"Was it just about the money?" he asks. "Did you even have feelings for me? Or was that fake, too?"
I hang my head, pausing with my hand on the doorknob. I turn to speak, to tell him that of course I felt something, that I still do, that this is killing me, but he takes that chance away.
"Never mind. It doesn't matter, get out."
The finality in his voice shatters what's left of my composure. I slip through the door and close it behind me, leaning against it as the first sob tears through me.
I press a hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sound. I'm an idiot. I know it's the right thing, but it feels like I'm dying. He does deserve everything I can't give him, and clearly people around me continue to get hurt. Callum was right: just do my job, get money, and move on.
In the end, Declan will be happier; I probably won't be, but a blissful life is never in my future anyway.
I push away from the door and start down the hallway, vision blurred by tears. I keep telling myself it's the right thing, but that doesn't stop this ache in my chest; god, it feels like I just tore out my own heart.
Because the truth is, and I now know more than ever, I love him.
But love doesn't erase danger or give you the ability to do things you can't.
It sure as hell doesn't undo the damage I've already caused him.
And once again, I ruin the one good thing I ever had.
30
DECLAN
It's day four of this bullshit, and I'm about to lose my goddamn mind.
The worst part isn't the pain. It's not the stitched-up wound in my side or the way my ribs still hurt when I breathe too deeply. It's not the bruises or the dizziness or the fucking pills Nina keeps pushing like candy.
It's waking up and knowing she's already gone.
Every morning since the fight, I open my eyes and search the room, not for my gun, not for my phone, but for her. But Lyra's never there.
My ribs scream in protest as I straighten up, the bandages pulling tight across my side. The kitchen is empty now, but the scent of her lingers. Sweet and pure, that strange combination that's become like oxygen to me. She was just here. Again. Always one step ahead of me, always making sure we don't cross paths.
I only get traces of her.
She's around. But never with me.
It's like being haunted.
Except she's alive.
Just, not mine.
Her coffee mug sits on the counter across from me, still warm, half-full. Her lipstick mark on the rim, pale pink and barely there, is obvious to me. I want to throw the fucking thing against the wall, watch it shatter like whatever this is between us. Instead, I turn away and replay the conversation I had with her this morning.
"Declan." Her voice cold, professional. Too fucking professional. "I need to check your bandages."
I laid there, shirtless on the bed, while she worked, her fingers quick and impersonal against my skin. Nothing like before. Nothing like when she touches me and I feel it everywhere.
"Healing nicely," she said, stepping back immediately, putting distance between us. "Try not to exert yourself too much."
"Hard not to exert myself when I'm constantly chasing a ghost around my own house," I snapped.
"I'm not a ghost. I'm right here." Her voice had that hard edge, the one she uses when she's lying to herself.
"Are you?" I asked. "Because it seems like every time I walk into a room, you've just left it."
