Pike reminded me of my strength, and I showed him the back of my head, where Declan had ripped out my hair. I told him that I continue to pick at the scab and make myself bleed to feel better, proving to him that I’m weak, that I can’t handle the pain anymore, so I create my own. A pain I can control and use to mask the true ache that runs deep inside of me. But he assured me that what I’m doing is a symbol of strength. The fact that I refuse to let my emotions control me, and instead control them, is a testament to my vitality.
I decided to take his words and apply them to Declan. Instead of letting him control me and keep me away, I will take the control to get what I want. I’ve done it before; I can do it now. Pike is right. I’ve been allowing myself to crumble and feel as if I’m nothing on my own, but he reminded me that I’m not. That I’ve always been strong. Reminded me that even though I no longer have him as my vice, I’m powerful enough to create another.
“It’s so nice to see you eating,” Isla says as she walks out from the kitchen and into the dining room where I sit.
“I’ve been a little under the weather,” I excuse my lack of presence.
She sets down a bowl of mixed berries and eyes the magazine I’m flipping through.
“I found it on the coffee table,” I offer. “I was thinking about getting out of town and going into the city for a day trip.”
“Have you spent any time in Edinburgh?”
“No. I drove through when I arrived, stopped for a quick meal, and then came here.”
“It’s a great town,” she says and continues to talk, but her voice fades into the distance when I turn the page.
She’s muted noise, and everything around me tunnels as I focus on the eyes looking up at me from within the grains of the paper. Dapper as always, in a vested, tailored suit, no tie, and top buttons unfastened. The very essence of Declan, unkempt in a classy way. His face, a couple days unshaven, and I can remember the way the bristles felt against my lips when he kissed me. The way I would find comfort in running my hand along his jaw.
Setting my fork down with ease, my pulse slows in admiration and shock. I hone in and examine every curve and line of his face.
That used to be mine.
No more though.
He loathes my very existence, wishes me dead, prays for it. But that filters out and what remains is the lovingly harsh way his hands felt on my body. The good of Declan takes over my thoughts, and I rush back in time to when he would look at me with his powerful eyes that told so much in the depth of emerald. They would nearly illuminate and brighten when his emotions of adoration were on high, and dull out, blackening when desire and his need to claim and control would ignite. This man is built in impermeable layers, but I was the one he allowed to seep in. I guess the same could be said in reverse because I let him in as well.
Isla’s touch on my arm pulls me away from my love.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry,” I say with a slight shake of my head.
She nods to the photograph in the magazine. “No need to apologize. With looks like that, you can’t help but become distracted.”
Laughing, I agree, “Yeah.”
“He used to live in Edinburgh before moving to America years back. A perpetual bachelor that the lassies would fawn over.”
“You know him?” I question.
“Of him,” she clarifies. “The McKinnons were a prominent family here, but tragedy struck and they soon found assuage in the US. But recently, Declan, the son, returned.”
“Hmm,” I hum, feigning nonchalance.
“He lives here in Gala, you know?”
“What happened?”
When she gives me a wondering look, I clarify, “You mentioned a tragedy.”
“Oh, yes. Declan’s mother was murdered in their home. Callum, his father, soon left, but Declan stayed in Scotland for a while. I think I read somewhere that when Declan finished his studies at University, he moved to the States and went into business with his father. They’ve both been living in America until Declan’s recent return.”
I want to correct her, tell her that Declan parted ways with Cal and was making a strong name for himself as an international real estate developer, but I’d rather her not know my link to him.
“He attended St. Andrews at the same time Prince William did,” she adds with enthusiasm, but I don’t care about the trivial anecdotes she seems to take pride in.
Anxious to be alone, I take my last bite of egg and excuse myself. “Do you mind if I take this with me?” I ask about the magazine.
“Of course not.”
“Thank you.”
When I close the door to my room, I sit down at the small desk near the window and open the article with Declan’s photo. Alone with my love, I run my fingers over his face and pretend it’s real. I shut my eyes and try to smell him, but there’s nothing except the lingering fragrance of my perfume in the air.
I look back at him and then begin to read the article that the photo accompanies. I feel my smile grow the further I read. And when I discover a charity event where Declan will be the guest of honor, I know this is an opportunity that I must take full advantage of—and I will. I continue to read the piece that boasts about the charities Declan supports and advocates for.
I note the function where he will be honored is being held this Saturday evening at his alma mater, and start scheming.