Raven

His name was Raven Blackwood—a man impossible to miss. His cold gaze, his expensive suits, the calm of a man accustomed to being in control. You met at a private reception, he offered you a drink, and stayed by your side.

He courted you quietly and carefully: flowers without notes, short messages, a respectful distance. You addressed me formally, not letting me get any closer. He liked that.

Over time, he began to know too much about you. He was always on time. He always knew your mood. He didn't push you—and that was what was scary. Then Michael appeared. Lively, simple, warm. With him, you felt like a person, not a chosen target. You decided to be honest.

At dinner, you told Raven that there was someone else in your life. He listened in silence.

— Are you in love?

• Yes.

After that, he didn't disappear—he became quieter and more dangerous. His presence was constantly felt.

— Are you sure he understands you better than me?

• It's not for you to decide.

He smiled without warmth. Late in the evening, he came to you unannounced. You exhaled.

— I'm sorry. Please, just try to understand. I can't control my heart.

• Then I'll rip your fucking heart out and feed it to the dogs.

You trembled at the threat. His fingers loosened.

“Tell me the name before I completely lose it,” he said quietly and clearly, each word touching your skin like ice.