Flock (The Ravenhood)

Time out.

I’m calling it.

If a man seems too good to be true, he usually is a liar.

That’s the stance I took that night I left Sean sleeping in his bed.

I’ve spent four weeks trying to piece together the dazzling puzzle of Alfred Sean Roberts, and I’m no closer to figuring out what his true intentions with me are. He’s not harmless, that much I do know. I don’t know if Sean’s a good guy or a bad guy.

Maybe he’s both.

For two days after I left him without a goodbye, I ignored his texts, and for those two days he left me alone on the line at work. He’s been unapologetic.

When I don’t respond, he doesn’t grovel. It’s what I had expected, even though we’d had some amazing angry sex. But it wasn’t exactly make-up sex, at least for me. I’m still pissed he didn’t defend me. Though with Sean, I’ve come to expect the unexpected.

It would be easier for me if I understood why he let a man who he considers a brother treat me so shitty.

So for now, I’m fine with mad.

I decide to pull back no matter what. Honestly, getting feelings for someone so soon is dangerous for a girl like me.

Am I creating drama for the sake of it?

I believe Sean about a lot of his observations. One, in particular, is we’re programmed in a lot of ways. Of course we are, but another part of me knows that we can program or, better yet, taint ourselves in different ways.

Through patterns of my past, I’ve learned that I’m drawn to dysfunction, and more so to the men who provide the questions.

I’m determined not to repeat my mistakes.

I have a misplaced theory that if you’re not suffering, you’re not loving hard enough, deep enough, and that’s just not healthy.

I gave Brad my heart and virginity and we broke up because he thought I expected too much.

With Jared, it was the same. I’d almost forgiven him for cheating on me, almost.

But then I chose myself.

The truth is, I do expect a lot out of my love story and the man I’ll share it with.

I expect passion and butterflies, and one or two fairy tale moments. When we fight, I want it to hurt. When we fuck, I want to feel it with every fiber of my being. When a man confesses his love to me, I expect him to mean it. I don’t want to question the words’ authenticity. I want to be claimed and owned and ruled and possessed by love.

Is that expecting too much?

Maybe it is, maybe I’ve read one too many love stories.

From what I’ve learned so far, maybe I do expect too much.

Especially if I can’t get the man I’m falling for to defend me.

Did I cause the drama? No. Dominic did.

Did I expect too much from Sean?

It breaks my heart to think I might have. That he’s incapable of being who I hope he would be because he’s given me so much of what I want already.

Should I compromise to keep him? Hell no.

Sean was wrong. Dominic was wrong. I am taking up for myself.

I’ve lived through two bad examples and know enough to see the warning signs.

Some part of me thinks that my sickly heart was inherited, coded in my genes. Not only that, but I’ve also watched my mom fall in and out over the years with the same sort of reckless regard for her own well-being, always one-upping her last disaster with a bigger one and hoping for the biggest payoff.

It’s only since she started dating her latest boyfriend that she’s calmed that part of herself. But inside, I know she’s never gotten that payoff. She struggled for years to find a man to give her those feelings but instead settled. She gave up, and we both know it.

Even though I vowed to be different from my mother in the way I live my life, we have the same disease. We crave the all-consuming, soul-stealing, drama-filled romances that are destined to end badly. I inherited my heart from her, and it’s relentless.

Though I’m fearful, I can’t give up. Finding love is the mecca of what I dream for myself. I have other dreams, dreams enough to hold me. A fulfilling career is a no-brainer but finding that once-in-a-lifetime love is non-negotiable. While my life has been riddled with shitty examples, I still believe it exists.

My greatest hope is to be in all-consuming love. My biggest fear is to be in all-consuming love.

Sean brought out that thirsty girl, only to dry her hopes in the next breath.

Some part of me already knows falling for Sean will end badly. I feel way too much already—way too much for just a month.

But isn’t that what I want?

Maybe for now, I should just listen to the voice of reason in my head, instead of the addict in my heart. The voice that tells me there are relationships out there filled with just as much passion that don’t have to result in bloodletting.

The truth is, taking this stance has been hell. I miss him horribly.

