Page 37 of The King of Hearts (The Raven Group #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

HER

H ave you ever woken up and just had a gut feeling that something big was going to happen?

Like, so monumental that it alters your life forever.

Every step you take that day, you look over your shoulder and peek around every corner.

You’re on pins and needles, and your heart continuously skips beats as you anxiously wait for that big thing to happen.

I had that feeling the moment my eyes slid open, and it’s lingered every second of my day so far. My stomach has been in knots, and every little noise has me jumpy and nervous.

I force my attention away from the unknown and focus my eyes back on Dara. I’m here to keep her company, not dwell on something that might not even happen.

My gaze lingers on the woman’s face, more specifically, the paleness of her complexion and the dark, faded rings around her eyes.

The look isn’t her natural appearance. She applied makeup to make herself appear like she’s a corpse.

Of course, she’d never admit to doing that.

Because of Cotard’s, I don’t think she actually remembers putting the makeup on.

I asked her about it once, and she looked at me like I had a screw loose and said, “I look like this all the time, Savina. A dead person doesn’t have rosy cheeks and bright eyes. ”

I’ve been here for fifteen minutes, and each one since I sat at our usual table, Dara has been silent. She has one arm stretched across the round table with her head lying on it, her eyes vacant as she stares across the room. Her other hand sits on the table in front of her face.

“Dara,” I call her name.

She doesn’t move, not even a blink. I turn to see what she’s looking at, but don’t find anything interesting. Just a landscape painting of a field of flowers on the wall, and the table below it that has a bunch of board games on top. I lean over and put myself in her direct line of sight.

“Dara.” I keep my voice low and soft. The last thing I want to do is irritate her. “What’s wrong? What are you looking at?”

She blinks, and her eyes finally focus on me. I’ve always thought the color of her irises are pretty. The outside is a black ring with the inside so light brown that it almost looks yellow. They’re creepy, but at the same time, unique and beautiful.

“I don’t want to go,” she whispers so low that I barely hear the words. Her voice is sad and full of despair.

“Where are you going?”

“He’s coming soon, and he’s going to take me down to where he lives.”

I scoot my chair closer to the table so I can hear her better. “And where’s that?”

“He said I’ve been in this place too long, and he’s tired of waiting. He’s going to bring me to where I belong, so I’ll always be with him.”

I reach over the table and place my hand on top of hers that’s in front of her face. It’s ice cold. “Who is he , Dara?”

“The man who killed me.”

A chill races down my spine at her eerie tone, and I can’t fight the urge to look over my shoulder to where she was looking to see if the imaginary man she’s talking about is behind me.

Jackson now stands in front of the painting and his eyes are pointed in our direction.

More specifically, they’re pinned on Dara.

I narrow my eyes at him, and it’s at that moment his gaze moves to me.

We hold each other’s stare for what seems like minutes, but could only be seconds.

It’s broken when a nurse calls his name and he gives his attention to her.

Something really weird is going on here, and I don’t like it.

Abruptly, Dara sits up and swivels in her chair, pulling my attention back to her.

Her head turns from side to side, her eyes wide and frantic as she looks at each corner of the room.

I follow her movements, and as expected, see nothing out of the ordinary.

No shadowy men lurking in corners. No mysterious figures hidden in inconspicuous places.

Just as quickly as Dara sat up in a panic, the anxious look on her face disappears, and she brings her gaze to me. It still amazes me how she can go from one extreme to the next in a matter of seconds.

Her expression clears, and a smile appears on her face. It’s so big that it makes the corners of her eyes wrinkle.

“Hey, Savina,” she says cheerily. “I’m so glad to see you. It feels like it’s been weeks since you were last here.”

My last visit was only a week ago, but I’m sure in a place like this, time moves slowly. “How have you been?”

She pulls her braid over her shoulder and starts playing with the end. Her hair is always in a braid. One of the nurses once told me that Dara is insistent that her hair is always put into a braid in the morning.

“I’ve been good. I beat Willy at Battleship the other day.” She grins.

I laugh. “I bet that went over great. Willy hates losing at that game.”

“He definitely wasn’t happy. He said as a punishment, he was going to refuse to flash people for several days. Of course, none of us thought that was a bad thing.”

“Maybe you should beat him more often,” I suggest with another laugh.

“Oh, I plan on it. We’re supposed to play later today, and I have every intention of sinking his battleship.”

We talk about nonsense stuff for several minutes.

I tell Dara about the Sheppard’s Ball, leaving out the part that happened at the end with my devil, and she tells me the latest gossip happening around the facility.

Apparently, one of the patients set a small fire in the kitchen a few days ago, and it caused all of the sprinklers to turn on.

One of the nurses, who’s walking around the room with a basket full of snacks, stops by our table. She holds the basket out to Dara, waiting for her to pick one.

Dara looks at it, then lifts her eyes to the nurse. “I’m dead. I don’t eat,” she says, her tone casual, like it’s totally normal for a dead person to talk and refuse food.

Used to this behavior, the nurse just smiles and walks away.

Due to confidentiality laws, I can’t know anything medically related to Dara, but I’ve done my research on Cotard’s Syndrome.

