Page 88 of Severed Heart

Without thinking, I stalk in and easily lift her from where she sits and into my arms. Mixed mumbles pour from her lips, and I faintly make out a few of her whispered words as I search her for any signs he was aggressive with her.

“W-wrist and u-l-na . . .” she croaks in a delivery I can’t decipher, “d-damage t-to ... pipe ...will heal.” Her voice breaks on the last two words as if they’re a lie before her face crumples and a guttural sob escapes her.

Panicked by her state, I desperately search her, satisfied when I come up empty for fresh injury. It’s when I start walking with her that she seems to lift slightly from her stupor, relaxing in my hold only when she realizes who’s carrying her.

“Tyler.” She whispers my name in a dream-like lilt, which in any other circumstance would sound sublime coming from her perfect lips. She peers back at me with vodka-glazed eyes, a black smudge beneath one of them, her lipstick slightly smeared. My heart fractures at the image of her I’ve been replaying all night in contrast to her current state. Cradling her to me while trying to ignore the feel of her in my arms, I stare back at her, heart pounding, without any fucking idea of what to say.

As I take the hallway toward her room, she continues to keep her silver-gray gaze fixed on me, arms tightening around my neck as I walk her into her bedroom. Crimson threatens to snake into my vision as I eye the bed while crossing the threshold, finally getting my words out.

“Are you hurt?”

“Non ... that is not possible,” she declares defiantly, even in her weakened state. “Men cannot hurt me anymore.” She shakes her head as if the notion is laughable. “No man in my life has been worth the conflict they cause,” she spits icily. “Not one. Al—” She cuts herself off, refusing to say her ex-husband’s name. But I know it. All too fucking well now. A name branded into my psyche as well as my hatred for him.

Alain.

“This whole charade between men and women,” Delphine whispers, “this notion of true love,” she expels with disgust, her tone gathering a bitter strength as I stand at the edge of her bed while idling with her securely in my arms, “makes those who believe in it weak, pathetic fucking fools.”

“I can’t, at all, disagree with you for the moment,” the declaration spoken straight from said fool’s mouth as I gently deposit my weakness on her bed.

“Non?” she asks, staring up at me, eyes sweeping back and forth.

“Yeah, for the moment, I’m with you on that,” I say as she studies me closely. Forever searching, weighing words for truth. Trust issues seem a mild blanket statement in comparison to what she’s battling. And fuck how I want the trust to seek the rest of those answers. At this point, she’s become more than a person but rather a place I want to be, and I think that’s what bothers me most about the space she’s put between us.

Pulling the covers up to guard her modesty, I avert my eyes after glimpsing a peek of her quarter-sized, rose-colored nipples, holding my groan inward. Palming the sheet to her chest, she barks out a mocking laugh while pulling a cigarette out of a pack from her bedside table.

“You Americans and your modesty,” she scoffs. “Men and women should have no issue stating their desires, showing both passion in their words and allowing dominance in their lovemaking without restraint.”

“I’m also with you on that.” Grabbing her lighter, I spark up her cigarette before she has a chance to. “I’m not really good at restraint in that particular area.”

She takes a long drag, speaking on exhale, seeming unphased by my confession or simply lost in her rant. I glance around for her bottle to check the level and come up empty.

“The men I encounter always claim to be titans, forces to be reckoned with. Whispering ignorant promises. Every single time.” She lets out a sarcastic laugh. “That connard probably could not please a woman if he hadtwo cocks, let alone be half the man he declared himself to be,” she sighs, seeming to truly see me before sobering considerably and dropping her gaze.

“Mon Dieu, Tyler, I’m sorry.” She blows out a long breath. “This, I ... no, that was not meant for you to see.” She points toward the living room. “Or to hear or for us to discuss.” She shakes her head, clear shame in her expression. “Forgive me. Sometimes, I forget you are so young.”

How I fucking wish you would.

I don’t bother to mention that naked women don’t intimidate me in the least. It’s her bare skin I can’t allow myself to feast on because I can still feel the silk of her skin buzzing on my fingers.

“Not that young,” I pointlessly remind her.

Briefly, I wonder what my moody, French version of Yoda would think if she knew I’m more Anakin inside than any pure-as-the-driven-snow, guileless, clueless Luke Skywalker. Laughably, and now ironically, in the same fucked predicament as Anakin—infatuated with an older woman who sees him as nothing more than a kid.

“Dom is not here.” She bites her lip, keeping her eyes lowered. “I wouldn’t have brought him home if—”

“I know, he’s at the meetup, and you don’t have to justify it to me.” I hate the words, rebuke them altogether the second I release them as jealousy snakes its way back in. Because I want her to feel accountable to me. I want her making excuses for why she even fucking entertained another man tonight. And stupidly and hypocritically, even as I’ve done everything in my power to fuck her out of my headspace with my hookups, I now want her fidelity.

As she keeps her eyes lowered, I memorize what I can—the arc of her slender neck, olive skin, and contoured shoulders. Her hair down and still tousled, looking like black silk as it cascades in thick waves over each of her shoulders. Even when I look at her objectively to try to reason with myself, she only looks slightly older than thegirls my age,with one exception—by comparison, she’s a fucking bombshell with the insides to match.

“I didn’t come to see Dom,” I state, unable to hold the hint of underlying heat, which costs me fucking dearly when her eyes drift up and hold a beat.Fuck.

“Turn your head, Tyler.”

Doing as I’m told, I hear the rustle of fabric. Not long after, she sighs her consent, and I turn back to find my view interrupted by the large T-shirt she procured from a nearby pile of laundry. Just next to it sits her infamous cigar box, her French translation bible never far from it.

She was triggered tonight, and the knowledge of why is never far from my psyche.

Eyeing the closest picture, I see who I now know is Alain with Delphine possessively in his grip, a sadistic fucking look in his eyes. The utter hate and territorial jealousy I feel for someone I’ve never met threatens as I palm the back of my neck, fighting the anger his presence—even in his permanent absence—evokes from me. “Can I... get you anything?”