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  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 17
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 17

SNOW ACCUMULATES ON the cheap iron table on our squared cement back porch as I run my finger over the scar at the back of my head. A scar I can remember. Scissors. A permanent reminder of the night Alain had cut my hair to the scalp after accusing me, for the first time, of infidelity. I light a cigarette as I refuse that memory and its clarity, opting to concentrate on the murkier, much more difficult memories to summon.
At my back, behind the door, the house roars with testosterone, mixed voices chattering around the kitchen table as I do all I can to avoid it. The sounds and feel of it similar, familiar—so familiar it brings me back to a different time. To an image of Ormand and Alain at the same table when I first arrived in the States, both animated and in good spirits. It was the beginning. Years before the haze, before I began my life underwater. My last memories and perception of both men now far different. Alain’s forever tarnished.
Ormand’s memory now plagued by the way he cried the night I woke in that hospital bed. That memory of him haunting me most. It was the nature of the way he grieved. As if filled with remorse.
The rest of the night is nothing but a hazy mix of images that refuse true clarity—the dim, pale peach light coming from somewhere behind the hospital bed. Mixed, muted voices drowned out by the pounding in my temple. The crackling fuzz surrounding my view of the slow drip of the IV, the itch of the fabric of my gown as I searched and searched my mind for the hours before I regained consciousness. As I have year after year.
The only true knowledge I have of what happened after I woke in that bed is the permanent absence of something vital. As if something that was inside me no longer exists. Not my heart, which still beats true, but something more substantial. Something far, far out of reach as my vision doubles, and I blink to clear it as the haze returns. The fog I gained—which now replaces what was stolen—is merciless, refusing to free me all these years later, to allow me to see what was taken.
It’s as the silent snow falls that I pitch forward, willing my mind to cooperate, to press past that memory the night I woke to the next—to any day after that. Bowing my head as the flakes whirl around me, I again plead with God.
Please, please let it play.
Miraculously, the details of that night began to come to me.
Ormand’s hand grips mine, his features twisted in agony as a blurry Beau stands behind his chair opposite the doctor, who scratches another page on his clipboard.
“. . . several contusions on the spine, three broken ribs . . .”
Loud laughter from inside the house disrupts any more recollection as my eyes burn with frustration. Hands shaking, I uncap the bottle and sip to try and calm my nerves. Desperate to get back to it, I close my eyes as the muddled sounds ring true while the images never fully take shape.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please let me see.”
My prayer remains unanswered as only the doctor’s voice rings through. As it has so many times before.
“. . . fractured wrist and ulna. Significant damage to her windpipe. The bite marks—”
“Will heal,” I speak aloud with the memory of that voice while living the contradiction to his prognosis.
Another burst of loud laughter sounds from behind the sliding door. One of those laughs now familiar, coming from my budding soldier. My chest stretches at the sound of it. Happy for him that he can feel such joy despite what he endures.
His progress during our short time together is astounding. Of all the men currently inside the house—and aside from Ezekiel—Tyler is the only one who takes anything I say into himself. When I began to train him, I had hope for the first time in years. That was until the blanket came back, surrounding me in its bitter embrace, setting the ache into my bones, refusing to allow me any more clarity.
Before the biting cold came back to steal what peace I had, my skin had started to become far more sufferable to live in than the year before. And the year before that. All because of the beautiful boy and his desire to learn. To be the best soldier he can be.
Tipping the bottle back, I mourn the loss of that temporary peace as the snowdrift summons me, and Matis’s words whisper back to me through the snow, through time.
“Je t’aime petite fleur . . . Je suis vraiment désolé. Je suis vraiment désolé. Pardonne-moi.” I love you little flower . . . I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.
It’s days like this when I cannot control the haze, fear, or shake—that I loathe my inability to stop any of it and the numbing consumption that follows.
Failing. Failing. Failing.
Again.
Every day, failing to recognize the girl who flew to America so young, fearless, and ready to fight—to live her dream.
The glass door slides open, and I don’t bother looking over my shoulder, knowing it’s Tyler. The strong scent of marijuana fills my nose, and to my surprise, black boots come into view next to where I sit.
“You have the whole of the house,” I grumble, knowing no good will come of this interaction because my fear has stolen all my patience today. Breathing deeply, I summon what I can. “Can you not allow me space out here?”
“That maternal instinct inside you is something to behold,” Dominic slings in insult. His latest sarcastic remark ringing true. It’s no surprise when I look up to see him staring at me speculatively, armed and ready to spar. To punish. Though as brilliant as Jean Dominic is, I seem to be the one person he hasn’t fully figured out yet.
