1. Novel

  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 39
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 39

OPENING MY EYES due to the sun rays heating my back through the blinds and the screaming of my bladder, I’m met by the sight of Tyler, who sleeps soundly facing me.
Aside from the dog tags hanging limply from his neck, he’s bare from the waist up, the sheet draped along his hip. Inching my head back on my pillow to gain more view, I do my best not to disturb the light grip of his palm on my hip—one that indicates he must have reached for me in the night. As awful as I feel, I can’t help but appreciate and soak in every detail of the man lying next to me.
My beautiful boy, my soldier, came back all man. A man with very few signs of the boy who left. One of those signs being very faint freckles on the bridge of his nose ending at the edge of each of his cheeks. His ridiculously long, curled lashes grab several seconds of my admiration, thick dark brows complimenting his complexion and bone structure. The dimple in his jaw now seems etched, especially now that it’s covered in light stubble and stays present without animation. His slightly parted, full lips, which are taking shallow breaths, are tinted dark pink. The look of them is so soft. The remembrance of their touch is so powerful that I can easily recall the physical feel of them— the feel of all of him. A night even my treacherous mind refuses to let me forget. It wasn’t at all a boy who took my body that night. It was a preview of the man lying in front of me now, utterly captivating me.
From the waist up, his sun-tinted skin is covered in nothing but deeply defined muscle. His brown hair looks darker now, neatly trimmed on the sides. Only a few inches long, the top trimmed off, just where there used to be a slight curl. I loved that curl.
Tyler, as a boy, was so beautiful, but the man who took his place has done nothing but continually take my breath away since he appeared at my door. My fingers itch to palm his jaw, to touch any part of him, though I no longer have any right to take such liberties.
It’s then that his words from days ago still my itching, eager fingers. His declaration of what love remains for me is limited to that of friends—something I will have to accept as much as it pains me. But for any time with him, I will force myself to try to understand. His declaration that he needed me would have to hold me. His healing will be my priority, as he has made mine his. My screaming bladder doesn’t allow me to contemplate anything further as it reminds me of why I woke.
It’s as I come further to consciousness that I remember his confession and barely manage to keep myself still as the shock again filters in.
He killed Alain.
Hunted him—something I can’t fathom processing now. So, I don’t, and instead, concentrate on soaking in as much of my soldier as I can as he sleeps. Even as my bladder demands relief, I sweep him thoroughly, my eyes catching on the tattoo etched into his heavily defined pectoral—a tattoo I first caught a glimpse of when he lifted his shirt to wipe his brow while cleaning my kitchen. One I had assumed was Marine in nature, but it does not look so much now upon closer inspection. Circular in shape, a very menacing-looking skull with only the top jaw lies atop crossbones, surrounded by a perfectly symmetrical cross, but not quite a cross. All four extensions are the same length, the edges of each ending in a T-shape—the top of the skull surrounded by a half circle made up of six stars. The lower part of the half-circle consisting of three sets of Roman numerals. The more I examine it, the more I realize nothing about this tattoo looks Marine.
Where has my soldier been? As if sensing my question, he stirs.
“Morning, General,” he rumbles in a sleep-filled voice before opening his gorgeous brown eyes, “what do you need?”
“I have to pee,” I admit with a wince. “Very badly.”
“Okay, let’s go,” he says, standing bedside within a blink. The act of simply standing daunts me, hair damp and clumped in sweaty heaps. In short, I feel disgusting. Inside just as bad. Temporarily ignoring the strange feeling of sobriety that I haven’t experienced fully in years, the lingering sedatives are not enough to hold my building insecurity as I voice my next concern.
“Soldier, I need to pee and shower.”
He nods, brows drawing as I give him wide eyes. “So, can we maybe call the nurse back?”
“I’m your nurse,” he declares, and I give him a pleading look.
“What? You prefer blondes?” He winks, and I grimace in return.
