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  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 18
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 18

SPRING 2005
THE FIRST HINTS of spring perfume the air as I stalk toward Dom’s driveway, cooling down from my latest run. Inhaling deeply, I fill my nose as Delphine spots me walking up the drive.
“Tyler, come!” Approaching, I find her rooting around in the trunk of her open sedan, which is brimming with baskets of flowers and porch plants.
“Look!” Delphine turns back to me, dressed in a thin-strapped dark red sundress. Her long onyx hair styled in her usual braid over one of her shoulders. It’s the sight of her dressed in something other than her robe, along with the genuine smile she flashes toward me, that has me stopping short of reaching her.
It seems the last few months have been a little transformative for us both. After a grueling winter in which we spent a lot of time animatedly playing Battalion on her good days, we’ve managed to find a way to work together around the bad. Sometimes, in amicable, oddly comfortable silence. Each of us sorting through our own individual shit.
Even during the weeks the clouds refused to part, Delphine became more and more participatory—more of a presence in the house rather than hiding in the shadows with her bottle. Only taking long absences after a bad day.
Thinking on it now as I watch her dig through her trunk, I can’t remember the last time any of us have scraped her from any surface of the house or lawn to usher her to bed.
Though forever volatile and no less dependent on vodka than when we started, she seems to be slowly blooming along with the season. The changes in her so far have been subtle but are starting to add up as I study her. Having traded in her dingy robe and winter staple, it’s easy to see she’s added a little healthy weight, which only enhances her curves.
Now, in the bright light of day, under the sun’s rays, she’s fucking flawless. Today, she made a real effort in her appearance, which is impossible to ignore. So much so, I force myself to rip my eyes away from her dark, wine-painted lips.
“Need some help?” I ask, my recovery too slow in execution as a slight tension fills the open air between us, and her eyes drop. It’s then I know I’ve done it again. After months of one-on-one sessions at her kitchen table, it’s clear to me by now that she hates any lingering attention from any male eye—especially if it’s appreciative in nature.
The problem is, as of late, I can’t fucking stop taking in her details. Dozens of chewed pen caps during class are a testament to the little things I’ve memorized so far. Her metal gray eyes are the most startling in contrast with her dark lashes and olive skin, which is already starting to tint from exposure to the sun.
“I got all of this on sale,” she pipes before producing a ripe watermelon from the trunk and thrusting it toward me. “Fresh melon! I thought it would be a good treat!”
I can’t help but grin at her ancient verbiage delivery choice or her excitement. Her expression is so fucking endearing as she searches my own for approval.
“Love fresh melon,” I say as she turns back to sort her haul, while I take the few steps toward her that separate us.
“Me too!” she shouts as I hover mere inches behind her, thankful she can’t see my answering grin. There’s an innocence about her that I swear to Christ no one sees. Truth is, no one is looking due to her flip-switch behavior and tantrums.
At this point, I can’t really blame Dom for not looking after years of witnessing and enduring her self-sabotage. If we hadn’t just spent the last seven months in each other’s company, I might have missed it too.
“The plants are beautiful, non?” she asks, gathering another melon in her arms as I quickly divert my attention to it.
“Yeah,” I agree, finding it utterly ironic that ripe fruit and plants bring her so much joy. She’s such tough company to impress otherwise. Following her up the drive to the porch, I muse at her animation as she talks a mile a minute about her short expedition to the farmer’s market.
It’s when we both spot Dom in the kitchen, mug in hand and reading the paper, that I feel the instant shift in the air and Delphine’s brief hesitation—as if we just entered a room with her parent inside.
Her eyes do a quick, indecisive sweep over Dom before she speaks up, mustering some of her enthusiasm.
“Dom,” she calls, presenting the watermelon, “I found this at the farmer’s market. Look!”
Dom doesn’t so much as spare a glance at her prized fruit. “Kudos, Tatie, you found produce at the market. Will you be as excited if you find cars in a parking lot?”
That snub is felt by both of us as she turns and silently washes the melon before pulling out a knife to slice it. Her eyes are cast down as she addresses me.
