate how affected I am by him.

Will this ever stop?

“It won’t,” he breathes. Oh . I raise my eyes to his, and that's when I realize he's replying to my warning.

“Oh.” I release an awkward chuckle, bringing my gaze away from his full lips. As I start to clean his wound, I wonder if he doesn't have a doctor or if there was a doctor before me and what happened to them.

He doesn't flinch when I place a cotton wool soaked with spirit on the wound. Slowly, I dab the cotton on the wound, cleaning it until there is no more blood visible in the surrounding area. Now that I see it well, it looks like a flesh wound. Like something long and pointed grazed him deeply.

“Needle and thread,” I remind myself of my next task and move to grab it when my hand comes in contact with his hand that’s already on the plaster. Familiar sparks shoot through my veins, and when it gets too much, I quickly retract it. I see his lips part like he wants to say something as I take the plaster with me and begin to cut it. But he doesn't say anything.

My fingers suddenly become unsteady as I tear the scissors through the plaster in silence. Why do I seem to lose all sense of control around him? I quickly shake my head. No, thinking about that will only worsen my jittery state.

But speaking helps. It always does, so I start.

“I freaked out because that guy was already dying.” From the way his shoulders tense, I know he understands that I'm referring to yesterday. “I don’t do well under that kind of pressure,” I add, digging the needle through his skin. He doesn't flinch. His lips don't even purse in pain… hurt, or whatever.

As I begin to stitch the cut, I wait for a response. His skin is tough, like it has been to hell and back, although that isn’t shocking. The man still doesn’t flinch.

I wonder if he's normally like this or if his line of work has made him so. Does he really feel nothing? Has he never felt love? From family? A spouse? Does he even have one?

I ignore the slight tug in my heart at the thought and continue sewing. If he is truly emotionless, then my plan will be much more difficult.

“The dead man…you were desperate to save him. Why?” My voice is softer this time as I try again, pushing the thread through a new loop I’ve made with the needle.

There’s more silence as he only clenches his fist until he replies. “You ask too many questions.”

There's no emotion in his voice, so I can't tell if he's mad or not.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I push my luck. I'm now done with stitching his wound but I don't move from my spot. Something in my hands still wants to feel his skin a little longer.

His lips part, and a sound leaves it. I freeze in my spot at the short, melodious chuckle that reverberates through my chest. Fuck. It's the first time I’ve heard him laugh, and God, it's addicting.

I want him to do it again… I want to hear it again. But my wishes don’t come true when he shakes his head.

“Another question.” He lifts his gaze to mine, and his tongue darts out to run over his bottom lip.

Instinctively, I lick mine. Images of his tongue against my clit are running through my mind when he repeats the motion again, this time slowly and with a bit of… tease? Is he doing it intentionally? Or am I just imagining things?

“How do you feel?” I suddenly cut our… moment short to talk about the stitches instead.

He replies with a grunt, his lips pulled back in a deadpan expression. I can't tell if his response means distaste for the wound or for cutting him short?

To be fair, I’m only analyzing every bit of his actions because of my plan.

I look up again and catch his mesmerizing green eyes darken as he studies me. His brows scrunch lightly then he adjusts himself on the operating table. I know it's an attempt to hide the bulge I see in his pants.

My face heats up. I'm sure he can see how red I am. I bite my lip when the air becomes too thick for me to breathe.

I need to play my cards right. I don’t want him rejecting me and throwing me back into that room again.

Garnering courage, I slide my index finger from his shoulder to his chest. It feels good to finally trace the indents that mark his chest. His taut muscles move in response to my touch, even though I feel him refraining a little.

“What are you up to this time?” His voice is low as he stares at me through hooded eyes.

I did hold a nail to his neck the last time I made a move like this. I’ll have to do more to earn his trust, especially here where we’re surrounded by surgical knives and needles? potential weapons I would’ve dived straight for if I hadn’t given up my old tactics.

