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  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 15
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 15

WINTER 2004
“TYLER!” DAD BARKS from the front door, the jingle of the merry little bundle of bells Mom has hanging on the knob distorted in delivery as he slams it.
In the weeks since both our confrontations, my parents have been avoiding me more and more. Probably because when they do meet my eyes, I never let them forget what they’re doing to each other and to me, refusing to live their lie.
It’s their decision to live with and my punishment to bear witness to the slow, painful desecration of their ideas of one another.
“Tyler!” the man I once knew as my father hollers as he smacks into the wall next to my door before his heavy footfalls resume on the hardwoods. His mud-covered boots come into view before he stumbles inside my bedroom, tripping on nothing but alcoholism and bitterness.
As feared, Dad’s DUI had him discharged from the Corps—though honorably, in consideration of his decades of service. Now seen as a liability, they cut him loose. I wasn’t given any more details than that because I didn’t ask. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no conversation to have. Unapologetically back to his old habits mere weeks after his latest and most detrimental fuckup, he’s more unbearable than ever.
Closing my book, I passively stare up at him, feigning confusion while knowing he’s spoiling for the fight he couldn’t find at the bar. Chances are Brian threw him out after I failed to retrieve him—a call I purposefully ignored.
“Why the fuck didn’t you pick me up?”
“Mom spent half the morning cleaning the floors,” I divert as he charges in further, failing to get the flinch he so desperately wants from me.
“Yeah? Good on her. And what the fuck did you do today that was productive?” His delivery is a mix of spit and slur as he sizes me up.
“I attended school, which is age appropriate considering I’m a senior in high school, and worked my shift at the garage after. You?”
Tension and fury radiate from him as he leers at me from only a foot away.
“Maybe I’ll take the fucking truck away,” he threatens.
“That would be pointless because it’s not running yet, and you can’t take what you don’t own.”
“Yeah? Well, I own the fucking roof currently over your head!”
I don’t mince words. “Are you kicking me out?”
“Did I fucking say I was?”
Mom predictably comes to my aid, appearing in the doorframe, shoulders slumped when she sees the state of her floor before her eyes frantically dart between us. I firmly shake my head at her just as she opens her mouth to speak. It’s a cliché situation, and sadly, the solution for me lies in enlisting the second I turn eighteen. A large part of me wishes I could leave now, but it would only shift his focus and wrath on her. With his rapid spiral, I refuse to do it—not even to spare myself. Though, she hasn’t extended the same courtesy. Swallowing the litany of insults I want to hurl at him, and in seeing Mom’s state, I go diplomatic.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll pick you up next time. I grilled tonight and left a plate for you on the counter.”
Dad’s lips peel back as he glares at my books. “You won’t be no fancy college boy. We can’t afford it.”
“I have no plans of attending Harvard.”
I just have to test well enough to enlist. A subject I’ll no longer broach with him, nor any other, since he endangered my mother’s life.
“If you do go, you’re going state because Uncle Sam is gonna pay. He fucking owes me.”
Annoyed that his belligerent ass isn’t understanding that I’m not arguing with him, I nod. “Hungry? Let’s get you fed.”
Grabbing my new cell phone from my dresser—another early Christmas present from Tobias—Dad tosses it on the book in my lap, failing, yet again, to get his wanted flinch. One which would require a modicum of respect and fear I no longer have when it comes to him. Instead, I lift my chin in defiance as he does his worst to best me while making sure he fucking fails.
“The next time I fucking call you, you answer. Do you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do better,” I utter in a lifeless, rehearsed tone.
“Don’t fucking patronize me,” he snaps, lifting a finger less than an inch from my nose. Fury begins to build inside me as I take a few cleansing breaths. The only upside to his nightly tirades, in which he now targets me, is the practice of controlling my rage with Delphine’s breathing techniques.
“I’ll do better, be better,” I recite. “I’ll be a man you can be proud of, sir.”
He weighs my words, knowing I no longer mean them. Glancing over his shoulder at Mom, he turns his back to me.
“Look at what you raised, Regina. Arrogant, disrespectful, and smug. Aren’t you fucking proud?”
Tears brim in Mom’s eyes as he crashes past her before they focus on mine, shining with an unspoken apology for subjecting us both to his slow, toxic implosion.
