Page 145 of Severed Rivalry
She thrashes and fights, and my heart breaks.
She doesn’t know.
She doesn’t know he’s dead.
The fear still has her.
Pulling the hood from her face, I cup her face and call her name. “Née? Renée, look at me.”
It takes two moments too long because the men are on me.
Before I go down, though, I slip her the knife.
I’ll never see a robe without having some kind of post traumatic reaction. I also get why the men don’t wear them.
Aside from the ceremonial aspect. Or the psychological one. Aside from the disparity, since women are subjugated, it’s a visual representation of it. It’s also impractical. They wouldn’t be able to move freely, couldn’t punch or kick or wield knives without getting tangled.
I’m not sure anyone will recall what exactly went down or how or when. But when Renée enters the mêlée and the brown-robed women start fleeing, all hell breaks loose. There are the hollow, wet sounds of flesh hitting flesh, pops, and grunts.
All I know is that at some point I look up to see Renée staring at her hands. She holds a knife covered in blood. With a grunt, I toss off one of the men, using what little leverage I have. The dais-to-the-ground fall must be greater than I know because he slinks off, holding his hip, never looking back.
The second takes more effort, but somehow, I manage. I never see his face. I’m too busy looking at Renée and her shock, her terror, and the blood covering her. He gets in a solid punch in the exact place I just had a surgeon rebuild my fucking face. My anger swells at the same time as my cheek. The anger’s the only thing I can credit with the superhuman strength it takes to get him off me.
When I finally stand and move once again to her side, she’sstill staring at the knife and the blood smearing her hands. I slide it from her palm, close it and pocket it, all without any movement on her part. I hug her for a quick moment, needing to make sure she’s breathing, and ask low, “Can you run, or do you need me to carry you?”
She never answers. I turn her and take her hand. “Come on. Let’s find your mom.”
She’s rooted to the spot, staring. A dead man lies crumpled at her feet. Her white robe is covered in brainy pulp and blood. The men who trapped the girls have been dispatched, I don’t know how or when.
Five girls laid tied, blinded by hoods, and crying.
One of our crew will help them. I have to trust that. Or I’ll help… after.
My only priority right now is reuniting mother and daughter and knowing that neither has been harmed.
After that, we can figure shit out. After I know my girls are safe.
I’m halfway to the cabin when Renée says her first word. “RoRo?”
“After.”
She tugs my hand to a stop. “Now.”
She’s so her mother. Trauma beyond anyone’s wildest imagining. A birthday celebration gone from delight to disaster, and she’s worried about family.
“Nowis after I get you to your mom. I won’t let anything happen to Rosie. I promise you.” I have no right making that promise. I have no clue where her grandmother is or what has happened to her.
“I said?—”
“I’m on it.” Liam materializes from some shadow like a specter from fog and disappears equally as fast.
“That work?” I ask the youngest Ocotea, looking down into her face bright in the moonlight.
She shrugs and nods at the same time but squeezes my hand so tightly, I know the real answer.
We move around the building that skirts the front of the property and to the black SUV hidden in a copse of trees.
The front door is thrown open and Sariah flies from the passenger seat to hold her daughter. They fold into one another like a shuffle on a deck of cards. I manage to catch them as they melt onto the ground in a puddle of tears and love.