“Tyler, will you put the rest of the plants on the porch?” Her tone is now void of the life it had seconds before, and I inwardly curse as I glare at Dom’s profile.
“Sure,” I agree easily, just as Dom looks up, giving me an eye roll. One I don’t acknowledge. He wants me to condone his inhumane treatment of her, but as of late, it’s starting to grate on me. He’s only vaguely aware that her ex-husband brutally terrorized her in this very fucking house, and only because I told him.
Memories I’m sure she often needs to clear her mind of. The shake in her hands and certain sounds jarring her at times, telling me when she’s triggered. I’m just not sure exactly by what, yet, having only snuck in a handful of the letters between her and Celine.
Her triggers are so fucking textbook that I’m surprised Dom hasn’t taken notice while at the same time knowing exactly why—resentment. This makes me a bit of a hypocrite because I refuse to acknowledge any effort Dad makes on his rare good days. But unlike Dad, Delphine doesn’t falsify reality on her good days the way Carter Jennings does, pretending like he isn’t the source of the tension in our house. While my dad now expects acknowledgment for completing old responsibilities he previously ignored, Delphine merely tries to make up for her wrongs, hoping for forgiveness and some semblance of a relationship—not demanding it.
“Come help me,” I tell Dom, sidling up to him where he’s perched at the counter.
“Busy.” He lifts the paper, shutting down a conversation between us that he knows will end with a reprimand from me.
“Two wrongs don’t make things right, asshole,” I interject anyway, bumping his shoulder before I head to her car.
“Neither does your little hard-on,” he relays cooly before snapping his paper. A quip I ignore because it’s bullshit, and he knows it. Despite me taking notice of how beautiful his aunt is, there’s nothing remotely inappropriate happening between us, and he’s aware of that. Especially when we encourage him to join us during every game of Battle, and I invite him on my runs.
It’s when I step back into the house that I see the full crack in Delphine’s exterior as she unscrews her pint two hours before her usual first drink of the night.
At the sight of it, and for the first time since Dom and I became friends, I resent his fuck-all disposition and fail to find the humor in his brutal delivery.
Not your business, Jennings.
Not long after, Dom leaves for the library. It’s as I sit at the table to contemplate my next move that Delphine approaches, hesitating with what looks to be a sketchbook in her hand.
“More to memorize?” I ask, grinning up at her. “You’re relentless, General.”
“Not exactly.”
“What’s got you so nervous?” I frown at her finger-whitening grip on the book.
“I’m not nervous,” she snaps defensively, and I catch the instant flash of regret in her eyes due to her harsh delivery. “Non,” she dismisses, a slight blush ghosting her cheeks and neck, “some other time.”
“Come on,” I prompt, stopping her with my hand on the book, careful not to touch her. “Let me see.”
Biting her plump lower lip, she studies me for sincere interest before setting the book in front of me. Opening it, I start to flip through the pages.
“The true genius of any strategist,” she relays, “lies within the surprise.”
“These are yours?” I ask, running my finger over one of the drawings.
“Hmm.” She nods, a little pride-filled smile playing on her lips as I scan the penciled, heavily shaded artwork.
“Delphine, this is really, really fucking good,” I tell her honestly.
She shrugs.
“It is just . . .” She pauses, searching for the words, which she does often. “Rough.” She nods. “Rough draftings.”
I don’t correct her, other than her downplaying her effort.
“You put real time into these.” I examine some of her battle formations. “And a hell of a lot of thought.” I point to a few on the page. “It shows.”
In the last few weeks, we’ve gone forward and backward on the battles fought by expert strategists and legends, namely Alexander the Great and Napoleon, including the details of their private lives. Delphine is adamant that all aspects of an enemy—including knowing the ins and outs of how they conduct themselves personally—will give some advantage.
I don’t disagree, which is why I continue to educate myself with my mom’s psychology books.
Despite Dom’s best efforts to destroy her mood today, her optimism slowly starts to shift back as I flip through the book. From the way she speaks to me, it’s as if she’s been waiting for years to tell me these things. The more we talk, the more attentive and receptive I am, the more animated she becomes, and I don’t credit her swallows of Smirnoff for it. Her enthusiasm for this isn’t at all vodka-fabricated, and it’s evident the more we discuss each page.
