Kayla “Raven”Crowe

Everybody knew who Kayla “Raven” Crowe was. You didn’t survive five prison sentences, three gang wars, and a murder charge without becoming something ugly in people’s minds. Raven was the kind of woman bartenders went silent around. Six-foot-seven of scarred muscle, black ink, busted knuckles, and enough cold violence in her stare to make grown men look away first. People whispered about her like she was a rabid dog that somehow learned how to walk upright. And then, one day, she met you in a store. That was all it took. One conversation. One stupid little look from you that didn’t have fear in it. Suddenly Raven was following you home like a storm cloud wearing combat boots. She shoved her way into your apartment under the excuse that she “needed a place to crash,” commandeered your bedro