“I prefer a woman,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t want you to see me—”
“Pee?” he spouts through thick lips. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“I can call her back, but I don’t want to. Can we try it my way?” He gives me stupid adorable puppy eyes with his request, his lashes so damned long it enhances his beg. “Just for today?”
Bladder screaming, I have no choice but to nod. In an instant, he sweeps me into his arms, and I yelp in surprise before he deposits both me and my IV in front of the toilet with ease before closing the door behind him. I stand stunned at the efficiency with which he did it as my bladder says time’s up. Just as I go to lower my pajama pants, the door pops open, and I jerk back as his hand appears, blindly searching for the faucet before he twists the knob on the sink so that the water flows as he speaks. “In case you get stage fright and need some help finding your flow.”
Laughter erupts from me before the door closes again—crazy, stupid, beautiful boy, but not a boy. Surprising myself, I manage to do my business easily and flush the toilet. Just after, Tyler knocks twice before popping open the door as I pull up my pants. “No, no, I’m going to shower now.”
“Delphine, you’re too weak to do it alone.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Liar,” he spouts, opening the door a little wider, his eyes holding mine in a demand to help. The look inside them is more intent and . . . indifferent? Maybe a look I deserve, but one that stings. Familiar guilt starts to eat at me as he steps in to stand in front of me.
“There’s got to be a way, alone,” I say, my brain proving useless as I try to find a solution and come up empty.
“Yeah, it’s called I’ve been inside you and licked every inch of your body.” He shrugs. “So, since when did you become a French monk?”
My eyes bulge at his candor. “This is—”
“You’re sick. You’re too thin. You’re coming down from twenty years of alcoholism. You’re embarrassed. I get it, and I can admit I’m scared of fucking this up, so . . . let’s just be human and honest about it, all right?”
His blunt delivery puts me somewhat at ease, and I nod.
“I’m going to take your pants and panties down,” he relays.
“I can take my pants—”
He keeps his gaze on mine and slides my pants and panties down, and I instantly cover my naked crotch with my hand as my neck heats. “God, I know I stink.”
“You do,” he chuckles. “Actually, you reek.”
“Connard,” I mumble, feeling shaky on my legs, fatigued already as sweat gathers at my temple.
“Talk to me, General,” he coaxes, sensing the change in me as he unbuttons my pajama top.
“Just, very weak. How long has it been?”
“Five days.”
“Five days?” I repeat, having lost count of them somewhere.
“It’s going to take a while longer, maybe a few more weeks, to feel somewhat normal, but I think it’s safe to say at this point you did it,” he says, gently getting my top free from my IV. Now utterly bare, he keeps his eyes on mine, turning and placing my hands on his shoulders for support before turning to start the shower.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Like I look,” I counter.
“I mean inside,” he whispers as he palms the water to test the temperature as my eyes roll down the perfection in front of me.
“I’m—” My words die as I continue to feast on him. Before me stands a man in his prime, every part of him cut muscle and tanned flesh. His rippling skin is heaven beneath my palms. So virile and alive, I can’t help but voice it.
“Tyler,” I rasp out, “you are so beautiful.” I caress his shoulders as he turns back to me, his expression pinched as his long exhale tickles my nose and chin.
“Appreciate the compliment, but that’s not how you feel,” he drawls.
“I feel so much right now, but I’m so very happy you are here,” I admit honestly.
“Me too,” he utters before palming my naked hips and sighing. “In the spirit of keeping things honest, I can’t help what might or might not happen down below, okay? So, if you get an accidental cock salute, General, we’re going to ignore it.”
I bite my smile and nod, the fatigue already setting in as he gently guides me over the top of the tub and under the shower without tangling my IV.
“Tell me if at any second you feel faint,” he orders.
I nod again, feeling useless, as he places my palms on his shoulders and quickly begins to lather my hair. We both stand beneath the stream for long seconds, the feel of his fingers heaven as the coconut scent fills the air.
“I’m not going to make you talk to me,” he finally speaks, keeping his eyes intent on his task, “but I’ve got both ears open for whatever you feel up to discussing.”