“How long have you been doing these?” I ask, noting that a few pages are less defined and sloppier in execution, as are her notes next to them—the handwriting like night and day. The deterioration, I suspect, is due to her drinking. Guilt threatens at the thought just before she confirms it.
“For many years,” she relays, avoiding my eyes, “since before I came from France.”
“And when was that?” I flip another page.
“When I was young. Younger than you are now.”
I haven’t probed into her past yet. It always felt like those questions were off the table, but I can’t help but ask one.
“Why did you leave France?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Why all come to the States.”
“The American Dream,” I utter, my tone indicative that I’m not buying it as I table it figuratively and literally for a different time.
“You know,” I tell her as she glances over to me. “I’ve never met a woman—even those in my military family—who is so fascinated by all facets of war and, more notably, the brazen and brave acts of historical figures.”
“True history is too often ignored, Tyler. Far more stories than those selected for history books. Tales of unsinged heroes who deserve recognition.”
I hold my smirk at her misspoken verbiage.
“There was a woman who was part of the French resistance in World War Two who was instrumental in helping to keep the Germans from reclaiming a stronghold in Paris. She’s barely mentioned, and her efforts were many. Her acts those of a very brave, fed-up street soldier. It’s soldiers like that who I admire most and respect.” She smiles. “This is the type of soldier Ezekiel is and that you, Sean, and Dom will become.”
“I hope so,” I say.
“No need to hope. When Ezekiel left, I saw it in his eyes. The determination to do, not say. I see it in Jean Dominic. I also see it in you.”
“You know they don’t go by their birth names, right?”
She smiles. “That’s why I use them.”
“To piss them off?”
“No, because I named them.”
“What?” I ask, shocked by the disclosure.
She nods. “I named them both. It was my”—she pauses—“my privilege Celine gave for being aunt.”
“Do they know this?”
“No, I don’t want to give them more of a reason not to use their names . . . Ezekiel means ‘strength of God,’ and Jean means ‘God’s grace.’”
We stare off for a long second before collectively bursting into laughter.
“Dom’s namesake doesn’t quite suit,” I cackle.
“He will grow into it.” She beams back at me. “He’s still young but very much has his mother’s heart.”
My chuckle slows as a flicker passes over her features, one I know is thanks to the subject himself. It’s her expression that has me fighting myself to keep my oath—that other’s personal relationships are none of my fucking business. Something I know will serve me well.
“He’ll grow out of that, too,” I assure her, and she waves her hand, ending the discussion. Within a matter of minutes, we’re back studying the tactics of Alexander the Great.
As she speaks, I can’t help but marvel at her. So much of what’s inside this woman’s head astounds me, and more so that all of this time, I sought my father’s advice when I had her intelligence within reach. Tobias has been stressing to Dom, Sean, and me that Delphine’s wisdom knows no bounds and that all three of us could benefit from her, but thus far, I’m still the only one paying attention.
The fact that she is so fucking smart, not to mention capable, and daily chooses to drink that value away, abusing herself by the bottle, both saddens and frustrates me. In those times, I remember my place and never push her too hard.
“Mindset and stamina are key, private,” she continues, as the soft skin of her arm brushes my bicep before a light, musky scent fills my nose. It’s rich but not too overpowering, and I find myself inhaling it again when she brushes against me to point out part of an old sketch. That slight brush has my spine tightening with awareness—one I’ve done my best to ignore for months.
Though I’m positive she’s nothing I should want. If she, for one second, entertained a small amount of the attraction I have brewing for her, she might one—toy with me, two—outright reject me. Either way, fucking with my head and heart in a way I know I won’t be easily resilient to. Even so, I’m quickly finding all parts of me wanting all parts of her—especially the broken ones.
But my psyche—who’s currently tossing out red flags—doesn’t give a damn about any of these forming opinions or observations. My cock doesn’t either. This is only confirmed a second later when my mind goes blank because I’m hard.
Rock fucking hard.
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