Hopping out of the car, I rush over to the gates, grab on to them and shake them, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Declan! Please let me talk to you! Declan, please!”
My voice strains as I plead and beg for him. Tears begin to coat my cheeks as I call his name, because simply having it on my tongue and lips feels like a kiss from him. So I scream even louder, a protest of my love, and my voice shrills painfully as I call out, “Declan!” over and over and over again.
I don’t stop—I can’t.
I’m nothing without him. I’ll die without him. He has to forgive me. He just has to. I can’t live with him hating me as much as he does. So I fight these gates, screaming and crying and breaking, falling to my knees—absolutely crumbling.
I’m weak as my voice slowly gives out, and I have to catch my breath around my pounding, severing heart. Dropping my head, I weep while the damp ground seeps through the fabric of my pants.
I startle and jump up when the gate begins opening. I turn to see the black Mercedes SUV he was in the other day coming up the road. Desperate to talk to him, I run out in the middle of the street, blocking him. He slows and stops, and with my hands on the freezing hood of his car, emotions overwhelm as I beg, “Declan, please. Please let me talk to you. I love you, Declan.”
My words fall out in a blubber of panicky cries as I look at him through the windshield. The car shifts under my hands when he puts it in park and then opens his door. Menacing eyes greet me once again, but I’m frantic for his attention.
“Declan, please, just let me talk to you.”
“I thought you understood that I didn’t want you coming back here,” he snarls in his thick accent, stepping in front of me.
In quick movements, he grabs my arms in both his hands. Faster than what I can fight, Declan drags me over to my car while I cry, “Please, stop. Just give me a few minutes to explain.”
“There isn’t a goddamn thing you could possibly say to me.”
He then yanks me around so I’m facing away from him and slams my front side over against the car, knocking the wind out of me and pinning me down. With my arms bound in his hand behind my back, he presses the side of my face into the hood with his other, needling against the ice. His body hunches over mine and his breath heats my ear as he seethes, “In case I didn’t make it clear, I fucking hate you.”
“You don’t mean that,” I whisper, pissing him off even more as he grabs a fist full of my hair and snaps my head back. My neck stretches, sparks of pain shooting through the tendons, and the chrrrick of my hair, popping out from the roots, ripping flesh along with it, sears my scalp in pricks of fire. I scream, but he doesn’t let go.
“You’ve got balls, darling. Coming here, knowing one phone call is all it would take for you to be arrested and extradited.”
“Why haven’t you done it then?” I question through clenched teeth, and he yanks harder, ripping out more hair from my scalp. Gasping in agony, I push him, “Tell me why.”
“You think it’s because I care for you? You’re fucking delusional.”
“Then why?”
“Because seeing your face makes me want to kill you. I thought you’d be smart and leave, never come back, yet here you are,” he says.
“You won’t hurt me.”
The sudden force of his hand shocks me, and I scream out in pure white, heated pain. My hand flies to the back of my head, trembling as I touch the bare flesh. Tears fall, and when I turn to look at him, he’s holding a chunk of my hair. I can feel the blood trickling down the back of my neck. He stares—no emotion—while my body pangs in agony, but I’ve dealt with pain and abuse my whole life. I’ve been beaten, whipped, tied up for days, and one thing I’ve learned: physical pain is much more tolerable than mental pain.
Bruises fade. Blood dries. Scabs heal.
Sucking in a deep breath, I bring my hand in front of me and it’s covered in blood.
“You won’t hurt me,” I repeat, and it’s now that I see the torment in his eyes. There’s no doubt he’s furious, but there’s a void, a hollowness that didn’t used to be there.
“You sucked the life right out of me. I don’t give a shit about you anymore,” he says and then drops the lock of my hair on the ground. “I pray you put a bullet in your head.”
I let him go without saying anything as he turns to get back in his car. I bite my tongue, knowing I’ll only make him feel worse if I continue to speak. I’ll give him a reprieve, but I won’t back down. I’ll find a way to talk to him, to explain everything. I’ve manipulated my way around obstacles in the past; I can do it again.
After I watch him drive past me and the gates close behind him, I walk to the side of the road and scoop up a handful of snow. My body tenses in preparation for the pain, and my hand shakes as I reach back. Flinching, I slather the snow on my bloody scalp, and hiss against the sting that singes my head.
I scoop up another handful and pack it against my wound, and once my body stops quaking and numbs, I slip into my car and drive back.
“WHAT HAPPENED?” ISLA questions urgently as I’m walking up the stairs.