If and when Delphine loses this last fight, I’m unsure of how I’ll feel or what, and the idea of that has me mindlessly filtering channels as Cecelia softly whispers, “Romans 8:38-39.”
A flip of pages sounds between my continuous channel clicks as Delphine recites the designated passage. “For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height or depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
A brief silence ensues before Tatie speaks up with a shake in her voice, her question posed to Cecelia. “Do you believe that’s true?”
Turning, I’m slammed into by the sight of Cecelia kneeling at Delphine’s feet as she offers more words of comfort. “Those are the only verses I’ve memorized. So, I guess, maybe, I want to believe it.”
Delphine’s eyes slowly lift to mine, and Cecelia’s deep blue gaze follows. The second we connect, a tidal wave of awareness crashes into me. That’s when I see it, fucking feel it, and I’m not the only one. A heartbeat later, Delphine confirms it with a French whispered warning. “Elle est trop belle. Trop intelligente. Mais trop jeune. Cette fille sera ta perte . . .” She is too beautiful. Too smart. But too young. This girl will be your undoing . . .
Whoosh. Whoosh.
“What happened to your parents?”
Cecelia’s question during the drive back to King’s reverberates through the cabin of my Camaro as I exit, leaving her in the passenger seat. Feeling her heavy gaze following me as I stalk away, I don’t bother to acknowledge Sean, who stands shrouded in the dark just outside the bay. His own calculating stare adding weight to hers as I make a beeline for my toolbox while my heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Grabbing my toolbox from the garage, I press through the backdoor heading through our littered graveyard of forgotten cars toward the Buick.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
There’s always been an undertow-like grip in Cecelia’s gaze. A grip and drag I’ve successfully managed to dodge—until tonight—when she glanced up at me from where she knelt at another unknown enemy’s feet, her empathy and humanity on full display.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
That exchange was a bitch slap, forcing me to finally acknowledge everything I’ve been purposefully overlooking when it comes to Cecelia.
Propping the hood of the Buick, I plug in the extension cord attached to the shop light before sifting through my tools. Intent on losing myself in monotonous work, I toss them around as those seconds threaten to burn into memory while the goddamn whisper I’ve heard multiple times snakes its way in.
She knows.
The fuck she does, but our earlier exchanges indicated otherwise as she picked up on every unspoken word between us.
She undoubtedly felt my annoyance with the fast conclusions she drew during our earlier errand. Not a minute later—while stowing away my gun—temptation reared its unwanted head as my fingers brushed her skin, gathering the rapidly building electricity as it pulsated between us. Our lips so fucking close it would take little to no effort to erase the distance and finally get a taste.
Not long after—while rolling through the drug store pickup—Cecelia’s jealousy emanated from the back seat, jealousy she didn’t bother to mask as the pharmacist eye fucked me. She even took pleasure when Delphine slung insults toward the girl—as I did when I busted her, meeting her gaze in the rearview. That pulse pinged and lingered through the Camaro, even while Delphine rode passenger.
Sidestepping those urges was becoming first nature for me until those few seconds of eye contact in Delphine’s living room. The final straw was when Cecelia prodded me with the million-dollar question on the drive back to the garage. The answer to which would solve a lot of Cecelia’s mystery regarding me.
“What happened to your parents?”
My inclination was to reply with something along the lines of, “your father found out about my parents’ plans to expose him, so he staged a plant explosion to silence them while scaring the fuck out of anyone else with ideas of attempting the same.”
That reply was suppressed even as it was constructed because of the concern in her tone—for me.
I could end this charade now if I wanted to. But something about the way she spoke to Roman earlier today had me considering Sean’s pleas to try to see around the guilt by association.
What I didn’t expect was for it to happen. But in those short seconds, what I saw—felt—forced that disconnect.
For the first time, I saw nothing but her.
When we met with RB—as I assumed—she’d passed judgment on us both in minutes. I called her out for it.
In truth, I set her up, then blamed her for her ignorance when she was just another victim of a system designed to keep us discriminatory and indifferent to each other’s circumstances.
The difference is, I know Cecelia’s circumstances . . . and now she knows mine—especially after forcing her way into my former childhood home and seeing the conditions in which I was raised. The second she stepped in, I felt the understanding washing through her. Just after, her misplaced determination kicked in to care for yet another unforeseen adversary.
Delphine.
Delphine, who never got over our parents’ murder but could never put the vodka down long enough to do anything about it.
She was almost too slow on the uptake when I introduced Cecelia, if only to see how Delphine would react. When my aunt finally got on the page and realized who Cecelia was, the difference in personality and treatment was close to imperceptible . . . for those who didn’t know better. I did, and it was the difference I saw that shocked the fuck out of me.
There was no misinterpreting what was in Delphine’s expression after decades of alcohol-induced tirades—guilt. She was littered with it after their little impromptu Bible study. But why?
Why in the hell would a woman who hates Roman as much, if not more than my brother and I, harbor guilt for anyone with Roman’s blood pumping through their veins?
It’s when Cecelia selflessly attempted to quiet my aunt’s fears that my world fucking tilted, and I realized I’m just as guilty of having my own preconceived notions.
Believing that when it comes to Cecelia, evil is inherited instead of taught. Even if the former is possible, she’s untouched by it, by him, by choice. She’s rebuked her father in all the ways that matter.
It was then I glimpsed some of the blank canvas Sean’s been begging me to see. Unlike countless others, Cecelia’s anxious to understand the world around her—and the people in it. The why of it all.
She might be on some mission to play with fire and stick it to her father, but it’s her own rebellion against the hand she herself was personally dealt that fuels her. In that, we’re alike.
In that, she’s like us.
Ensnared by her in that short time, realization struck—Cecelia Horner is filled to the fucking brim with untapped potential.
There’s a sort of power brewing within her that not even she is aware of.
That’s what I saw, felt, and rang through me with absolute certainty.
Not her age, beauty, or our undeniable chemistry, or even the danger she presents to us. The realization was so visceral that it had the hairs on my neck rising. Now that I’ve seen it, it can’t be denied.