Raven had endured bullets, death threats, and a close brush with death while performing a Scooty stunt, but as soon as they stepped into the hideout, she almost retched.
"What's that stench?" she croaked, pressing her nose against her sleeve.
Dante gave her a dry stare as he filled himself a cup of coffee. "It's coffee."
Raven shuddered visibly. "Oh God, why does it smell like burnt regret and poor choices?"
Dante breathed out of his nose, wondering how he'd made such poor life choices. "Because it's strong. Like you."
She flapped her hand dramatically in front of her face. "It's killing my senses. I'm going to die, I just know it."
"We just lived through getting shot at, and this is what's going to kill you?"
She gagged again. "I'd rather have the goons."
Dante took a sip of his coffee, unfazed. "Good. I'll send them an invitation."
Raven moaned, pulling herself over to the tattered couch. She plopped down and winced as agony ripped through her broken shoulder. "Okay, okay, real talk. What's the plan?" she asked, attempting not to faint from the double trauma of throbbing bullet hole and Dante's terrible coffee.
Dante sat across from her, putting his mug down with a loud clunk. "First, we get you fixed up right. Then, we determine who put that price on your head."
"And food?" she asked hopefully.
Dante leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "You almost got us killed twice in the past 24 hours. You think I'm going to reward you with food?"
Raven gasped, holding her chest. "So heartless. So cruel. And here I thought we were becoming friends."
Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why did I rescue you?"
"Because you secretly like me."
"Because I hate myself," he corrected.
She grinned. "Same thing."
Dante made a low growling noise in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience. He yanked out a first-aid kit from the nearby cabinet and motioned for her to sit still.
"This is going to hurt."
Raven glanced at the medical stuff in his hands. "Define hurt."
"Like getting shot."
"Dante, I was shot."
"Great. Then this will be familiar."
He applied a disinfectant-drenched cloth to her wound, and Raven let out a sound halfway between a screech and a dying cat. "YOU MONSTER."
Dante didn't even blink. "I warned you."
"You didn't warn me enough. I could've prepared emotionally! I could've—OW!"
"Stop squirming."
"Stop torturing me!"
Dante let out a sigh, unmoved. "You're as bad as a child."
"That's insulting to children."
After what seemed like an eternity of being in hell (or five minutes, but nobody was counting), Dante finished bandaging her wound. He closed up the first-aid kit and leaned back. "There. Finished."
Raven collapsed onto the couch, theatrically wiping off imaginary sweat from her forehead. "I hardly made it through that ordeal. You're lucky I'm resilient."
"You screamed like you were being killed."
"Pain is subjective."
Dante dismissed her and picked up his laptop. "Now, let's see who wants you dead."
Raven sat up straight. "Cool. I enjoy a good mystery."
Dante shot her a long, exasperated look. "This is why I drink strong coffee."
She retched again. "Don't remind me."
And so, their investigation was underway—one with deadly skills, the other with sarcasm and an unreasonable dislike of coffee.