“I’m sorry to keep disappointing you,” I reply truthfully, though my tone indicates otherwise, my heart not in the fight.
Silence fills the space, and I rub my trembling hands together to keep him from noticing. Something I’m sure he’ll attribute to the drink. When more loud laughter bursts from behind the door, it’s all I can do to keep from flinching. Needing the distraction, I look up at him from my chair and eye him just as speculatively. “Do you despise me, Jean Dominic?”
So tall now, so angry. Much more than Ezekiel was. So ready to hurt the world that hurt him—to hurt me. Celine’s face crosses my mind as I stare at her youngest son. In it, I see the care she gave me, the tenderness forever there. Always patiently reaching out to embrace whatever side of me was visible. I know it as a truth that the same capability resides in both of her sons. Though when he doesn’t answer, I take his silence as confirmation I have earned his hate.
“Rest well knowing Celine would be disappointed in me much like you because she was so very kind, Dominic. So selfless.”
He stands idly by for a long moment.
“You never talk about them,” he finally says. It’s then I spot the red wings drifting through the snow as the image fills my mind.
The same bird . . .
I stretch forward, leaning into the memory as the cardinal lands on the fence in front of us.
“Beau! Beau, look!” Celine exclaims next to me as Jean Dominic stands again for his second attempt to walk. Nearby, Beau smiles down at his son as he shakily stands in the yard, surrounded by bright green grass. Jean looks up to Beau as I hold out my hands to encourage him forward.
“Come to me, Jean Dominic!” I urge the beautiful baby as he inches toward me.
“Alain, look!” I call over to him, where he sits with Ezekiel, helping him assemble a toy from Dominic’s recent birthday party. Alain lifts his eyes, watching Jean Dominic take his first step, landing into my arms before Celine greedily takes him from me, beaming with pride.
“He did it!”
“Maybe he would have taken another if you hadn’t stopped him,” Beau jokes, his red hair glinting in the sun as his eyes, too, glitter with pride on Jean Dominic.
Shifting my focus back to Alain, I find him looking at me much the way he did when we first began as a couple in France. We’ve been together now for some time, but only mere weeks of our marriage have truly been good. Since Beau and Celine joined us in America—not long after I arrived—Alain’s been much less violent. My suspicion is that Beau has something to do with it. But it’s Alain’s return stare now which gives me hope. Maybe this year, maybe . . .
“Do you believe in fate, Dominic?” I whisper hoarsely as that sunny day beams through the drifting snow before shuttering out, my eyes misting with the gift of the memory.
Thank you, God. Thank you!
“Really?” he jabs. “That’s what you’re leading with?”
“With good reason. The day you took your first steps was in the backyard of this house. There, right next to the fence.” The image fresh in my mind, I point toward a brown patch of grass being rapidly dusted with snow. “Just after, a cardinal landed, and I remember your parents walking you over to it.”
When he further steps into view, I watch him eye the bird without much interest before he speaks. “And that constitutes your tears?”
“Must you humiliate me every fucking day, Dominic?” I whisper before taking a long sip of drink. “You may think me a silly woman for my sentiments. But it was a rare good day. I still miss your mother. Very much.”
And I remembered, I remembered!
An old memory made new, one I pray stays with me. Tears of happiness sting my eyes as I push the emotion down to speak.
“No one ever spoke about my parents or grandparents either,” I offer him. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted that.”
He pinches his brows. “What were they like? My grandparents?”
Ezekiel knows I’m not his true aunt, but I’ve never told Jean Dominic. Ezekiel knows that I don’t want my past shared with his brother yet but insists it will help our relationship. But because of Jean Dominic’s constant verbal contempt, I have yet to do so. His resentment is still too strong for him to consider me for any understanding. For Celine, I’ll keep trying. For myself, too, and for the affection I harbor for the boy I taught with my own behavior to hate me.
“As you know, your mother no longer contacted them once she got here because of Abijah.”
He nods.
“Your grandparents were good people. Francis was kind. Hardworking. Considerate. Marine was strict but attentive. Your mother was very close to her. They were good enough to take me in when I was separated from my father.”
Dominic’s eyes widen in surprise at my admission. “What. The. Actual. Fuck?”
“Your mother was not my true sister.”
“I’m getting that,” he snaps. “Does Tobias know?”