The minute Dad passes out, I text Dom, push into my sneakers, and grab the bag from my dresser on my way out. Stalking through the house, I’m stopped short by the sight of Mom putting the last of the glittering decorations on the tree. Her attempt in resurrecting the familiar décor tonight an obvious Hail Mary. Her underlying hope to spark some nostalgia while knowing she has no semblance of family left to host.
Trying to slip out undetected, I fail when Mom spots me sneaking through the kitchen toward the garage, calling my name in summons. As I approach, she reaches into a shoe box before thrusting a familiar decoration toward me.
“First grade,” she boasts, as I eye the ancient artwork I constructed with craft paper and cotton balls. “Come on,” she drawls, nudging me, “you always put it on the tree.”
“That was then,” I say, refusing to buy into the charade as I turn and stalk toward the front door.
“Tyler,” she calls after me.
“I’ll be home before curfew,” I utter before shutting the door, hoping I’ll catch Delphine before she hits her own wall. The irony not lost on me that I’m seeking comfort in exchanging one alcoholic’s company for another’s.
These last weeks have passed by in a blur. Delphine’s company being the one I crave most. Between Dom’s brooding about Tobias’s extended absences, working his share of shifts at the garage, and holing up in his room on the net, he’s been scarcer. Sean’s been tied up as well, working between the Pitt stop and King’s, finishing the football season, and building his little black book.
As always, we still band together, inseparable and on each other’s heels in the halls at school, even if we split after the last bell to do our own thing.
Me, I’ve been running every morning and night like my ass is on fire to reach a timed three-mile mark with easy strides. Also working my share of shifts at the garage while spending almost every night with a French fireball who keeps me on my toes. Most of those nights are spent becoming overtly attuned to her.
Eyeing the gift bag as I walk up the drive, I second-guess my decision to deliver it tonight, but it’s her companionship that’s saving me from dwelling on the war zone in my house.
Knocking lightly on the storm door before I can reconsider, I peer through the frosted glass only to lock eyes with Delphine, who’s standing on the other side of the counter. Cracking the door open to gauge my welcome and her mood, she gives me an easy nod, and I walk over to greet her.
Tonight, she’s dressed in a thinner robe than her typical blue. Unable to ignore the knot holding it together is coming loose, I manage to glimpse a side view and curve of one of her perfect breasts. The rest of the groan-inducing view is obstructed by the silky dark braid resting atop it as she unfolds a packet of powdered painkillers. Pouring it on her tongue, she follows it with a sip of water before finally addressing me.
Her constant indication that I’m no one of importance only further encourages me to stop the ridiculous fucking fixation that began months ago. One I’m fueling with every look I steal.
“No game tonight,” she states, her temperament hard to gauge with her delivery as I allow my eyes to sweep the perfection of her profile. Her features alone are utterly fucking surreal, having no less effect on me than they did yesterday or the day before.
No chance in hell, Jennings.
These last weeks have been a mix of heaven and hell. In giving me the education I practically begged her for, I’ve become completely cognizant of just how much of her beauty I was formerly blind to. Every day, I resign and align myself to the fact that my attraction for her is not only dangerous but utterly idiotic. That logic thwarted the instant I again catch sight of her.
At this point, I can’t even lie to myself that it’s training alone that keeps me coming back. Day by day, she consumes me a little more with her mystery while giving me bits and pieces of herself—her intelligence, her humor. She even has a warmth anyone who respects her enough and treats her well enough can easily draw upon. A warmth that’s smothered by the hostility and resentment that surrounds her—namely Dom’s.
“Evening, and I’m not here to play,” I say, my tone threatening to betray me in how my seconds-long assessment of her affects me. She’d probably find my lingering gaze endearing and childish if she noticed at all. But she never lets on for a second that she’s aware of my growing fixation because I don’t, at all, let her see it. I do my best to make sure she can’t feel it, either.
Looks can be felt, and I know this from playing the game myself with my hookups, so I don’t go there with her. Ever.
I would chalk it up to nothing more than a crush, but ironically, her lack of acknowledgment is the only thing currently crushing me.
Because you’re seventeen, you fucking idiot!
And because this simmering attraction growing between us is entirely my own, I’ve been tossing my mental hard-on aside in lieu of the invaluable knowledge she’s bestowing upon me. So far, I’ve been presented with a mind-blowing arsenal of shit I’ve never considered before.