“Nothing,” I breathe, with a low voice, not halting my movements. “Just intrigued by your… tattoos…”

We both know that’s a lie, and I half expect him to stop me in my tracks, but he doesn’t.

My fingers trace the hard planes of his torso, brushing his nipples and going lower until they linger just above the waistband of his pants.

My breath hitches, and I can feel my nipples tightening painfully against the fabric of my pajama top. His eyes remain trained on mine as if to decipher something.

Biting down on my lower lip, I slowly pop the button of his pants. My right hand disappears below his defined V-line, sliding beneath the waistband.

A deep groan ripples through his chest when I cup his growing arousal, my gaze never leaving his.

“Hmmm…” he groans again, voice rough with desire, as I give his dick a gentle tug. It’s hard and pulsing and sends pleasurable shivers through my being.

For a split second, I consider the thought of someone walking in on us. But I don’t dwell on it when he lets out another primal groan.

I pull my hand free, meeting his eyes as I drag my tongue slowly across my palm, wetting it. Then, I go back for the kill, wrapping my fingers around his length. If there’s any knot in his body, it loosens as I begin to stroke him with careful precision.

My pussy tingles, and I feel moisture in my underwear at the sight before me. His head is now tilted back, eyes almost rolled back in his head as his mouth parts in an o shape. It’s like he’s restraining a groan.

I press my thighs together and continue to work my hands up and down his length, increasing my pace. His lips start to open wider. I smile at this, but before I can continue, he raises his head.

“On your knees,” he growls. His eyes are impossibly dark, and his nostrils are flared.

I hesitate for a moment, glancing at the stitches on his shoulder. “But your stitch–”

“Down!” he growls, voice sharp with authority, leaving no room for argument.

His words send a pulse of heat through me, and I obey, my knees kissing the cold marble floor. With one swift movement, I tug his trousers down, letting them pool around his ankles.

His cock springs to life? taunting me with thick veins. I immediately grab it, resuming my motion until I replace my hands with my lips, kissing his large tip before engulfing it.

He lets out a sharp “ shit,” wasting no time in weaving his fingers through my hair. I feel my hair being pulled back as he starts to control my motion with his left hand. I slide my lips continuously up and down his length, taking in as much as I can. The motion is slick as I can taste his precum on my tongue.

“F-fuck!” he grits, thickly, before pulling away. He holds my head in place and slams back into my mouth.

The sudden thrust makes me gag, tears stinging my eyes as he pushes himself deep into my throat.

“Ahhh,” his moans reach beyond my ears to my belly as I feel his tip in the back of my throat. The motion is painful at first. I've rarely done this with Carlos, but as his warm palm brushes the back of my neck and his moans grow louder, the pain vanishes.

I cup his balls, sucking more ferociously, each drive resonating through the room with wet, sucking sounds.

In a split second, Ezra grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking me upward before hoisting me onto the operating table in one swift motion. Unmistakable hunger burns in his eyes as I sit with my knees on either side of his thighs.

As much as I ache for him, too, I can’t ignore that he’s hurt. “Ezra, your stitches,” I remind him, breathless. The plan was to give him head and leave him wanting more.

“I’ll be fine,” his tone is thick with arousal, his hands peeling my pajamas off.

I shiver as the cold bites into my skin. I’m now bare… unclad from head to toe. His eyes darken when they settle on my bare chest. His hypnotic stare engulfs me, and I feel goosebumps on my chest.

“But you…” I whimper, but don’t get to make my point. Ezra’s lips find my neck, trailing hot kisses down its length. I gasp, digging my fingers through his hair.

His lips move to my breasts and wrap around a sensitive nipple, sucking and biting teasingly. I can’t help the guttural moan that leaves my lips as I arch my back and push his head closer with my hand on the back of his head.

Before I know it, one long finger slips inside my pussy. My head falls back, and my fingers drop to his back as I dig my nails into his skin.

