“Despite his outbursts, my father would always tell me Lorkan was harmless—‘A hot head with no real desire to be boss.’When I was a kid, I was skeptical. I saw the jealous look in Lorkan’s eye when he was in the same room as my father. The harsh glares he would send mine and Aidan’s way. But the older I grew, the more I chose to believe my father. Lorkan was hostile and violent, but he was also a recluse. He hated schmoozing at charity events or having to attend meetings with allies, which is why I never would have imagined he’d want to overthrow my father. Until now. Maybe all the years of being told he was second best finally got to him and he snapped. He killed his own brother. Killed Naser. He almost killedyou. And I’ve done nothing to stop him,” Declan spits out, his hands curling into fists. I have a feeling that if he could aim fists at himself right now, he would.
“We still don’t know for certain your uncle killed our fathers.” It pains me to say it but it’s true. Aleksander’s evidence is compelling, but we need more than a few photos, especially since this would tear a hole into a family already hanging by a thread.
“We’ll find out soon. Once Aidan brings him to me.” Declan opens his eyes, a faint sheen covering them.
I grab the liquid band-aid next to him and dab it onto his knuckles, blowing on them slightly to help the glue dry faster.
“You’re good at that,” Declan notes.
“At using a bandaid?” I ask, confused.
A hint of a smile forms on his lips as he shakes his head. “At taking care of people. And their wounds.”
“Using alcohol wipes and some bandages isn’t exactly rocket science.” I shrug.
“That’s not what I meant,” he presses. His gaze pours into mine as if he’ll be able to find the solution to all his problems.
Suddenly, all the oxygen feels like it’s being sucked out of the room. My lips move, but no words come out. I stand frozen and unable to put together a coherent sentence while my mind races in a hundred different directions.
“There you go again.” Declan sighs, shoulders slouching, as he lifts one of his injured hands and strokes my cheek, sending a thousand goosebumps down my body.
My eyebrows scrunch together. “What do you mean?”
“Every time I think you’re finally going to admit what’s happening between us, finally give in to the inevitable, you put your walls up and pull back,” he tsks, biting his bottom lip as he leans his head closer, his forehead nearly touching mine.
His woodsy cologne mixed with the smell of his sweat fills my nose, and the combination of the two are so intoxicating, I want to bury my nose into his neck. I don’t trust myself to speak, so instead I place the palms of my hands on his chest and push gently, hoping to put some space between us. Declan wraps his large hands around my wrists, keeping me in place. He adjusts one of my hands—the one with my wedding ring on it—so it sits directly on top of his heart. The gesture breaks me.
“D-Declan,” I whisper, feeling the steady pulse of his heart.
“Say the words Zahra, and I’m yours. Say you want me. Say youneedme. And I promise you, I’ll spend every second of every day worshiping you.” His voice has dropped as a heatedlook fills his eyes. My core clenches immediately as our wedding night replays in my mind. Back when we pretended the world outside us didn’t exist. Pretended that everything was normal. God, I would give anything to relive that night again.
You can, the devilish voice inside my head whispers.You can have it again.
I can’t. It’s too risky. Too painful. As much as I want to deny it, Declan has already sneaked his way into my very being. The thought of losing him makes my stomach turn now. I know with absolute certainty that fully giving into him, giving into my desire to claim him as mine, will end in nothing but shattered hearts and broken dreams.
I jut my chin out in stubbornness. “You don’t get to be a mob boss and have a happy ending. It’s one or the other. And I refuse to give up everything I’ve ever worked for.”
I wait for Declan’s irritation, or rage. Wait for him to finally give up on me. “You don’t have to give up either. You also can’t deprive yourself of joy because you’re scared of feeling pain. That’s no way to live your life.”
“I can handle pain just fine,” I scoff.
“Physical pain, absolutely. But you refuse to let yourself feel anyemotionalpain. You try to shove it down and pretend it doesn’t exist. You have to feel it. The pain, the sorrow, the grief. I tried to ignore it in the beginning, tried to ignore how much losing my father broke me. But it only made it worse.”
His words repeat in my head. Over and over again. I know he’s right, know that denying myself the time and space totrulygrieve my father has only hardened me over time. But I’m scared… “I’m scared that if I let myself feel it, feel the grief, it will consume me. That I’ll lose myself forever,” I admit.
“I had the same fear. And I can’t deny that in the beginning, it does feel all-consuming. But over time, the constantsearing pain of losing someone turns more into an occasional throb. It doesn’t go away, but it does feel less debilitating.” Declan places a hand gently, but firmly, on the small of my back. Grounding me.
“How did you get it to hurt less?” I ask breathlessly, desperate for an answer.
Declan’s eyes start to shine. “By allowing myself to feel it all, and remembering all the happy moments that I spent with my father. Remembering how much I loved him.”
My throat constricts and the room feels like it's spinning as my vision blurs. I lose track of where I am in space and time, and I try my best to ground myself in the different sensations around me. My lips taste salty, and my wet cheeks are pressed against something warm and firm. Declan’s scent fills my nose, and I feel him squeeze my waist with his arms. There’s an incredibly irritating panting noise coming from the room, like someone is hyperventilating, and I flush when I realizeI’mthe one making those noises. I want nothing more than to crawl into my room and hide forever, but Declan keeps me firmly in place. With nowhere to go, I let myself think back to all my favorite moments with my father.
How we could code together for hours on the couch while my mom watched her soap operas. The way he always cried when I performed, rather poorly, at one of my elementary school musicals. The way he always told me he loved me before I went to bed—even when I was an angsty teenager and responded to these goodnight texts with a thumbs up. How much we used to laugh together. The way he adored my mother like she hung the moon herself. Is it possible for your heart to feel like it’s being ripped into a hundred different pieces and stitched back together at the same time? That’s how mine feels right now. And as much as it hurt…it’s also the best I’ve felt in a long, long time.
35
DECLAN