“He’s in his room.” Delphine dismisses me, interrupting my inner musings while pointing in the direction of the hall that leads to all three of their bedrooms. Instead, I draw closer to a fire I have no business warming up to, let alone attempting to play with. Opting to stay near it, I take a few steps closer while leaving myself on the opposite side of the counter, which serves as a partition separating the kitchen from the living room.
A safe distance from her to shield my growing delusion and prolonged humiliation. Knowing good and well that if I ever give her the slightest hint of my growing attraction, I will lose her company.
Though, when I look at Delphine, I don’t see Dom’s aunt or our age difference—not since the day I got my first real look at her. If anything, I see a twenty-something who’s wearing her grandmother’s wardrobe. Her skin fucking glows with youth, her onyx hair silky in look.
In noticing that, I’ve acquired a healthy suspicion that she purposefully tries to mask both her body and beauty.
“You off to work soon?” I ask in a shitty attempt at conversation. Her latest job is working the graveyard shift at a boxing company—one of the only other factories in Triple Falls, aside from Horner Tech, which she quit when Celine and Beau died.
“Non, I’m off tonight.”
I eye the clock on the stove. “So, why are you drinking coffee?”
“Why the questions?”
“Because maybe I want some, and it was my polite way of hinting around to what you haven’t offered,” I jest, “with your impeccable lack of hosting skills. So, how about it?”
“No,” she replies sharply, barely sparing me a glance. “From this moment forward, you will eat only things which grow from the earth and lean protein. Water to drink. Only water. No drinking or drugs.”
“All right, so no more experimenting with crack. Got it,” I state pointlessly, which earns me a barely perceptible lift of full lips. “Though I can’t help but think this is punishment because I’m winning, General.”
“Non, you are not,” she relays, “we’re still very much at war.”
“I leveled over half your companies last night,” I counter.
“I was waiting for you to watch me make my next move,” she says, walking over to the table, where our battalions are on opposite sides of the line, engaged in our first long-term war. I study the board to see not a soldier out of place and give her a nod. Coffee in one hand, she flicks her fingers with the other.
“Airstrike. Airstrike,” she laughs maniacally while shooting my soldiers to the kitchen floor.
“The hell?” I balk.
“Uh-oh, sniper,” she sing-songs, flicking several more soldiers before glancing over to me with a shrug. “And now you have no soldiers in your right flank.”
“We’ve never done an airstrike. That’s cheating.”
She quirks a dark brow. “And what’s the name of our new game, Tyler?”
The slight purr she uses to draw out my name rolls through me briefly, making me forget the question for a beat. My reaction only further letting me know I need to hook up with Kayley, and soon, so I can again respect myself. The notion of us is ridiculous, even to me.
“Mmm?” Delphine prompts as I search for both the question and answer before squeezing my eyes shut.
“1911. Fuck. The first air strikes happened in 1911, the Italo-Turk war.”
“And you know this why?” she presses.
Her books, my curriculum. “Point taken.”
“Not yet. We might have moved on from BC wars, but I gave you all you needed in the name. You did not prepare,” she taunts as I glance down to see her advantage. It takes me seconds to assess how it will play out.
“Shit, I’ve already lost this war,” I state, sinking where I stand. “Haven’t I?”
“Maybe next time,” she laughs as I narrow my eyes.
“I demand a rematch.” My battered pride speaks.
“You will have it, but before you get one, you need to know all available weaponry during that time. It’s time to”—she frowns, searching for the right expression, and I don’t dare hand it to her—“up to your game.”
Good enough, I decide, as she batters another metaphor. A translation trait I find fucking adorable.
“Oh, I’ll bring my game up,” I say, wanting to dissolve into the floor.
Go home, Jennings, and jerk this out of your system!
“I will start a new war soon. I don’t want to ruin your Christmas.”
“Oh, I think you do, which is not very Christian. So, what’s the name of this one?”
She gifts me a rare, full smile. “You have to wait and see.”
“Looking forward to it.”
On a few occasions, I’ve peeked through the sliding glass back door after lights-out to see her latest setup and have spent entire days at school coming up with the right tactics to counter her. Then spending the rest of that time mangling pen caps while recalling new details that have nothing to do with our game.
Never going to happen, Jennings. Stop fixating.
“And”—she sips her coffee—“add two miles to your current run.”