“Fuck, Ezra!” I moan. I barely have time to adjust to the sweet invasion when he pumps my slippery hole. I rock my hips to the movement, shutting my eyes to revel in the feeling. Then he slams another finger inside me. I claw at his back with a loud gasp. He doesn't stop and, instead, pumps faster until the wet slaps of my flesh are the only sound in the quiet room.

“ Mio dio (My God), you are so tight,” Ezra grunts, sounding tortured. “You will take my cock like a good girl.”

If it’s possible, my core moistens even more. I’m now a mess, a pool of desire that only his cock can satisfy. He brings his lips to mine, kissing me long and deep, his fingers still fucking me to ecstasy.

Then, with agonizing slowness, his fingers slip away, replaced by the teasing brush of his cock against my pussy.

My eyes flutter close, followed by a shivery sigh. For a minute, I forget I’m not in this for pleasure. But when the pleasure is this good that it blocks out every other intruding thought, it’s hard to focus.

He grips the base of his cock and feeds it slowly into me. My knees spread willingly as I sink onto his huge length and accept him, all of him. I can’t curtail the loud, long moan that I let out as my pussy hits his base. My fingers around his back tighten. Then, all of a sudden, he winces.

“Shit!” he curses, digging his fingers into my hips. I’m quickly brought out of my reverie.

“What’s wrong?” I stare at his face. Beads of sweat are rolling down his temple, and his face is contorted in slight pain. That’s when I realize I’d tightened my fingers around his stitched shoulder.

I gasp and move to scramble off him, but he holds me in place and lifts a surprised brow. “Where do you think you’re going?” he rasps.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t see-”

He slams his lips against mine. I’m immediately silenced, and he readjusts his hips.

“The pain is worth every bit of this pleasure,” he grunts, against my lips, before pushing deeper into me. “You feel so fucking good.”

There’s that throaty voice I like when he’s inside me…cock in my pussy, skin against skin, our heartbeats in sync.

I moan loudly when he starts moving. One hand grips my waist and pounds into me. The other wraps around my neck. My mind goes blank, my moans building up to a crescendo.

“You like this cock, don’t you?” Ezra demands.

Steadying one hand on his free shoulder and the other on his back, I start to bounce in tandem with his movements.

His eyes narrow on my breasts as his face contorts into one of pleasure. This position feels good. Every inch of him is hitting my spot and—

Suddenly a slap on my ass resonates through the room. “I asked you a question,” he growls.

I struggle to remember what it is, and when I do, I waste no time in responding. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

I moan. “Yes, I- I like your cock.”

We’re both panting, our bodies moving with the squeaking sound of the table. Ezra should not be going any faster than he is, but he manages to wing it, fucking me into oblivion.

“Oh, fuck. Y-yes… right there…” I mewl.

“Who owns this pussy?” he growls.

“Y…you,” I answer, with my head flung skywards. I can feel the knot in my stomach tighten.

“You like when I drill into you, don’t you?” he demands, his strokes hard and steady, plunging into me at an incredibly fast pace. Again, and again, and again.

I’ve never wanted anyone more. “Yes. God, just like that.” My voice is the barest whisper.

Another spank lands on my ass. I can barely look at his face through my heavy eyelids. “Not his name,” he growls.

I immediately understand. “Yes, Ezra, just like that,” I moan loudly.

His control is slipping, but I don’t mind. He thrusts even faster, going deeper, and I shudder around his cock. I’m about to cum; I can’t hold it any longer.

“Fuck.” The sound falls from Ezra’s lips just before I feel his movements start to jerk. He does not relent, though, still pumping inside me like the beast he is.

The knot in my stomach tightens more and more, and I feel like I’m about to burst. With a loud scream and my fingers digging into his skin, I ride down my orgasm.

Just at that moment, I feel him stiffen, and with a loud roar, he spills inside me. I feel the warmth of his seed against my walls. My knees quiver as he drops his head into my neck, his breathing erratic against my skin.

Fuck!

The sex is just as good as the first time.

Maybe even better.