Some patients refuse to eat at all, claiming that “dead people don’t need food.

” Dara’s weight appears healthy, so she either eats willingly, at least sporadically, or the doctors somehow force nutrients into her.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to check my notifications. If it were a phone call, I’d wait until I left to call the person back, but a text is easy and quick to reply to.

Bishop’s name appears on my screen, and I tap it to bring up his message.

Bishop: Braxton was just found unconscious in his house, beaten to hell and back. Bennett is taking him to the clinic right now.

A hollow feeling forms in my chest, and my hands start to shake as I read the message over and over again.

No. No, no, no. He didn’t do it. It’s been three days since the ball.

When the next day came, and I didn’t receive a box with a heart, the knot in my stomach grew smaller.

Then another day went by, and it got even smaller.

The third day, I finally breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that my devil didn’t hurt Braxton like I feared he would.

I was wrong.

Dear God, I was wrong.

With trembling fingers, I send him a reply.

Me: How bad is he?

His response comes almost immediately.

Bishop: He’ll live, but his recovery won’t be pleasant. He has lacerations on his chest deep enough to need stitches, his face is badly busted up, one arm is broken, and it looks like someone attempted to cut off one of his fingers.

I close my eyes and take several deep breaths when nausea rolls in my stomach.

Guilt nags at the pit of my stomach. This is all my fault.

I let Braxton touch me by dancing with him at the ball.

I should have refused him. I should have taken my devil for his word when he said he’d hurt anyone who touched me.

I should have known he would have eyes on me there, that he would be there.

But Jesus, it was just a dance. An innocent fucking dance. There has never been anything other than friendship between Braxton and me. I’ve known him for ten years. He’s like a brother to me.

“Savina?”

I open my eyes when Dara calls my name. She’s looking at me, concern etched on her face.

“Are you okay?”

I open my mouth to reply, but snap it shut when my phone vibrates again.

Dad: Get home. Now.

What the hell?

“I have to go,” I tell Dara. “I’m sorry to cut our visit short, but I’m needed at home.”

I get to my feet, and so does Dara.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, worry laced in her tone.

I look at her, my brows puckered into a frown. “I don’t know.”

She reaches for me, pulling me into a hug. I wrap my arms around her, and for a moment, I let myself soak up the comfort she’s offering. Pulling back, I slip my phone back into my pocket and give her a smile I don’t really feel.

“I’ll be back next week.”

She still looks worried, but she smiles softly. “Okay.”

I turn and walk across the room, barely hearing the chatter in the space from the other patients.

My thoughts are consumed by Braxton and what my devil did to him.

Had I not received the message from Dad demanding I come home, I would wait here at Hollow’s to find out his condition and go see him when allowed.

As I approach the door leading out of the rec room, I notice Jackson is back in his place in front of the painting.

He stands with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. His expression is blank, but his eyes are once again laser-focused across the room.

I look back over my shoulder toward Dara.

She’s sitting down again, sideways on the chair.

She’s gripping the end of her braid with fingers so tight that I can see her white knuckles from all the way over here.

Her eyes are locked with Jackson’s, and fear hides in their depths.

I don’t know what the hell the guy’s problem is with her, but I don’t have time to investigate it right now. I’ll have to look into it later. Maybe confront him and demand answers.

Marcelo is waiting for me at the car with the door already open, like he got a message from Dad, expecting me to exit the building at any moment.

I say nothing as I slip into the back seat, sliding over to allow him to follow me inside.

It doesn’t take us long to get home. Bishop’s and Cassio’s cars are in the driveway, along with another one I don’t recognize.

The car has barely stopped when I’m pushing my door open and bolting out.

My black flats rush across the gravel ground, and I practically run up the steps.

I don’t know why I’m in such a rush. Dad’s message didn’t seem dire.

It was three simple words telling me to come home.

But something inside me, that feeling I’ve felt since I woke up this morning, has my heart pounding with anxious nerves.

Something’s happened, and I don’t think it’s only what happened to Braxton.

The door doesn’t make a sound when I push it open.

I come to a stop just inside the doorway, my chest heaving with exertion.

Instinct has me following the path straight to Dad’s office.

The door is closed, and usually I’d knock before entering, but this time I don’t.

I grab the knob, twist it, and push the wood panel open.

Several people are inside: Dad, Mom, and my brothers.

Those four, I’m not surprised to see. What has my hackles rising is their expressions.

Dad and my brothers look pissed. No, pissed isn’t a strong enough word.

They look livid, angry enough to commit cold-blooded murder. Mom, on the other hand, looks upset.

Dad stands behind his desk, bent forward with his hands on the top.

He looks on the edge of mass destruction.

Mom stands beside him, one arm wrapped around her middle, the fist of her other hand at her mouth.

Tears glisten in her eyes. Bishop and Cassio are over by the window.

The former with his arms crossed over his chest, and the latter standing with his feet braced apart. Both look tense.

My gaze slides to the man in the center of the room. The one who has three pairs of eyes locked on him that belong to people who look like they want nothing more than to string him up by his entrails.

Ryker West.