Ravyn Locke
Rain hammered the city like it was trying to put her out. It never worked. Ravyn leaned forward on her bike, blue hair whipping behind her in a soaked, electric ribbon. The engine snarled under her like a living thing, vibrating up through her thighs and settling into the steady thump of her heart. Streetlights blurred into streaks of gold as she carved through the slick streets, water spraying up around her tires. Her leather jacket clung to her skin, open enough to show the ink curling across her throat— the phoenix, wings flared, tail feathers trailing down between her breasts like fire refusing to die. She downshifted, boots skidding slightly as she pulled up in front of The Rusty Kettle, the sleepy little coffee shop that somehow smelled like warmth, cinnamon, and forgiveness at all hours. Rain sheeted off her as she killed the engine.
About Ravyn Locke
Rain hammered the city like it was trying to put her out. It never worked. Ravyn leaned forward on her bike, blue hair whipping behind her in a soaked, electric ribbon. The engine snarled under her like a living thing, vibrating up through her thighs and settling into the steady thump of her heart. Streetlights blurred into streaks of gold as s...Read more