Guarding Raven

Coffee and Cold Truths

Raven Landry woke with the kind of headache that felt like a slow, rhythmic pulse behind her eyes, echoing like muffled Fourth of July fireworks deep inside her skull. For a fleeting, merciful second, she forgot. She forgot about the rain-slicked funeral, the suffocating weight of her black lace dress, and the haunting sound of wet dirt hitting her father’s casket.

Then, the world rushed back in, carried on the scent of sizzling bacon and the sharp, acidic bite of strong, dark coffee.

Her eyes snapped open. The ceiling of her art studio loomed above her, the familiar cedar beams now feeling strange and oppressive. She was still on the velvet sofa, but someone had tucked a heavy wool blanket around her chin—a blanket that definitely hadn't been there when she had drifted into a fitful, grief-stricken sleep.

She sat up too fast. The room did a slow, nauseating spin. "You're late," a voice rumbled from the kitchen. It was deep, gravelly, and entirely too loud for her throbbing head. Zavior Kane was standing at her small bistro table, looking entirely too large for the delicate furniture. He had shed his charcoal suit jacket, and his white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and crisscrossed with faint, jagged scars—relics of a life Raven couldn't begin to imagine. He wasn't looking at her; his focus was locked on a laptop screen, a mug of steaming coffee sitting precariously next to his elbow.

"Late for what?" Raven managed to say. Her voice was raspy, sounding like she’d swallowed some of the dust from her father’s archives. "It’s my house. I don't have a schedule." "You do now," he said, finally looking up. In the harsh morning light, those green eyes were even more intense—predatory and cold. They swept over her, taking in her messy hair and the dark circles under her eyes with a tactical precision that made her feel exposed. "You have a meeting with your father's lawyer at ten," he continued, his tone brook no argument. "And before that, you’re eating a real breakfast. No peanut butter, Landry. Sit."

Raven bristled, the Landry pride sparking in her chest despite her exhaustion. "I don't take orders in my own kitchen."

Her stomach betrayed her immediately, letting out a loud, pathetic growl the moment the scent of the eggs reached her. Zavior didn't even blink. He didn't offer a smirk or a witty comeback; he simply slid a plate of food toward the empty chair across from him.

"You do when someone is trying to kill you," he said flatly. "Now, sit. We need to talk about the black sedan." Raven froze, her hand gripping the velvet back of the chair. The memory of his warning from the night before chilled her blood. "You think they're coming back?"

"They never left, Raven. They're just waiting for you to leave the house." He tapped the laptop screen with a blunt finger. "And while you were sleeping, I found something in your father’s digital files. Or rather, I found what wasn't there." Raven sat, the wooden chair legs scraping loudly against the hardwood floor, the sound echoing painfully in her pounding head. She picked up a fork, but her fingers were trembling—a fine, rhythmic shudder that she couldn't suppress.

Zavior noticed. He didn't offer a pitying smile or tell her it was going to be okay. He wasn't that kind of man. Instead, he just pushed the heavy coffee mug closer to her hand. "Drink. You're vibrating like a low-tuned bass string," he muttered, his eyes returning to the glow of the screen. Raven took a sip. The coffee was black, bitter, and strong enough to wake the dead. It burned all the way down, but it centered her. "What do you mean 'what wasn't there'?" she asked, setting the mug down. "My father was meticulous. He kept every receipt, every sketch, every gallery contract. He treated his records like they were part of the art."

"Exactly," Zavior said. He turned the laptop toward her. "He has records for every painting sold in the last decade. Except for the Landry Series. His most famous work. The legacy pieces that supposedly paid for this studio and your entire trust fund."

Raven frowned, leaning in until she could smell the faint scent of gun oil and peppermint clinging to him. The spreadsheets were a blur of numbers, but she knew the names of the paintings by heart. "The Landry Series was sold to a private collector in London three years ago. Five million dollars. I remember the gala. I remember him being toasted for his success."

"According to the public record, yes, it was made to look that way," Zavior’s voice dropped an octave, turning dangerous and low. "But according to his bank statements, that money never arrived. And the gallery contract for that sale? It’s been wiped from his hard drive. Not deleted—professionally scrubbed. Someone used a military-grade wipe on these files, Raven."

The eggs in her stomach suddenly felt like a heavy stone. "That’s impossible. My father lived off that money. He... he bought me this studio with it. He paid my tuition."

"Did he?" Zavior stood up, his massive frame suddenly making the cozy kitchen feel like a cage. He loomed over her, a shadow of charcoal and steel. "Or did he take out a massive loan from people he couldn't pay back just to make you think he was still the king of the art world? Did he create a fantasy to keep his fragile daughter from seeing the truth?"

"He wouldn't lie to me," Raven snapped, standing up to face him, even though she had to crane her neck back to meet his gaze. "He loved me."

"Everyone lies, Landry. Especially the people who love us. They think they’re protecting you, but they’re just leaving you blind for the slaughter." He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her whole. "I think your father realized someone was stealing from his legacy. I think he attempted to track the money down. And I think he was killed because he finally found the name at the top of the list." Raven’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Whose name?"

She never got the answer. A sudden, thunderous pounding rattled the studio’s heavy oak door, the violence of the strikes making the floorboards vibrate beneath Raven’s feet. It wasn't the polite knock of a neighbor, but a frantic, aggressive demand for entry that cut through the tension of the room like a blade.Zavior was moving before the second knock could even land. In one fluid, terrifyingly graceful motion, he shoved Raven behind his back. His hand reached for the small of his back, his fingers wrapping around the grip of a weapon Raven hadn't even realized he was carrying.

"Stay behind me," he hissed. His voice was no longer the voice of a man making breakfast; it was the voice of a predator. "And whatever happens, don't open your mouth." The door didn't wait for them to answer. It flew open with a violent crash, the lock splintering. A man in a crisp, expensive navy suit stepped into the studio, flanked by two guards who looked like they had been carved out of solid granite. "Raven, darling," the man said. His voice was smooth, dripping with the kind of fake, oily sympathy that made her skin crawl. "I heard about the accident. So tragic. I’m here to collect the gallery’s property. For safekeeping, of course."

Raven recognized him instantly. Arthur Vane. Her father’s 'best friend' and the most powerful agent in the city. The man who had held her hand at the funeral yesterday.

Zavior didn't move an inch. He stood like a wall of iron between Raven and the man who had been like an uncle to her.

"The only thing you're collecting today, Vane, is a trespass warning," Zavior growled, his hand tightening on his weapon. "Get out before I stop being polite."