“Shit,” I grumble. “Do you have any good news? Am I at least promoted to private first class?”
“After only weeks? No chance,” she replies, not budging an inch. “How is your breathing?”
“Good, I’m getting there. It’s been hard to concentrate lately.”
When we’re not playing, she spends our time teaching me the ins and outs of what I now know is flat space—temporary emotional suppression. A state I’ve since coined pocketing.
The state is temporary because I have no intention of shelving my emotions entirely or trying to forget any part of my experiences. I know better, and doing so could make me a prime candidate for PTSD. Because of that, I’ve declared my own mind a testing lab. It might be an unrealistic ambition, but then again, the education I’m drawing from Mom’s psychology books has convinced me that the mind is a fucking magical thing.
“One sip,” she says, offering the coffee she thinks I’m eyeing, thankful she has no idea I’m fixed on the divot at her throat.
She doesn’t bother to hide her smirk when I sip the black tar I accepted, stifling a gag as I swallow it down. “This is fucking terrible.”
“Dom likes it strong.”
“Strong is one thing. This tastes like . . . God, aren’t the French known for having the best coffee?”
“That is a luxury,” she quips, lifting her free hand to indicate the state of the house. “Does it look like I can afford such luxuries?”
I deposit her cup on the counter. “So, then change your circumstances.”
“So easy,” she scoffs, silver-glazed eyes flaring with warning. “You’re arrogant.”
“Yeah, maybe it’s my youth talking,” I declare dryly while staring back just as intently.
She ‘hmm’s in agreement, her eyes laser-focused on mine for the second time in minutes as I hope, in vain, for once she doesn’t see the naïve, round-eyed kid she met years ago. Or even the boy she started drilling into recently, though I know it’s a lost cause.
“I got you this.” I lift the gift bag.
“Today is not Christmas.”
“I’m aware. Think of it as a thank you . . . for helping me.”
She eyes the bag as if it’s shit before a flicker of something crosses her expression. “What is it?”
“Kind of the point of the gift-giving part and the packaging.”
The slight lift of her lips brightens the dismal yellow kitchen bulb lighting the space. She grabs the bag and lifts the tissue paper before pulling the tin and shrink-wrapped movies out.
“Didn’t know if you’d seen them, but since Dom got a DVD player, I thought . . .” I shrug, having no idea where I was going with it.
She frowns at the movies as if figuring out a puzzle, her mouth opening and moving as if she’s about to read aloud before her eyes bulge. “Star Wars?”
“Yeah, these are the first two. They are prequels to the original three movies.”
“Prequels?”
“They take place before Luke and Leia. It’s the story of Darth Vader.”
Her eyes light up with intrigue as she eyes the movies, and I take in her expression as a reward.
“Have you watched?” she asks, taken aback by her gift, which further warms my insides while gutting me. She clearly hasn’t been given much in her life, which becomes more painfully apparent by the way she’s reacting to such a small gesture.
“Yeah, but I’ll watch them with you if you want.”
“Peanut brittle,” she whispers, studying the tin before lifting her spoon-colored eyes to mine. “How did you know?”
“You used to have a tin of it next to your coffee pot. I took a guess.”
“You guessed well,” she says softly, her expression just as tender, “it’s my favorite treat.” She cradles the movies and tin to her chest, her whisper sincere. “Merci, Tyler.”
“Welcome,” I say before tossing a thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to . . .”
She waves a hand in dismissal but gifts me a rare smile as she does this. And fuck how that small reception feels like a big one inside of me. Thankful that went better than I hoped, it’s when I’m a few strides away that I get the inkling to look back at her. For the first time in our time together, I see her curiously staring after me. When her eyes immediately drop, I bite back a smile and continue down the hall, refusing to read anything into it.
At Dom’s bedroom door, a single knock with my knuckles has me opening it to catch a glimpse of Dom . . . enthusiastically pounding into Ginger. Upon discovery, my presence is acknowledged by her screech when she catches sight of me as a smug grin stretches across Dom’s face. He shields her with his body as I swiftly slam myself back on the other side.
“You fucking idiot,” I scold, keeping my voice low, “you could have told me you were tied up when I texted.”
“We’re saving the rope for next time,” Dom grunts, his words meant for the girl he shamelessly hasn’t stopped driving into. “Aren’t we, baby?”
