Raven woke up in a bed that wasn't hers.
The sheets were too soft, too expensive. The room was larger than the one she'd been given before — still controlled, still elegant, but unmistakably different. Morning light filtered through heavy curtains that didn't open fully. A single black dress hung on the wardrobe door. Next to it, a smaller box containing simple but clearly expensive clothing.
She sat up slowly. Her ribs still ached from the rifle butt last night. Her split lip throbbed. The ring on her left hand caught the light — simple, clean, undeniable.
Raven De Luca.
The name sat heavy in her chest.
She stared at the band for a long moment. Her fingers trembled once before she forced them still. A flush crawled up her neck as memories from the war room flashed through her mind — Vincent's hand on her waist, his thumb brushing her bleeding lip, the quiet finality of "It's done."
She hated how her body had reacted then. She hated it even more now.