“Yes,” I say, speaking quickly to temper his shock, “but we are close related family, Dominic. You have my hair color and eyes, for God’s sake. My papa’s eyes. Celine’s eyes. Celine and I were not sisters—as much as your mother wanted to believe it so—but my experience is much the same as yours. My mother left me when I was young, and I was separated from my papa not long after. My father, Matis, was uncle to Celine’s father, your grandfather, Francis.”
He remains silent, but I know he wants to hear more.
“The explanation for this is long, but what is important to know is that you came from a good family. Your mother was a good woman, the best I have ever known. Caring, generous, happy. Your father also had a good heart and was patient enough, but when he was angry, he could scare a room into silence. He was an authority—” I frown, summoning the right word. “. . . authorities man. A man to respect and not to cross. When he spoke, people listened. Both you and Ezekiel possess this.”
I see in his expression this pleases him, and so I continue.
“You have his temper, I assure you. From what Celine said, he got into many fights in school. It was a miracle they didn’t expel him. In some ways, he was unpredictable, but his heart was so very loyal, and he loved your mother and his sons, you and Ezekiel, with the whole of it. Your mother loved me the same. That is why Beau tolerated me . . . and protected me.”
“From?”
“Life.” I drag my cigarette. “I was not there when they met, but I witnessed their love after they came from France while your mother was growing you in her belly, and they were so very in love. Watching them with you and Ezekiel gave me so much hope for my own marriage, and I envied their connection”—I exhale as I speak—“everyone did.”
Dom remains silent, his gaze on the snow and his demeanor the same, but I know he’s listening raptly.
“You were created during the best part of their love. Love of the purest kind by two people who cared deeply for other people. Who truly wanted to give you a good life and championed as hard as they could to do it before they were killed.”
“Why are you talking like that’s your last bottle?” he asks without a hint of emotion before taking a hit from his joint. “And what happened to your marriage?”
“Dom.” Tyler speaks up, and we both turn to see the door open. He scans me, nodding over his shoulder. “They’re looking for you.”
Tyler shifts his assessing gaze back to me, missing nothing. His disappointment clear as he eyes my dwindling bottle before he greets me.
“Hey, Delphine.”
I nod, meeting Tyler’s soft brown eyes despite wanting to keep mine lowered. The last time I saw Tyler, he found me passed out on the kitchen floor. He’d lifted me from the pile of broken mini-bottles surrounding me. It was another failed attempt to cut the amount of drink—to measure my consumption. Though upset about our missed game, he’d been gentle when placing me in bed and stood at my door waiting for endless minutes, our eyes locked until mine closed. Though, during those tense seconds, I could practically hear every word that died on his tongue as he weighed his decision on whether to try to reprimand me. More judgment from another boy who is playing a man. Several of which my house is currently full of.
Though, I can’t help marveling at the fact that I’m now surrounded by mirror images of a younger me. Children growing up too soon, and their ideology driving them to believe they can make a difference. To change this world and become soldiers with purpose.
One of which I’ve spent months with recently, knowing my drinking affects him more than most. When he’s nearby, I find myself trying to hide each sip from him more and more. The fact that it bothers me now only has me lifting the bottle to take a defiant mouthful. I have no place giving weight to the opinion of a boy, and with one hearty sip, I decide to take away any power I might have given to him to condemn me.
Plagued by what’s transpired in mere minutes by simply sitting at a fucking table, I lift the bottle continually, sipping it while wanting to both shatter and savor it. Tears blur my vision when I finally drop it with a loud clank on the table as my conflicting emotions take over.
“Delphine,” a voice whispers in summons, and I realize Dominic has disappeared into the house. Tyler kneels in front of me now, eyeing my bottle like it’s his enemy, as I realize I just lost myself again in the haze.
“Where are you right now? What’s happening?”
Gazing down at him, I shake my head. “I’m nowhere, and I cannot get anywhere,” I croak as he grips my hands in his.
“You’re shaking so badly,” he states, “tell me what has that expression on your face . . . that look in your eyes. Please.”
Loud music blasts from inside the house, and this time, I can’t help but flinch.
“Jesus, please tell me what’s happening right now,” Tyler prods and I blink more tears away to see his own eyes drowning with concern.
“It’s snowing,” I reply.
His brows pinch together as he takes in my state while aware of my ploy to try and divert his attention. This beautiful, sad, brilliant boy. “Is the noise bothering you, too?”
“Do you like the snow?” I redirect again, and he closes his eyes briefly in frustration before answering.
“Doesn’t really affect me one way or another.” He holds out his bare palm to catch some of the drift before prodding again. “But I know you don’t.”