As of late, and with our collective home lives a wreck, fucking seems to be the most prominent thing on all our minds. Sex that would probably be more of an escape for me if my fantasies weren’t quickly becoming riddled by an off-limits woman twelve years my senior.
“I’ll meet you at the garage. One hour,” I snap, “or I’m leaving.”
My reply is a faint moan from Ginger before I stalk back down the hall, meeting Delphine at the end of it.
“Might want to spare yourself,” I say, heat creeping up my neck due to the fucked position my brother just put me in. “Dom’s not alone.”
“I’m aware,” she says, moving to push past me.
I lightly clamp her arm to stop her. “Delphine, you really don’t want to go back there right now. They’re not studying for Dom’s next spelling bee.”
“Oh,” she says softly, indecision in her expression as she stares at the closed door just as Cypress Hill starts to bump through the entire house.
Classy, Dom.
“He’s growing up, Delphine. We all are,” I reiterate, a little too emphatically, knowing it’s pointless. Even as I try to drill that truth in, my discipline slips slightly as I take her in up close. Which proves to be a mistake. At this distance, she’s positively radiant. Even dressed in an outdated robe, with no makeup and her onyx hair twisted in a simple braid, all I can seem to do is fucking want.
Kick rocks, Jennings. She’s off-limits.
So, like yesterday and the day before, I chalk it up to curiosity and one-sided physical attraction. To wanting what I can’t and, more importantly, shouldn’t have.
Even if there was a slight curiosity in her gaze minutes ago, it’s a scarcity I’ll likely never glimpse again, and it sure as hell wasn’t sexual in nature. She’s never, not once, looked at me like that and won’t.
But as I stare back at her at the foot of the hallway—as Dom serenades Ginger with Cypress Hill—thrust in the most inappropriate and uncomfortable fucking situation imaginable, my thoughts start to go just as incongruous.
“He’s not stupid, not in that respect,” she credits Dom.
“You know, it might mean something if you gave him that backhanded compliment directly.”
“Backhand compliment?”
I grin. “A sarcastic compliment.”
“Oh,” she says, her full lips lifting slightly even as her eyes dim. “He stopped listening to me when Ezekiel left.”
“I see you trying, Delphine.” I shift to face her, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall as she takes a distancing step back. “He’s noticed. He’s just got a lot to get over.”
She gives me the slightest dip of her chin, her expression dimming further.
“I’m not saying this to guilt you, but he has noticed.”
This seems to pique her interest, adding a glimmer of hope to her eyes. “You have talked to him about this?”
“Very briefly, but yes. Thing is, you don’t or really shouldn’t try to lecture Dom about anything,” I tell her. “He gets that enough from Tobias. If you truly want his audience, question him, ask for his opinion. He’ll likely speak up then.”
She scrutinizes me. “Have you always been so observant of people?”
“Not until”—I briefly drop my gaze—“let’s just say I got a wake-up call from one of the closest people to me when I found out I didn’t know them at all.”
“Your father,” she supplies, not at all a question, but I nod anyway.
“It’s unfortunate that we have this in common, Tyler.” She holds her words briefly as if deciding whether the disclosure is worth it. “But this gift of observation will get you far with your soldiering. Though, I’m sorry for this for you, I, too, observe people and hear things in passing.”
“Because you both look and listen for them,” I counter, calling her out. It’s one of the traits I’ve learned is practiced by those who suffer from trauma. They are often the ones to analyze people closest to them, forever looking for and expecting bad things to happen. It’s a trait we share—another commonality that I don’t put a voice to. Can’t put a voice to because she’s unaware I’m privy to some of the trauma caused by her ex-husband. “Tell you a secret?”
She nods.
“I look and listen, too.”
She tilts her head, examining me. That look again—as if she’s considering me, her eyes searching. I stare right back for an entirely different reason.
Get the fuck out before you embarrass yourself, Jennings.
I repeat this to myself as I slip past her, whispering a quick “I’m going to take off. Night, Delphine.”
She nods.
Exiting the house, I bounce off my sneakers to start my nightly run toward the garage while trying to shake off the self-sabotaging thoughts invading me, knowing full well she’s not going to give me a second thought tonight. That I’m utterly alone with the want starting to fester inside me. And so, I do my best to burn it off as I speed straight into the freezing wind.
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