Page 22 of Severed Heart (The Ravenhood Legacy #2)

Because you’re seventeen, you fucking idiot!

And because this simmering attraction growing between us is entirely my own, I’ve been tossing my mental hard-on aside in lieu of the invaluable knowledge she’s bestowing upon me. So far, I’ve been presented with a mind-blowing arsenal of shit I’ve never considered before.

“He’s in his room.” Delphine dismisses me, interrupting my inner musings while pointing in the direction of the hall that leads to all three of their bedrooms. Instead, I draw closer to a fire I have no business warming up to, let alone attempting to play with.

Opting to stay near it, I take a few steps closer while leaving myself on the opposite side of the counter, which serves as a partition separating the kitchen from the living room.

A safe distance from her to shield my growing delusion and prolonged humiliation. Knowing good and well that if I ever give her the slightest hint of my growing attraction, I will lose her company.

Though, when I look at Delphine, I don’t see Dom’s aunt or our age difference—not since the day I got my first real look at her. If anything, I see a twenty-something who’s wearing her grandmother’s wardrobe. Her skin fucking glows with youth, her onyx hair silky in look.

In noticing that, I’ve acquired a healthy suspicion that she purposefully tries to mask both her body and beauty.

“You off to work soon?” I ask in a shitty attempt at conversation. Her latest job is working the graveyard shift at a boxing company—one of the only other factories in Triple Falls, aside from Horner Tech, which she quit when Celine and Beau died.

“Non, I’m off tonight.”

I eye the clock on the stove. “So, why are you drinking coffee?”

“Why the questions?”

“Because maybe I want some, and it was my polite way of hinting around to what you haven’t offered,” I jest, “with your impeccable lack of hosting skills. So, how about it?”

“No,” she replies sharply, barely sparing me a glance. “From this moment forward, you will eat only things which grow from the earth and lean protein. Water to drink. Only water. No drinking or drugs.”

“All right, so no more experimenting with crack. Got it,” I state pointlessly, which earns me a barely perceptible lift of full lips. “Though I can’t help but think this is punishment because I’m winning, General.”

“Non, you are not,” she relays, “we’re still very much at war.”

“I leveled over half your companies last night,” I counter.

“I was waiting for you to watch me make my next move,” she says, walking over to the table, where our battalions are on opposite sides of the line, engaged in our first long-term war.

I study the board to see not a soldier out of place and give her a nod.

Coffee in one hand, she flicks her fingers with the other.

“Airstrike. Airstrike,” she laughs maniacally while shooting my soldiers to the kitchen floor.

“The hell?” I balk.

“ Uh -oh, sniper ,” she sing-songs, flicking several more soldiers before glancing over to me with a shrug. “And now you have no soldiers in your right flank.”

“We’ve never done an airstrike. That’s cheating.”

She quirks a dark brow. “And what’s the name of our new game, Tyler?”

The slight purr she uses to draw out my name rolls through me briefly, making me forget the question for a beat. My reaction only further letting me know I need to hook up with Kayley, and soon, so I can again respect myself. The notion of us is ridiculous, even to me.

“Mmm?” Delphine prompts as I search for both the question and answer before squeezing my eyes shut.

“1911. Fuck. The first air strikes happened in 1911, the Italo-Turk war.”

“And you know this why?” she presses.

Her books, my curriculum. “Point taken.”

“Not yet. We might have moved on from BC wars, but I gave you all you needed in the name. You did not prepare,” she taunts as I glance down to see her advantage. It takes me seconds to assess how it will play out.

“Shit, I’ve already lost this war,” I state, sinking where I stand. “Haven’t I?”

“Maybe next time,” she laughs as I narrow my eyes.

“I demand a rematch.” My battered pride speaks.

“You will have it, but before you get one, you need to know all available weaponry during that time. It’s time to”—she frowns, searching for the right expression, and I don’t dare hand it to her—“ up to your game.”

Good enough, I decide, as she batters another metaphor. A translation trait I find fucking adorable.

“Oh, I’ll bring my game up,” I say, wanting to dissolve into the floor.

Go home, Jennings, and jerk this out of your system!

“I will start a new war soon. I don’t want to ruin your Christmas.”

“Oh, I think you do, which is not very Christian. So, what’s the name of this one?”

She gifts me a rare, full smile. “You have to wait and see.”

“Looking forward to it.”

