“Declan,” I mutter, kissing his neck. “I don’t want you to come to bed for sleep.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Let me finish this.”
Swallowing down my frustration, I try to fight against the brewing anger in my gut. This need to push back swells inside of me like a storm.
“Fine,” I say with a hint of indignation. “If you won’t play with me, I’ll find someone who will.”
His hand pauses. “You will not.”
“Why?” I ask, trying to remain playful, although this defiance feels more real than it should. “What will you do? Punish me?”
He turns his head to glare daggers at me. “You bloody know I will.” The way he said that definitely wasnotplayful.
I shrug my shoulders, although they feel stiff. “Fine by me. Maybe I want to get punished.”
Dropping his brush, he turns toward me. “I’m not playing, Colin.”
“Well, maybe that’s the problem, Declan. You’re being too serious. So what if it’s a party? So what if there’s alcohol and sex? What are you so worried about?”
“I’m not having this argument with you,” he growls as he turns back toward his painting.
“Then why can’t I go have a little fun?”
“Because you’re mine!” he bellows, slamming his fist on the table. I jolt, heat flushing my cheeks as I stare at him. Tears begin to prick behind my eyes as I fight the urge to cry.
When he looks at me, the anger melts away, and it’s like a switch has suddenly been flipped.
“Fuck, Shelby, I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for me. And when he tugs me into his arms, I let him. Wrapping his arms around me, he kisses my cheek, but I don’t relax against him. “I’m such a bloody arsehole,” he murmurs into my ear. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I mumble before pulling away.
“Come on, let’s go to bed,” he says as he stands from the stool. But I quickly shake my head.
“It’s fine. Finish your painting.”
As I move back toward the bed and climb under the covers, it feels as if I bring a live wire of tension with me. He eventually turns back to his painting, but his movements are slow and melancholy. Nothing is the same as it was a moment ago. And nowhere near what it was years ago.
I let silent tears soak the pillow as I realize that he’s right—I am his. But suddenly, it feels more like a prison than it did before.
Eight days a year was never enough and will never be enough. It can’t bridge the gap we’ve created as we grow and change over time.
And worst of all, I realize that I only matter eight days a year to Declan. That’s all I am to him.
How could I put up with this for so long? How much longer would I keep it up before finally demanding more? I don’t want to waste all of my good years on a love that takes more than it gives.
I don’t know how much time goes by before I sit up on the bed, placing my feet on the floor and facing him.
“Declan,” I say as I place my hands on my knees.
When he doesn’t even turn his head toward me, I feel as if I’m bracing myself for battle.
“Please look at me,” I say.
“I can’t,” he replies sadly.
This sadness grows thick in my throat like a disease, but I can’t keep shoving it down. So when I speak again, I let it all out. The sadness, the regret, the pain. It cracks and shatters my voice, but I don’t care. He needs to hear it.
“I wish you’d tell me why you’re so sad. I’m here to listen. Let me help.”
