Page 38 of Severed Heart

“But they do still hang from the trees,” Tyler inserts, an obvious attempt to cut the tension—a tactic Sean also often uses when Dom is in one of his moods. Moods he refuses to allow anyone to overlook, especially me.

“While this looksriveting,” Dom spouts, “I’ll leave you to it.” He turns to Tyler. “Give me a ride to the library?”

“Sorry, man, Mom’s using the van tonight,” Tyler replies, lowering his eyes, his lie detectable even as he checks his watch. “Library’s closing soon anyway—” Tyler cuts himself off, and I glance over to see it’s because of Dom’s hostile return expression.

I hold my eye roll and unpackage more soldiers as they silently communicate behind my back as if I’m dense enough not to know the library is not Dom’s true destination.

This is only confirmed when Dom opens a cabinet and grabs a box of cereal bars and a large bag of chips. I say nothing about the fact that he’s packing groceries and haven’t since Dom unleashed his wrath on me not long after Ezekiel left.

“Just because you eat the minimum piece of toast at 2a.m. to make sure you don’t dull too much of your buzz doesn’t mean no one else in the house needs to fucking eat!”

He slammed his bedroom door in my face just after, his venom-filled“selfish bitch”carrying through the barrier before he clicked on his stereo to mute any reply I might have.

Since that night, I have not allowed the cabinets to go bare, making sure there is something for him to easily cook and eat. The hours I spent in the bath with my bottle that night were some of my worst. My biased memory refuses to allow me to forget that night or any other in which I am reminded of my failure with my nephews.

“I hate her.”

“Shh, Dom, she’ll hear you,” Tobias scolds.

“I don’t care. I hate her. I hope she dies.”

Their hushed whispers from years ago fill my ears as I watch Dom gather and pack more food. Where he brings his small bounties to or to whom remains a mystery.

“I could drive you,” I offer, just as he turns to reply toTyler.

“All good. See you tomorrow, man.”

“It’s no trouble for me to drive you,” I call after him as he stalks toward the front door.

“Play with your little plastic soldiers, Tatie,” he scoffs, “I’d rather not have the fucking town drunk chauffeuring me.”

His insult reaches me just as he slams the storm door behind him so hard that both Tyler and I flinch.

Fury fills me as I take a step toward the front door and still myself, fighting both my will and tongue not to go after him. The same battle I’ve been in for years since his brother’s departure. It’s Ezekiel’s parting words before he left for France that continually stop me.

“Treat him well. He’s immune to you now. Things won’t change overnight, but if you remain the same, he’ll fall in line. Do this, and you will have earned my trust.”

Five long years later, I still have not managed to gain an inch of ground to stand on where Jean Dominic is concerned. That truth more evident than ever as his contemptuous parting words linger in the house.

“Inever drivewhen I drink,” I tell Tyler, who’s staring at the ground between us, his posture tense. “That is a lie, Tyler,” I insist.

Tyler’s eyes shoot to mine in search as if he wants to believe my words as mortification heats my neck and cheeks.

“Turn on some music,” I order Tyler to divert his probing gaze as the burning increases. “Classical only.” I nod toward the radio sitting on the kitchen counter next to my canisters.

“On it,” Tyler says, walking into the kitchen as I turn back to the table full of soldiers. Humiliation continues to batter me and has me calling out another order as Tyler shuffles through a few radio stations.

“Divide each of our battalions intothree hundred,” I instruct, snatching my bottle from the counter. “I will be back.”

“Will do,” he replies, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Prepare yourself, private. You are going to war,” I call over my shoulder with false bravado, racing toward my bedroom. Bracing myself against the closed door, I bite into my forearm, releasing my idle tears, the relief slight and fleeting as I muffle my cries while focusing on the pain.

After several paralyzing minutes, I decide on a quick scrub to attempt to take some of the lingering sting away.

Turning on the faucet, I set the water temperature to as hot as I can tolerate and unscrew my bottle, taking several mouthfuls of drink. With my focus fixed on the flow of water from the jagged faucet, mixed whispers traverse back to me.

“I wish she would die.”