On a few occasions, I’ve peeked through the sliding glass back door after lights-out to see her latest setup and have spent entire days at school coming up with the right tactics to counter her.

Then spending the rest of that time mangling pen caps while recalling new details that have nothing to do with our game.

Never going to happen, Jennings. Stop fixating.

“And”—she sips her coffee—“add two miles to your current run.”

“Shit,” I grumble. “Do you have any good news? Am I at least promoted to private first class?”

“After only weeks? No chance,” she replies, not budging an inch. “How is your breathing?”

“Good, I’m getting there. It’s been hard to concentrate lately.”

When we’re not playing, she spends our time teaching me the ins and outs of what I now know is flat space—temporary emotional suppression. A state I’ve since coined pocketing .

The state is temporary because I have no intention of shelving my emotions entirely or trying to forget any part of my experiences.

I know better, and doing so could make me a prime candidate for PTSD.

Because of that, I’ve declared my own mind a testing lab.

It might be an unrealistic ambition, but then again, the education I’m drawing from Mom’s psychology books has convinced me that the mind is a fucking magical thing.

“One sip,” she says, offering the coffee she thinks I’m eyeing, thankful she has no idea I’m fixed on the divot at her throat.

She doesn’t bother to hide her smirk when I sip the black tar I accepted, stifling a gag as I swallow it down. “This is fucking terrible.”

“Dom likes it strong.”

“Strong is one thing. This tastes like ... God, aren’t the French known for having the best coffee?”

“ That is a luxury,” she quips, lifting her free hand to indicate the state of the house. “Does it look like I can afford such luxuries?”

I deposit her cup on the counter. “So, then change your circumstances.”

“So easy,” she scoffs, silver-glazed eyes flaring with warning. “You’re arrogant.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s my youth talking,” I declare dryly while staring back just as intently.

She ‘hmm’s in agreement, her eyes laser-focused on mine for the second time in minutes as I hope, in vain, for once she doesn’t see the na?ve, round-eyed kid she met years ago. Or even the boy she started drilling into recently, though I know it’s a lost cause.

“I got you this.” I lift the gift bag.

“Today is not Christmas.”

“I’m aware. Think of it as a thank you ... for helping me.”

She eyes the bag as if it’s shit before a flicker of something crosses her expression. “What is it?”

“Kind of the point of the gift-giving part and the packaging.”

The slight lift of her lips brightens the dismal yellow kitchen bulb lighting the space. She grabs the bag and lifts the tissue paper before pulling the tin and shrink-wrapped movies out.

“Didn’t know if you’d seen them, but since Dom got a DVD player, I thought . . .” I shrug, having no idea where I was going with it.

She frowns at the movies as if figuring out a puzzle, her mouth opening and moving as if she’s about to read aloud before her eyes bulge. “Star Wars?”

“Yeah, these are the first two. They are prequels to the original three movies.”

“Prequels?”

“They take place before Luke and Leia. It’s the story of Darth Vader.”

Her eyes light up with intrigue as she eyes the movies, and I take in her expression as a reward.

“Have you watched?” she asks, taken aback by her gift, which further warms my insides while gutting me. She clearly hasn’t been given much in her life, which becomes more painfully apparent by the way she’s reacting to such a small gesture.

“Yeah, but I’ll watch them with you if you want.”

“Peanut brittle,” she whispers, studying the tin before lifting her spoon-colored eyes to mine. “How did you know?”

“You used to have a tin of it next to your coffee pot. I took a guess.”

“You guessed well,” she says softly, her expression just as tender, “it’s my favorite treat.” She cradles the movies and tin to her chest, her whisper sincere. “Merci, Tyler.”

“Welcome,” I say before tossing a thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to . . .”

She waves a hand in dismissal but gifts me a rare smile as she does this.

And fuck how that small reception feels like a big one inside of me.

Thankful that went better than I hoped, it’s when I’m a few strides away that I get the inkling to look back at her.

For the first time in our time together, I see her curiously staring after me.

When her eyes immediately drop, I bite back a smile and continue down the hall, refusing to read anything into it.

At Dom’s bedroom door, a single knock with my knuckles has me opening it to catch a glimpse of Dom.

.. enthusiastically pounding into Ginger.

Upon discovery, my presence is acknowledged by her screech when she catches sight of me as a smug grin stretches across Dom’s face.

He shields her with his body as I swiftly slam myself back on the other side.

“You fucking idiot,” I scold, keeping my voice low, “you could have told me you were tied up when I texted.”