Page 33 of The Forbidden Bodyguard

Did he lose friends in battle? Did they have wives who struggled to get on with their lives?

In some ways, it's why I chose my story plot.

“I will leave you both to wander around.” Victoria smiles and quietly strides back to her glossy white desk.

Declan stays by my side as we walk from painting to painting in comfortable silence.

I imagine Belinda’s world, her chaos and grief, as her story merges with my character and brings her to life. It feels a little sordid given her real life suffering and her husband's, but this is how one gets inspiration for storytelling. That, and our own experience and imagination.

Declan stops before one and studies it for a long while.

I feel the need to say something, to let him know I’m aware, and if he wants to talk, I am happy to listen. “Did you lose friends?”

“No.” He shakes his head without looking away.

“Oh.” I blink, feeling stupid. “Sorry, I thought...stupid. Do you like art?”

For all I know, he’s into macabre things.

He might just be intrigued.

His eyes dip to mine, and his lips soften. “You’re not stupid, Stella.”

I feel it.

“Well, I assumed,” I wave my hand out. “Because you were in the Army.”

“Navy,” he clarifies while my cheeks flame.

“Gah. See...stupid.”

I knew that, but my mind blanked out, and I blame his huge biceps.

Declan chuckles and turns back to the painting. “My father was killed in action. Mom has never moved on.”

Oh, God.

“How long ago?” I ask softly, and without questioning myself, I place a hand on his arm.

Declan doesn’t react at first; his gaze remains locked on the deep blue swirls on this piece. When his eyes drift to mine, they’re rich with emotion that wasn’t visible before.

“Twelve years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, emotion boiling up inside my chest.

He draws in a breath and shakes his head. “He was a hero. A SEAL. My hero.”

I don’t make a sound, waiting for him to continue.

“Mom has kept his memory alive through me while I served, but now I’m worried about her. I want her to move on. This art...this woman. She’s done it.”

I rub his arm and turn back to the painting of the house on a lone island surrounded by a wild ocean. There is something violent and yet beautiful about it.

“And you? Have you grieved your dad?”

His head snaps around as if coming out of a daze. “No, I’ve been too busy living in his shadow and the expectations others have had of me. Jesus, sorry. I don’t know why I’m sharing this.”

“Don’t apologize. I like you talking to me.” I realize my hand has slid down his arm into his hand. His fingers tighten as he faces me.