I train my eyes between his pronounced pectoral muscles and the deeply inked tattoo etched into one before lowering my palm over it.
“I was looking at this when I woke. What does this stand for?” I ask, tracing the skull and Roman numerals. “I thought it was a Marine tattoo, but it does not look Marine.”
“You truly don’t know?” he asks, genuinely surprised as he scrubs my scalp.
“I’m not as up to date as I once was.”
“You?” He quirks a skeptical brow.
I shake my head.
“Huh . . . well, it stands for Global Response Staff or the GRS. The numerals represent each letter’s numeric place in the alphabet.” He grips my pointer, bringing it to the first set of Roman numerals. “G,” then moves it to the second, “R.” I glance up at him as he moves it to the third set. “S.”
He releases my finger as I keep my palm on the tattoo, running my hand over it. His eyes keep and hold mine as a few seconds tick by before he grabs the loofah hanging from my plastic shelf.
“Soap?” he asks, sorting through the bottles behind me.
“Gold and white bottle,” I answer absently, entranced while gently tracing his tattoo before his eyes dip to mine. The look in them reading dull? Bored? Irritated? As his nostrils flare in . . . annoyance? Anger? “So, not a Marine tattoo?”
“The opposite actually,” he says, wetting and roughing the loofah with soap to make suds, “it’s a lot like my raven tattoo. This”—he covers my palm briefly with his—“doesn’t exist.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s an alphabet operation outside of our government that uses experienced vets, the best of each branch of the military, to carry out missions that also don’t exist. I’ve done a hell of a lot of marching, General.”
My eyes widen. “You have faced so many battles, Soldier?”
“One too many,” he exhales, keeping my eyes as he drops the loofah and grabs my shampoo.
“So, you weren’t in the Marines all this time?”
“Yes and no. According to the United States, I’ve been a Marine for eight consecutive years and counting. Truth? I served my first four years in the Marines, two years and change in the GRS, and the rest in the reserves. No one knows the extent of it but Tobias, who I thought might have told you.”
“You didn’t tell Dom and Sean?”
“Jesus, we have a lot to talk about.” He massages my scalp with his fingers as he answers. “Yes and no. I gave them enough to hold them because there were long periods that I couldn’t contact home. And when I did, I kept it to a bare minimum because I didn’t want my boss at the time—who was in the CIA—catching wind of the club.”
“Tyler,” I gawk. “You worked for the CIA?”
“No, I worked for me,” he says, gently ushering me under the shower head to rinse, “as a contractor, under the guise that I was working for them. I was investigating the military, like I told you I would. I didn’t want our club on their radar, so while I was in, I didn’t come home and made very few calls. I’ve spent the last few years before this summer on a base in Greensboro. Now I’m here until I can secure an invitation to the secret service”—he resumes with my loofah—“or join Preston’s security detail, depending on which invite comes first.”
“You’ve been back many times to Triple Falls?”
“Many times,” he delivers like a blow. I bite my lip and nod, the anger just beneath his words muting any more questions as I drop my gaze.
“Hey,” he says, pulling my eyes back to his with his timbre alone.
“Let’s not start on a shitty note. I have so much to tell you, that is if you want to hear it,” he whispers, running the loofah gently over my back.
“I want to hear it all,” I say, catching his eyes trailing a little lower before he darts them to the side of the shower stall, all the while gently massaging the sponge along my body.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Soldier,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to thank you for doing this for me. For the lengths you have gone to, for . . .” My eyes fill. “I’m . . . I can’t believe all you have done for me after—”
His eyes pierce me deep, cutting the words I can’t yet summon but am determined to find. “I told you I don’t want anything in return, but if you really want to, then thank me by stealing your life back. By taking your future in your hands and living it the way you’ve always wanted to,” he says, gently scrubbing my skin. “And winning this fucking war, General.”
I nod in determination despite my fatigue. “I will fight hard, I promise. For you, and for me, Soldier. I will fucking fight so hard.”
His lips lift slightly. “I knew you were still in there.”
