“Then you’ll stay put until I get back.”
“I don’t understand you,” I whisper weakly.
And with my words, he exhales deeply, turning to look away from me, dropping his elbows to his knees.
“Declan, please. Give me something to work with here. Tell me something to help me understand.”
He keeps his head forward, and the tension and struggle is all over him. The muscles in his back flex, and I can see the rise and fall of it as his breathing increases. I know it’s a reflection of his building emotions, I just wish I knew what they consisted of.
I want to touch him, but I’m afraid it will piss him off and he’ll leave again, so I keep my hands in my lap as I simply watch.
When he finally speaks, his voice cracks, along with my heart, as he says, “Your voice . . . the moment I heard your voice after I was shot, I did everything I could to fight my eyes open just so I could see you. I’d already read the file. I already knew you had been lying about everything. But a part of me . . . ” His voice slips before he takes a hard swallow and looks over his shoulder to face me, continuing, “ . . . a part of me wanted to believe I had gotten it all wrong and that it wasn’t a lie. But when he said Go, and you did so easily, leaving me to die . . . ” His face contorts with the pain he’s fighting to hide. “ . . . No one has ever made me feel so worthless and disposable.”
“I was scared.” My words tremble, not knowing what else to say. “I was so scared.”
“I was too, and you left.”
I hold my breath as I stare into his eyes that harbor the scars I inflicted. The burden of guilt that consumes me is paralyzing as I watch him expose the fragile pieces he hides so well. He’s a man who is nothing but strength and control, but in this quiet moment, he reveals just how broken he is. Broken and hurt, and it’s all because of me.
“When I came here,” he starts again, “I wanted nothing to do with you. I wanted you dead, but then I found myself outside with a shovel, digging up the flower bushes that surround the house like a fucking maniac losing my mind.”
“Why were you digging them up?”
“Because you told me you hated the color purple, and those shrubs bloom purple flowers in the spring.”
And that’s the dagger that impales my fa?ade of strength. Tears pool in my eyes, and my body restrains to not completely burst into tears.
“My head has been so fucked up because I can’t get you out of it.”
“When I was eight years old,” I begin, needing to speak because the sound of his voice is too upsetting for me. So, I distract myself and reveal another part of my past. Another denouement for him. “I wound up being moved to a different foster home. The one that would make me believe that monsters were real. I was terrified to the core, and when I was shown the room I’d be sleeping in, all the walls were painted purple.” Declan’s hand finds my cheek as I continue to talk. “All the years of torture and abuse were stained in purple.”
His other hand covers my other cheek, and he holds me. I don’t want to lose the touch, but I need more to remedy the sour bile that ripples in my stomach. Mirroring his affections, I cover his cheeks with my hands. A rush of comfort wraps around me as I feel the crackle of his unshaven jaw under my hands. I tug him in and he comes to me willingly, touching his lips to mine. We don’t move as we rest peacefully against each other.
The moment fractures when he abruptly pulls away. My hands fall from him as his clutch tightens around my face. I can feel the strain in his hands as their nerves vibrate against my cheeks. His body locks up, the corded muscles banded around his shoulders contract.
“Why?” I breathe. “Why do you turn so cold?”
He grinds his teeth, and his eyes flare disdainfully at me. “Because I don’t want to be this close to you. Because I despise you. Because you’re a scheming witch.”
His tone stabs like an ice pick, and I wonder if it will always be this way with us. If he truly is incapable of allowing himself to ever be vulnerable with me again. Maybe he’s destined to be the yearning ache of my heart.
La douleur exquise.
“Then why have me here? Why don’t you throw me out, tell me you hate me?”
“I do hate you,” he sears.
“So why touch me, kiss me, fuck me?”
“They’re my sick cravings,” he admits. “The hunger grows worse the more I feed it.”
And the scheming witch he just accused me of being comes to life. Because with him, I want to be selfish. I want him to be mine and no one else’s.
I know I’m narcissistic when I tilt my head to the side, presenting him with the soft skin of my neck, but I don’t care when I invite him to take, saying, “Then feast.”
“You don’t want me this way.”
“I want you in every way.”
His growl is low, deep within his chest, but far from the heart that beats in deadly ways. He’s a degenerate of love, but I want him regardless.