But I’ll stand on principle because to hell with playing the fool. Sean was right in another sense. If I don’t stick up for myself early, I’m setting a low bar.

So mad I’ll remain.

Fucking men.

I stab at my food, my mood shit as I glare at the side of Roman’s head.

Lamb chops with mint sauce and rosemary potatoes. It’s the most pretentious dinner I can think of. I hate lamb. Roman returns my gaze, unflinching as I stare at him with his own arctic eyes. He’s handsome as far as older men go, and for a second, I wonder what he looked like when my mother met him. Was he as charming as Sean, just as disarming? Did he play the game of trust me before he hurt her? Or did his cold exterior only intrigue her to the point she couldn’t resist him? She’s never told me the details of their story, even though I’ve asked multiple times. She refuses to visit that part of her life, and I assume because it’s painful. If being his daughter is this uncomfortable, I can only imagine what being the woman in his life was like.

“Is there something wrong with your food, Cecelia?”

“I don’t like lamb.”

“You liked it when you were younger.”

“I tolerated it to please you.”

“I see we aren’t in the business of pleasing our father anymore.”

“I’ve grown up. I prefer to eat what I enjoy.”

Roman cuts his chop, dipping it in the green goo before he hesitates. “Cecelia, I’m aware I’ve missed a lot—”

“Eight years,” I wipe my mouth. “Forgive me if I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here.”

“You’re in a mood tonight.”

“I’m curious.”

“I see.” His wrists rest on the edge of the table. His cutlery posed just so. The ritual makes me sick. We aren’t a family. I’m a part of his corporation.

“You’re part of my legacy. You are my only child.” No apologies for the years he’s missed. No excuses for his extended absence. Simplistic answers with no emotion behind them. I can’t even imagine Roman being intimate with anyone. Mom must have had a field day loving this bastard.

“We were discussing your parents last time we talked. Did you grow up wealthy?”

He frowns. “Somewhat.”

“Define somewhat.”

“My mother had a fair amount of money she inherited when she married my father. But they squandered their small fortune away instead of growing it and died penniless. That’s where they made their mistake.”

“Were you close?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“They were not affectionate people and do refrain from any rude comments. I’m aware some consider that a shortcoming.”

“Only people with a pulse.”

He chews his food slowly and looks at me pointedly. “My blood is red, I assure you. It’s the same blood that runs through your veins.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“You have one sharp tongue.”

“Don’t pretend to care, Roman. Why make me a part of all this at the last minute if you really didn’t want me in your life? Why give me anything at all, if you could just write a check and be done with me?”

He slowly lifts his tumbler to his lips and takes a sip. “Maybe I have regrets on how I handled things with you.”

“Maybe?”

“I do.” He sets his glass down and presses his napkin against his mouth. “Excuse me. I have business.”

“Great talking to you, Sir.”

I’m most definitely about to start my period, and I’m sure this shark smells it. I would feel bad if it wasn’t Roman Horner on the receiving end of my attitude. But tonight, I’m over the bullshit pretense.

He pauses at the doorway and then turns to me. He waits until our eyes connect before he speaks. “I gave you my last name because I had hoped to be a father to you. One day, I realized I never would be, and the least I could do was care for you financially. I’m handing you my life’s work because of my failure. All I ask is that you play a small part. I know it doesn’t make up for it, but it’s all I’ll ever have to give you.”

“Did you love my mother?” I ask hoarsely, damning the budding emotion. “Have you ever loved anyone?”

He grimaces, his eyes fixed somewhere in the past as he stares through me. “I tried.” With that confession, he leaves me at the table.

I do my best to ignore the sting behind my eyes and the tear that falls because of it. That was it. I know it in my soul. That will be the one and only confession my father ever gives me about the way he feels about me.

After years of wondering, I finally have my answer.

He tried.

My father just admitted he didn’t love me.

I pull the tear from my face with my finger and study it. Roman Horner probably would have preferred an abortion to an heir, and he thinks an inheritance will redeem him in some fucked up way.

I smash the hope-filled tear I didn’t know I was harboring between my fingers and finally give myself permission to hate him. Just more proof that the fantasies of a masochistic heart are much better than any experience with the real thing.

With that knowledge, I retreat.