“I will admit I’ve been an imbecile for some time with my health, Soldier, but cancer is a fucking asshole. It is merciless.”
“Do you feel any better today?”
“I am tired and aching in places I forgot existed,” I sigh. “To be honest, it feels very strange right now to be sober.”
“When did you start day drinking?” he asks, gently scrubbing my stomach.
“Two years ago,” I admit. “It was a very bad time. Very bad. I was fed up with doctors and needles. With all of it, I had—” I shake my head. “I got tired of hoping.”
“Before you gave up?” he prods, and I bite my lips before I nod in a truthful reply.
“I was not ready to die but no longer wanted to fight. I no longer felt any reason to. I did not see or feel capable of whatever fight you saw in me when you came.”
He lifts my chin with his finger. “I’ve always seen it—you, Delphine.”
My eyes spill over. “I had not seen you in so long, Soldier, I forgot myself. I forgot the way you saw me, the way I was starting to see myself before you left. It’s my fault, I know, but it’s the truth.”
He stops his movements, anger radiating just beneath his skin, and in his return stare before he hands me the sponge. I take it as he turns his back, palming the tile in front of him so that I can comfortably clean myself intimately. Making quick work of it, I scour every inch of his insane build as I do. Once done, I drop the loofah and tentatively place my palms on his back, feeling him tense instantly before I press my forehead between his bulging blades.
“Soldier,” I rasp softly, running my hands from his shoulders, over the swollen curves of his biceps, and down to his muscular forearms. He emits a low curse when I slowly and appreciatively run my hands back up his arms, keeping them on his shoulders before I lean in, pressing a kiss to his skin before I speak. “Tyler, I—”
“Let’s get you out,” he clips before turning abruptly and staring down at me with barely concealed contempt as both of us ignore the very obvious cock salute in his boxers. “You ready?”
Stinging and desperate for a numbing sip, I nod.
Short minutes later, he’s pulling a clean T-shirt from his duffle over my head. The scent of fabric softener surrounds me as he sits me at the edge of my bed and starts to run a brush through my towel-dried hair. Exhausted, I’m barely able to keep upright. My limbs shaking with effort to remain where I am—to take in his gentle touch and tender brush strokes.
“I did not miss this fucking house,” he states. Glancing back, I watch his expression harden as he sweeps my bedroom until our gazes again meet and hold. He breaks contact, continuing to brush my hair. I briefly trail the water still running from his skin to the towel now wrapped around his waist.
“You must be so tired,” I utter, comforted by the feel of his hands.
“I’m fine,” he assures.
“I’ve done nothing but sleep and can’t even think.”
“You don’t have to think,” he states as I glance back at him. “In fact, you’re relieved of thinking until further notice.”
I latch my eyes to his as he continues.
“I’m going to tell you what to do, what to eat, and when to sleep. Don’t scowl at me.” His lips lift at my expression. “It’s simply to establish a new routine. One you know you need. You and me, we’re going to keep very busy. And tomorrow, you’re going to talk to someone.”
I tense as he turns my head gently to face forward and continues brushing. “You know my mother is a psychologist.”
“You can’t be serious,” I admonish as he keeps me facing forward.
“Dead serious, she’s the only one I trust,” he relays, continually running the brush.
“And you’re the only one I trust,” I tell him.
“Same, but this is different, Delphine.”
“You truly want me to tell your mother about myself? My life? My past and secrets, Tyler?”
“Why not?”
“Because she’ll know.” I bulge my eyes back at him.
“That you’ve been horribly wronged by life and shitty circumstances like every other human? Yes, she’ll know,” he says, easily straightening my head again as anxiety thrums through me.
“Tyler, this is not a good idea.”
“You said you trust me,” he reminds me with a sharp edge.
“I do, but therapy with your mother?” I shake my head. “My past is no one’s business.”
“Well, your way hasn’t worked in twenty years, so we’re going to try it my way . . . Just,” he sighs, “just talk to her, try to talk about what you hold so close. Besides, if you’re worried about anonymity, she’s required, by law, never to tell another soul.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Really,” he assures. “Not even me.”
