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  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 7
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 7

US PRESIDENT: GEORGE BUSH | 1989–1993
FEELING THE HEAVY weight of a stare on my profile, I crush my cigarette into our large, overflowing marble ashtray and stand suddenly from the table. Without looking up, Alain stops me as I move past his chair with a palm on my hip. “Where are you going?”
“Make coffee,” I whisper low as Ormand glances over to me for the second time in mere minutes, his eyes lowering to Alain’s palm before floating back up to mine.
Alain sharply nods and releases me as I walk through the ever-present cloud of smoke while the arguments ensue over our kitchen table. Dreading the long hours ahead, I’m spooning coffee from the tin when I feel him approach.
“Your neck,” he whispers hoarsely. “Is he hurting you?” He asks in French, and I reply in our tongue, thankful that Ormand always makes it easy for me—whereas Alain often uses my limited English to humiliate me.
“It’s my marriage you’re asking about and none of your concern.”
“Not private when he marks you for us all to see,” he scolds.
The sound of Alain’s laughter allows me enough time to glance at Ormand, who I can’t deny is attractive. He’s taller than Alain and has lighter brown hair and kind eyes, but behind that kindness lies the capability of doing very unkind things for very good reasons. He’s been with Alain since they were young boys, which is where the last of his allegiance remains. It’s inside his eyes that I see that allegiance fading when I glimpse a look I’ve seen one too many times before. One I can’t seem to escape. “Don’t forget yourself, Ormand. I am Alain’s wife.”
“He keeps you a recluse when it’s not your nature,” he states, seemingly outraged for me. “He silences you when you have so much to offer.”
“He’s been a good friend to you, has he not? Friends since you were young children.”
“Things have changed, and he’s not the same.” He glances back toward the table to see Alain occupied before I feel his eyes tracing my face again. “Not since we got here. We’ve been talking.”
“Don’t speak of this to me,” I whisper harshly, more a plea as I fill the pot with water from the sink. “Don’t.”
“He’s becoming a directionless drunk. This is not what we came for. We believe you should start to run the meetings.”
“He is my husband,” I state in warning.
“You are unhappy. Any fool can see that.”
“He is not a fool,” I warn, “and he sees much,” I emphasize, pulling more cups from the cabinet to busy my hands. “Even things that aren’t real.”
“We could turn him into the American authorities to be sent back to France to face judgment for his crimes. No one has to know.”
“I will know,” I snap, looking over at him. “I will know. It’s still very early. He is adjusting to life here. Give him time.”
“He hurts you, quiets you, diminishes you, and you still love him?”
“He’s my husband,” I repeat as I have to myself so many times since I landed in America. “I am his only family. His papa—”
“That’s not an excuse. Delphine,” he whispers, and I brace myself for what’s coming. “You must sense by now I have—”
“Stop,” I whisper roughly. “He’s my family, we’re a family. You are part of that family.”
His eyes glaze over as I continue.
“Whatever you entertain in your mind about me is imagination.”
“I could never hurt you,” he murmurs. “I’m in love with you and have been since France, and I’m tired of pretending I’m not. Sometimes I feel you look at me too—”
“I am not worth losing your station or friendship with him,” I tell him. “The work you’re doing is important—”
“We won’t be with him much longer. Come with me.”
“What?”
“Let me take you away from here, from him. I plan to return to France. I have inherited my father’s land.”
“Delphine!” Alain snaps, and we both turn to face him. His eyes roam from me to Ormand before he lifts his glass in silent demand for more vodka.
“Coming,” I say, turning back, pouring a cup as the coffee still brewing drips, sizzling on the burner.
“You’re shaking,” Ormand says.
“You say you would never hurt me”—I swallow—“but who do you think pays for your long stares?” I glance over to see his eyes drop before he speaks.
“I only want to give you a better life.” When he turns his back, I stop him with my whisper.
“You give me a better life by staying.” I know he hears me when his shoulders draw tight. “Please don’t take this from him and don’t yet go back to France. He’s not well . . . but if we give him more time, maybe he can be the Alain we both love again.”
He turns back to me quickly. “You’re fooling yourself.”
“Please don’t go,” I ask him, knowing how selfish my request is. “Please understand, I can’t leave. Not now.”
His eyes implore mine. “But you will consider it?”
“Ormand,” Alain snaps, this time not looking up at either of us. Grabbing the vodka bottle from the fridge, I hear Ormand’s whisper as he passes. “I will stay as long as it takes.”
* * *
Celine,
It is time to admit I have been stubborn in writing this confession. As you predicted before I left France, I have made a horrible mistake. I’m sorry I was not honest until now. I wanted so much to believe in the dream I came for, but after enduring these last few months, I’m certain that that dream has died.
When I first arrived not long ago, my letters were truthful, and my happiness with Alain was real, but I can no longer deny that my life now feels more like a nightmare.
I used to think I was smart. So smart. That I was steps ahead of other women, but now I am making the very same mistakes of lovesick fools and living a life I refused to believe I would have for myself. All I feel is the need to get things right, to try to reason with and see the Alain I once knew, but I feel it may no longer be possible.
I’m quickly becoming convinced he brought me here to support and care for him. That I am nothing but a paycheck. Somehow, I know that he assumed that at my age, I would never put it together, that a child bride would never realize his manipulation, but you know that I cannot be deceived so easily. And yet I was because now I live the deception.
Since I’ve lost the baby, it is as if I’m living outside of myself, my mind and body. Am I paying because I never wanted it?
As I examine my bruises in the mirror, I find no trace of that fearless girl you spoke of before I left, and I no longer recognize myself.
I don’t know where the soldier in me went, but I feel like the longer I stay this way, the further from her I become. I don’t know why I’m letting him convince me of his lies, and each day, start to believe them as truth. As it stands, I cannot stop loving him, no matter how hard I try. And if I can love such a monster, what does that make me?
Why am I not worth loving, Celine? Why do the men I trust and care for with all my heart holds treat me so terribly? It is not just the men in my life. It is the women, too. What is it about me that tells people it is okay to insult and hurt me?
I know I am not a kind, gentle woman. I know this much of myself, and still, I’m treated as though I’m no one to be wary of and earn no respect.
My father threw me away, and my own husband hates me and considers me a possession.
Is love so much of a weakness, and that is why we make such fools of ourselves? I am drinking now—more than I ever have. I’m ashamed to admit that I drink before my shift some days.
Please write to me soon with word from France.
What of Marine and Francis?
What of my nephew, Ezekiel? Is he growing strong?
Please, Celine, teach him to be protective of you and of women so that he will never resemble the men we have so horribly chosen. Tell him there is so much strength and honor in treating women with respect and care. I’m ashamed and scared, and I’ve never felt so alone. Alain’s mind has taken a turn for the worse, and I fear his plans. His friends and allies are slowly losing faith, as am I.
Alain continues to take all my checks so I cannot escape him or travel home. What of your plans to come here? Am I holding onto false hope?
Could you visit? Maybe to remind me of who I was such a short time ago, and maybe I will do the same for you?
If you cannot come, please, for yourself and Ezekiel, do what I cannot and leave Abijah. Maybe if you do, I’ll find the strength to do the same. Please write back.
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