“Let’s get this over with,” Declan says when he opens my door. He reaches over me and unclicks the seatbelt. “Come on.”
I take his hand and hold tightly to him as we make our way into the building and up to the top floor. When the elevator opens and we enter the penthouse, it all comes flooding back. Every smell, every conversation, every sexual encounter I experienced with the enemy.
I look to Declan—he’s grinding his teeth. His only memory of this place is when he broke in and shot Bennett, killing him instantly.
“The bedroom is over here,” I mutter, knocking him out of his trance.
He roams around while I go into the closet. I climb up on a stepstool to reach the box on the top shelf. When I pull it down, I rip off the tape and see a pile of clothes I used to hide what lies beneath. I dig down and grab the notebook Pike used to always sketch in. Page after page is filled with art created by his own hands. Some are of random strangers, some are visions from his dreams, but most are of me. I reach down and pull out a few other items I snuck in when I moved in here with Bennett. I had to have pieces of Pike with me always.
I dump out the clothes and put all of Pike’s possessions back into the box. I try not to think too much. Being in this space is hard enough. When I walk back out into the bedroom I shared with Bennett, Declan is standing in front of the large armoire. As I walk over to him, I see he’s holding the framed picture of Bennett and me on our wedding day, and my heart sinks painfully into the deep well of sorrow.
“It wasn’t real,” I say, keeping my voice soft because he looks like he’s about to blow. “I hated that man. I still do.”
He doesn’t speak, his knuckles are tense and white as his fingers grip the metal frame. I reach out slowly and touch his shoulder.
“Please don’t look at that.”
“You look so happy,” he says, his words dripping acid onto my heart.
“I was happy because I was one step closer to destroying him. That’s what’s behind my smile,” I tell him. “Not love.”
“You let him touch you.”
“Don’t do this.”
“He’s touched every part of you.”
“No.”
He sends the photo flying across the room and the frame crashes into a lamp, sending them both falling to the floor, shattering the light bulb.
“Declan, please,” I call out. “If you think I gave him what I give you, you’re wrong!”
“This is what I hate about you,” he seethes as he glares his animosity at me.
It’s a painful reminder that he still harbors these feelings for me. He hides it well, but I can’t pretend that a part of him doesn’t still hate me.
“I look at the fucking bed and all I can see is your naked body fucking him!”
“It wasn’t real.”
He grabs my arms and slings me around, shoving me against the wall, and spits his venomous words at me. “It was real! What you did was real, so stop lying to yourself!”
He shields his pain in anger, and it tears me apart. I can take his temper, but I can’t handle knowing how much he’s hurting. That part cuts me deeply.
Capillaries burst beneath my skin under his strenuous grip on my arms that will surely bruise. He jerks me forward and then pushes me back, letting go of me before turning around. His hand rakes angrily through his hair as he storms out of the room and slams the door behind him, leaving me alone in evil’s lair.
I don’t go after him right away. I allow him time to cool off as I sit by the window and look down over Millennium Park.
“Are you okay?”
I look up to Pike who stands next to me as he leans against the window, and I nod, because I’m scared if I talk, Declan might hear.
“It’s only natural for him to feel this way, you know?”
“I know,” I faintly whisper.
“Deep down he’s hurting. You have to help him carry the weight of that pain.” Pike leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Go talk to him.”
I stand and give my brother a hug, thankful that he’s always here with me.
“I love you,” I murmur in his ear.
“I love you too.”
Picking up the box, I walk over to the door and open it gently. I step out of the room and see Declan sitting on the couch in the living room. His elbows are propped on his knees and he’s resting his forehead on his fisted hands, staring at the floor. I set the box down on the coffee table and sit next to it, facing him.
My hands close around his fists, and he looks up at me with shame in his eyes, saying, “I’m sorry I lost it on you.”
“No.” I refuse his apology with a shake of my head. “You have every right to get your anger out. I’m the one who owes all the apologies, not you.”
“I thought those feelings were fading because we’ve grown so much closer these past couple weeks, but seeing that photo . . .”
“You could hate me forever, and it would be okay. I’ll love you regardless.”
He unclenches his hands and places them along my jaw while I still hold on to his wrists. I can see his emotions tormenting him when he confesses, “I don’t want to hate you.”