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Before I could fully grasp the situation, the icy sharpness of the blade slipped gently under the edge of my shirt. His actions were measured, deliberate, completely at odds with the unhinged sparkle in his eyes. He sliced the fabric away, slow and almost worshiping. A pang of panic stabbed me, my fingers pulling futilely at the ropes binding my hands.
But they held tight.
Then, I felt a strange stirring. It was not just fear—it was something more, something I rarely let myself feel. The realization hit me hard: this was a kind of twisted awakening. I was always the one in control, the one making decisions. But here, in this moment, having that control stripped away felt . . . freeing. It was a scary yet oddly exhilarating feeling. Was I attracted to the danger, to his dominance, and to the strange release of surrendering control? Maybe. It didn’t mean it was right, but it was a part of me that I was just now discovering.
But this situation was far from the terror I experienced in the tent. Back then, control was ripped away from me by a man who only wanted to hurt and dominate, a nightmare I never wanted to revisit.
But this . . . this was different. He was different.
He wasn’t a predator preying on my vulnerability; he was a protector, someone I trusted with my life. And for the first time, I found myself willingly surrendering control. Strangely enough, I wasn’t just accepting it; I was reveling in it. The contrast was startling, but the realization was more so. I was no longer a victim, but a participant, exploring the contours of my desires.
“Declan, stop!” Even as I begged, I didn’t want him to stop. My plea howled through the small space, but he seemed to pay no mind. He just continued, the knife gliding through the material as if it were nothing more than butter. My pulse pounded a frenzied rhythm in my chest. I closed my eyes, refusing to see the look on his face as he cut the last of my shirt.
I felt the cool air of the RV against my skin as my shirt fell open, leaving me exposed. My breath caught in my throat, my body trembling. He paused, the silence in the small space deafening. I could hear the ragged sound of my own breathing, feel the cold sweat beading on my forehead.
I risked a glance at Declan. His eyes were dark, focused on the task at hand, and there was a look of grim determination on his face. He looked up at me, and for a moment, our eyes locked.
“Declan, please . . .” I tried again, my voice barely above a whisper. The ropes chafed against my skin as I tugged on them again, but it was futile.
“Hush, Clover,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. The knife was back at work, now at the waistband of my sweats. I closed my eyes again, despair washing over me.
As my sweats were cut away, I felt the cool air caress my bare legs, the vulnerability of my situation hitting me with a new wave of dread. But Declan didn’t stop, his gaze on me never wavering as he discarded the remains of my clothing.
His eyes fell on my thighs, and I watched his face darken, a fierce rage replacing the cool detachment.
The bruises.
The ones left by James.
I remembered the unwanted touches.
His fingers ghosted over the discolored skin, his touch featherlight but still enough to make me flinch. He let out a string of curses under his breath, his fingers clenching into a tight fist before he regained control of himself.
With a sudden, chilling calmness, he picked up the knife again. He trailed the flat side of the blade over my bruises, his movements gentle, almost caring, the sharp edge a vivid contradiction to his soft touch.
“I’d cut his touch out of you if I could, Wildflower,” he muttered, his voice a low growl. He looked at me, his eyes dark, the manic energy I’d seen earlier now replaced with a cold, ruthless determination.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry and scratchy. My mind raced as I searched for a way out of this situation. His words were a twisted lullaby that filled me with a horrifying mix of fear and beguilement. I was at his mercy, and I could only hope that his bizarre fascination with me would not lead to something worse.
The blade was at my neck now, a cold, sharp caress that made me tense up. Panic surged, pushing at the edges of my consciousness, and I struggled against my restraints, the ropes digging painfully into my skin. Yet, amidst the fear, there was another sensation bubbling up. One that was completely out of place, unexpected.
I was trembling, not solely from the threat of the blade at my throat, but from something else. Something that came unbidden, stirring in the pit of my stomach and spreading warmth through my veins. Arousal. I fluttered, confused and a little horrified at my own response. Was something wrong with me?
Declan’s ocean eyes bore into mine. “Admit it,” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. The blade stayed steady at my throat, its cold presence a stark contrast to the heat blooming within me. “You want me to erase him for you. Erase him from your body.”
His words stole the air from my lungs. I gaped at him, too shocked to formulate a response. Did I want that? To erase the man, his touch, his violation, from my body? The thought was horrifying, repulsive . . . and a tiny, traitorous part of me whispered,yes.
I stayed silent. Declan’s fierce look didn’t waver, his eyes studying me, evaluating me, challenging me. The weight of his stare was like a physical touch. There was something about his passion, his single-minded obsession, that had me both frightened and entranced.
“I . . .” My voice trailed off. What could I say? What did he want to hear? I was playing a treacherous game, and I didn’t know the rules. I felt lost, adrift in the ocean of his madness, fear and desire churning inside me like stormy waves. I was scared of him, of what he could do, but I was also inexplicably drawn to him, to his dark passion.
He leaned in closer, so close that I could feel his breath fanning my lips, a tantalizing tease. His scent, a heady mix of pine and something uniquely Declan, flooded my senses, making my head spin. My heart pounded in my chest like a drum, every beat echoing his name. Declan. Declan. Declan.
“Admit it,” he said again, a soft demand that carried an undercurrent of anticipation. “Say it, Clover, and I’ll reward you. I’ll make those memories vanish. I’ll replace them withme.”
I was teetering on the edge, caught between wanting to give in to the strange, forbidden allure he presented and resisting his commands. I was scared, petrified even, but that tiny spark, that perverse part of me, craved him. Craved the oblivion he offered.
Was it the fear? The adrenaline? Or was it something more? Something about Declan, with his menacing yet protective demeanor, his madness wrapped around an odd sort of tenderness, struck a chord deep within me. I was drawn to the fire in his eyes, the promise of an escape, however temporary, from the terror that haunted me.
