If wishes were granted, this would be mine. I wanted to remain in his lap forever. To never lose that feeling because he was everything in that moment. Gentle and loving. Lying there, I felt like a child. Like a little girl being taken care of by her father. And although he wasn’t my father, somehow he carried pieces of that man inside of him. It wasn’t something he was even aware of, but I was. I saw it and felt it every time I was in the presence of Declan. He held it all: lover, protector, fighter. He was the ultimate fairytale, and I would have done anything to make him my fairytale.
“What have you done to yourself?” his voice murmurs above me. “Sit up.”
He helps me from his lap, and we sit face to face when he instructs, “Lift your arms,” and when I do, he slips the sweater off of me.
Blood stains the back of the top, and he continues to clean me up before spotting my luggage and pulling out a clean shirt that he then puts on me.
Letting go of a deep breath, he sits in front of me while I remain by the side of the bed. Some of my blood colors his knuckles as I watch him drag his hand back through his thick hair. I observe the details of his movements, the way his chest rises and falls with each deep breath he takes, the way a lock of his hair falls over his forehead in dishevelment, the lines of torment that crease his face, the dark lashes that outline and brighten his green eyes that are pinned to mine.
With my trembling hand, I reach up and lightly touch his face with the tips of my fingers. He doesn’t flinch or move when I do this, something I thought I’d never be able to do again. And then I mutter my first words on a hushed breath drenched thick in heartbreak, “I thought you were dead.”
His throat flexes when he takes a hard swallow. “I know you did,” he responds, voice strained.
“Your father . . . ” I start, struggling to keep my words alive. “He told me . . . ”
“It was a lie.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want you looking for me.”
Truths are blades. But I deserve every cut that comes my way.
“Your head looks really bad,” he notes. “Why? Why are you doing this to yourself?”
I reach back to touch his gift that burns in my flesh, and I’m embarrassed when I answer him with honesty, because I refuse to hide myself from him anymore.
“I didn’t want to let it go?”
“It’s grotesque, Nina.”
“Please. Don’t . . . don’t call me that.”
He drops his head, saying, “I want to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“My hands itch with the need to rip you apart. I crave it,” he confesses and then shifts his eyes back to mine. They’re dark and bitter, dilated in vehemence.
“I deserve it.”
“You do,” he agrees.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around them, hugging myself.
“Why are you here?”
“I needed to know something . . . ” His head drops again, and the utter agony in his voice when he continues wrecks me. “The baby . . . ”
A broken whimper forces its way out of me.
“Was it even mine?”
The last thing I want to do is hurt Declan more than what I already have. I want to lie, tell him yes, tell him he was the only one I was sleeping with, convince him of my love.
But I can’t.
I don’t want to hurt him with the truth, but I also don’t want to comfort him with lies.
“I need to know,” he urges.
His eyes shine bright with tears I know threaten him, and I cowardly shake my head.
He takes a push back, widening the gap between us, and leans his head against the dresser.
“Why?”
“I wanted it to be,” I tell him as I begin to cry from what was stolen from me.
“So it was Bennett’s baby?”
“I don’t know.”
Confusion strikes his face. “What does that mean?”
God, I hate this. Hate that I keep deepening the wound. Tears soak my cheeks as I stall.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” he presses.
“Because . . . b-because . . . ”
“Say it.”
“There was someone else.”
My words ignite a fire within him. His neck is tense, reddening in anger. With elbows on knees and white-knuckled fists clenching hair, I know he’s about to blow.
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Declan,” I say in my attempt to explain the fucked up relationship Pike and I had.
“Besides me and Bennett, you were fucking someone else?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then it’s exactly what I’m thinking!” he seethes.
“No. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t . . . ” God, how the hell do I begin to explain this? “He was . . . This is going to sound crazy, I know, but it isn’t.”
“I fucking hate you.”
“I love you! Not Bennett. Not Pike. You!”
“Wait.” He pauses for a moment, and then continues, “That name. That guy . . . I went to see him. Found his name in the file your husband had on you.”
“Yeah.”
“This shit is so fucked up. I can’t even get my thoughts straight.”
“Pike’s my brother,” I reveal.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“My foster bother,” I clarify in a rush. “He’s my foster brother.”