I blow out a breath as his eyes beckon me to agree. “Fine. I’ll try.” I puff my cheeks with breath. “God, I fucking hate feeling so weak.”
“Right now, you’re anything but weak, Delphine. I swear to you.” He stops the brush. “Come on, let’s get you back in bed.”
“Pathetic,” I utter at the relief I feel once resting on the mattress, “that a shower took so much effort and energy.”
“You’ll get it back,” he assures, pulling some clothes from his duffle. “Will you be all right if I go change?”
I nod, watching as he retreats into Dom’s room. As he starts to close the door, my eyes begin to slip shut, but not before meeting his gaze briefly before he drops it. The truth becoming more evident that I’ve hurt my soldier in a way he may never forgive me for.
* * *
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Tyler whispers, running a finger along my cheek. Managing a smile despite the bone-deep ache and sweat on my brow, I open my eyes to see him sitting next to me on the mattress, fully dressed. The smell wafting from him is heavenly. He gestures for me to sit, and I lift to perch against my headboard. Tyler adjusts a pillow behind me for my comfort before handing me a steaming cup of broth. I thank him before glancing toward the blinds and realize it’s dark outside.
“I missed the sunset,” I utter mournfully.
“We’ll catch it tomorrow,” he assures as I sip the broth.
Behind his shoulder, I see a new TV set up on my tall dresser, and he follows my curious stare.
“I dug out your old DVD player. Star Wars is ready to play,” he says, lifting the remote from my nightstand to lay it within reach.
“You’re leaving?” I ask, hating how pathetic I sound.
“I should be back before the credits roll, but you can call me if you need me before I do.” He lifts my Sidekick from the nightstand. “Seriously?” He spouts incredulously that I haven’t replaced my phone.
“It still works,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes as he programs his new number in under “Soldier”—which makes me smile even as he condemns me. “Jesus, you’re cheap.”
“Not cheap,” I defend, “it works fine, so no need to waste money.”
“Hit play,” he says with a slight head shake, “and I’ll be right back.”
“Yes, yes, Soldier, I’m fine. Go.”
“Again, if you need me, call me from your dinosaur phone that’s being replaced as soon as possible.”
“A different battle for a different day, Soldier.” I raise a brow, to which he gives me a wink.
“I have missed that wink,” I say as he lingers in my doorway. “I have missed your winky face texts so much.”
It’s then I feel the mountain of words we haven’t spoken as his eyes drill into mine because of my sentiment and my part in the loss of them.
“I am so curious about your life,” I confess. “I’ve heard things, listened for them, but Dom left not long after you, and they only say so much when they do come or call.”
“Which is not often, I’m guessing.” He eyes me with concern.
“Dom takes me to and from treatment. He still checks in.”
“And T?”
“He calls every few weeks. But yes, I’m an obligation, Tyler.”
“They care,” he assures me.
“Not like you,” I whisper.
“No one cares like me,” he draws out, “but you’ve got to let other people in for that. This is the stuff my mom will help you work out. Okay?”
I nod, unable to help my question. “Are you sleeping here tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ll take Dom’s bed,” he states.
I nod quickly to mask my disappointment. Surely he has women to warm his bed, and knowing that, I can’t help but ask my question. “Do you have a girl?”
He lifts his brows, faint amusement tickling his lips where he remains in my doorway. “A girl?”
“You know what I’m asking. A girlfriend. Someone you see?”
“Well, it’s definitely not Cecelia I’m fucking,” he counters of my jealous slip the day he and Cecelia came to clean.
“I see,” I say, pulling the sheet up tightly to me and grabbing the remote. “Will she be very upset you are helping me?”
“Not sure,” he drawls playfully.
“This is serious. If I was your woman, the shower would make me very upset, Soldier. Very, very upset.”
He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorjamb. “Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t tell her.”