Lifting the bottle, I unscrew the cap, and he places his warm hand on mine to stop me. “It’s empty, Delphine. Tell me, what about the snow bothers you?”
I shake my head. Though Tyler is young, he’s not untouched by women. That much is evident in his healthy confidence. His hurt stems from disappointment by those he has faith in, not by romantic love. Any days he had of trusting without fear are already far behind him—something that I can easily recognize.
Sometimes, I want to ask him what causes his fugue states. What could have possibly happened to him to have him seeking darkness and remaining there? But now, as I seek refuge in my own reflective darkness, I want him nowhere near me. I stay silent as he stares up at me while rubbing each of my hands vigorously through his to warm them.
“Your hands are freezing. Come inside. Let me take you to lay down.”
Shaking my head, I pull my hands from his grip. “I’m okay right here.”
“No, you’re not—”
“I don’t want”—I swallow—“to e-mb-barrass Jean Dominic.” A sob bursts out of me with my admission as I fail to rein any more emotion in. “T-Tyler, p-please leave me.”
His eyes go distant as he shakes his head, his frustration clear as I make the same request.
“P-please go,” I beg.
As he stands, I see his resignation. “Let me get you some gloves at least.”
“Leave me, Tyler,” I scold. “I’m not in need of help.”
“No? Well, let’s give it a fucking minute,” he clips sarcastically before he shoves his clenching fists in his jeans, clearly angry he has no authority over me. “I’m sorry,” he offers quickly in a soft whisper of apology. “I’m sorry, Delphine. I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did,” I sniff as another tear rolls down my cheek. “I know what you all think of me. I can feel it before any of you say a word.”
“You have no fucking idea what I think of you,” he whispers vehemently.
“Tyler, leave me, please.”
“Fuck . . . fine, but I’m getting you a goddamned blanket.”
I nearly laugh at his outburst as he mumbles his frustration and enters the house. As I become lost in the flurries surrounding me, the numb I so desperately need starts to set in before I’m covered by a thick wool blanket. Just after cloaking me with it, Tyler again kneels at my feet, his brown eyes flickering with warmth as he looks up at me imploringly.
“I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to know you,” he relays softly.
“I no longer know myself, Tyler,” I admit, pulling another cigarette from my pack as he grabs my lighter.
“What do you mean?” He frowns while lighting my cigarette.
“It’s not important,” I say on exhale, “what matters right now is that when I look at you, I see so much. There is so much good in you, Tyler. Your potential is limitless. I should have told you before now, but I want you to know this.”
“Then stop disappearing on me,” he implores with a hint of agitation. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”
“I’m not in a good place.”
“Neither am I,” he retorts instantly. “And I know you know that, but we were doing good until you checked out, weren’t we?”
I nod, my eyes filling again, agitating me further. My overwhelming emotions keeping me helpless to the blanket threatening to pull me back under. It’s the look in his eyes that keeps me from succumbing.
“So, fuck it. Have bad days, but don’t withdraw from me, and let me try to be there for you.”
“I’m not a good person to mentor you.” I shake my head. “I’m not good in my mind. Mentally.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud—to anyone.
“Well, you are good in my mind,” he says forcefully.
I shake my head as he wipes a tear from my chin. “Tyler . . . I have very bad problems with my memory, and I often get aggravated and lash out. I don’t want to do more harm than I have. I have no business shaping your mind.”
“Listen to me,” he says sharply, commanding my eyes. “I already knew what you just admitted, and I can handle it. But I also know how much you helped Tobias before he left. I’ve learned so much from you already, and as selfish as it may be to ask, I need this. I need your help, Delphine. Help me, and I swear to you right now, no matter what happens, I won’t hold it against you. Ever. So please stop avoiding me. I have bad days, too. Very bad days. Trust me.”
“I know you do,” I tell him. “I know because there is another side to you that no one sees. Not even them.” I point toward the door. “It’s dangerous for you because you don’t know what it is or will become.”
He bites his lip as if trying to decipher whether to confirm it before nodding his head. “I need help with that, too.”
I palm his cheek, and his features twist in anguish as he presses into my palm, seeming desperate for the touch. It’s then I again find myself unable to refuse him. “Do not be ashamed. I can help you with this.”
“So you’ll help me?”
Shivering in the blanket, I withdraw my hand and nod. “I will try, but you must trust me. Can you trust me?”
“I already do,” he whispers.
“Maybe”—I bite the tear that lines my lips—“if I tell you one day why I hate the snow, you will talk to me about who you become when you step into the shadows at night and stare into my window.”
He nods.
“Then I will try.”
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