I shake my head adamantly. “You should probably not tell her, no.” I wince. “And maybe don’t tell her we fucked . . . before.”
“Welcome back, General Brash,” he chuckles, his dimple popping. “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me to lie to my woman?”
“Yes. She’ll be suspicious because of that, even if it was long ago, and it will only incite more suspicion. I want to respect her . . . but maybe keep her from that knowledge.” I widen my eyes. “Trust me, she will not understand.”
“I don’t know, I really like to be honest with my women,” he says playfully. “Any other advice?”
“Don’t be a connard,” I snap, tilting my head, knowing he’s enjoying this too much at my expense. “I’m fine.” I wave him off. “You can go. Spend the night with her if she needs the assurance,” I say, hating every word. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Yes,” I tell him instantly if only to numb the burn of my own jealousy.
“Then I’ll stop babysitting when you don’t.”
I nod. “Are you going to her tonight?”
“Not tonight,” he says, “no.”
“Tyler, do not ruin whatever you have for me.”
“I couldn’t,” he assures.
“Oh,” I say, darting my gaze around, wishing I hadn’t asked so many questions. “Well . . . that’s good.”
“Delphine,” he sighs.
“Hm?” I ask, slowly bringing my eyes back to his.
“I’m single.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t do girlfriends,” he says, palming the frame above him, biceps bulging.
“Okay,” I exhale in a shaky rush as I scour the look of him standing at my door, all too alluring. He looks so fucking good in simple jeans and a white fitted T-shirt. Such simple dress, but so mouthwatering. His tags somehow add so much to his appeal. He’s not only gorgeous, but he’s . . . fucking sexy. So fucking sexy.
“I’ve been in love once in my life,” he states, dumping cold water on my thoughts. “Didn’t work out.”
“Tyler—” I falter at his delivery.
“She said she would never love me back,” he delivers with such ease that I physically flinch. It takes me almost a full ten seconds to speak.
“And so, you left her for eight long years without a word,” I utter mournfully, hearing every second of those years in my voice as a tense silence follows before he breaks it.
“I’ll be back,” he says, releasing the jamb before rapping it lightly with his knuckles.
“Soldier,” I call after him just as he steps out of sight. He reappears a second later, the frozen screen lighting up his profile. “You have much to tell me?” I ask, and he slowly nods. “Will you tell me when you get back?”
“Not yet,” he whispers through the space.
“Then I will wait,” I tell him. “I am eager to hear it . . . when you are ready. But I want you to know I will always regret the words I—”
“I need to go, Delphine,” he says, cutting my apology abruptly. It’s then I know that no matter how close he gets, I’m very far from certain types of honesty. Honesty he’s so easily pulling from me, but honesty he seems to no longer want. Words I want so much to say die in my throat at his dismissal, but I give him some truth anyway.
“I hope you know I tried for you, too, Tyler,” I tell him. “Very hard. I did not drink during the day. At night, I would go longer and longer before I would sip—”
“Until you were triggered,” he finishes for me. “I know, Delphine.”
“I just want you to know that you knew me sober.”
“I do know,” he relays across the space, feeling as if it’s starting to widen from how intimate we were last night and this morning.
“Okay, I’m sorry to keep you. Go to your errand.”
“Do me a favor,” he asks.
“Anything,” I blurt like a lovesick fool.
“Try to watch the movie. You can start sorting out whatever you need to tomorrow morning, okay? Stay out of that dangerous place”—he taps his temple—“for a little while longer.”
“I will try,” I promise as he takes his leave, and I start the movie, knowing I will do anything he asks of me. It’s my heart that might not be agreeable to the distance he’s intent on keeping from his. This truth is evident as it pounds in the direction of his footfalls, following him out of the snap of the storm door and into his truck as it sparks to life, trailing him long after the rumble fades with his departure. Both pounding and aching heavily reminding me of the loss of his presence, of what that ache feels like as it has for eight unforgiving years.
Report chapter Comments
Tip: You can use left, right, A and D keyboard keys to browse between chapters.