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His words about his mother echoed in my mind, the memory of her brutal end something that clearly haunted him. It explained his urge to protect, to keep those around him safe even at a terrible cost.
Despite the cruelty he was capable of, there was a nobility in his actions too. He was molded by pain and loss, but used that to shield others from experiencing the same. This was the complexity of Declan—a man who killed yet sought to preserve life.
I looked up at him, his silhouette stark against the bright lights of the rodeo. He was trouble, yes, but he was also a protector. In some strange, twisted way, he had becomemyprotector, and I couldn’t help but feel a grudging sense of comfort in that.
Declan and I positioned ourselves at the edge of the arena, eyes firmly set on Avery as she prepared for her ride. “Are the Devils here tonight?” I asked, my voice barely rising above a whisper.
He scanned the crowd, looking as intense as a hawk. “Yeah,” he confirmed quietly, “but they probably won’t bother us.”
“Is it safe for us to be together?” I questioned, the words tasting like fear in my mouth. At this, Declan coughed, seeming slightly uneasy.
“It’s not unusual for me to be seen with a pretty woman,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
His comment made me squirm uncomfortable, and I couldn’t help but picture Tara’s flirty smile in my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about the wild romantic life he led before supposedly becomingobsessedwith me. He had a long line of one-night-stands and flings. How could I be sure this means anything to him? And here I was, inextricably tied to him, fighting off feelings of jealousy that seemed to come out of nowhere.
Declan must have caught the change in my expression, because his lips tugged up into a wicked grin. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in closer.
“Are you jealous, Clover?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. The corners of his mouth were twitching, fighting to contain the laughter that was bubbling up within him.
“No,” I denied a little too quickly, a bit more defensively than I’d intended. I shook my head for emphasis, as if the motion would solidify my words. But the uncertain tremor in my voice betrayed my denial.
A hearty chuckle escaped from him then, a sound that was as warm as it was infuriating. I crossed my arms defensively, but he only leaned in closer, his grin never leaving his face.
“Now why don’t I believe that?” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. His fingers traced a path up my arm, sending shivers of anticipation through me. The heat in his expression made me feel exposed, seen, and despite my earlier protests, I knew I wasn’t fooling him one bit.
His amusement at my expense was annoyingly endearing, and I found myself helplessly caught in the dark allure of his humor. This was a side of Declan I liked from the start, one that was lighthearted and playfully affectionate, and it only added to the confusing mess of emotions I was dealing with.
“I’m not . . .” I started again, trying to reclaim some semblance of control, but he cut me off with a gentle squeeze of my hand.
“Relax, Clover,” he reassured, his voice soft, almost tender. “You’ve got nothing to be jealous of.” Despite my better judgment, I found myself believing him. And, much to my surprise, I felt a slight pang of disappointment in myself at my response to his reassurance.
I shouldn’t care.
I should be running the hell away from this man.
The announcer’s voice filled the arena, booming over the loudspeakers. “Next up, we have the Devil’s very own female rider. She’ll bust your balls and ride you hard. Give it up for Avery Matthews!!” I felt my heart hammer in my chest as my sister moved into the spotlight.
My hands gripped the railing, knuckles turning white. I was never good at watching Avery ride, too many memories of our father getting thrown. Knowing that the Devils were lurking in the crowd somewhere, my anxiety was on high alert. Declan noticed the change in my demeanor.
“You okay?” he asked, concern etching his handsome features. I nodded, but the tightness in my throat gave me away.
The gate burst open, and Avery exploded out on the back of a monstrous bull. The crowd roared, a surge of excitement and anticipation. Declan didn’t let his gaze waver from me, even with my sister on the bull. He knew I couldn’t bear to watch, not with the dangerous dance my sister was in.
“Tell me a story, Clover,” he said, his voice a firm command yet gentle, understanding. “Something to distract you.”
Nodding, I latched onto the first memory that popped into my head. “I was seven the first time I rode a horse,” I started, trying to focus on the memory rather than Avery’s ride. “She was an old mare named Daisy. Gentle and patient, perfect for an excited little girl.”
As I dove into the memory, I could hear the crowd’s reaction to Avery’s ride, each cheer and gasp acting as a terrible reminder of what was happening just a few feet away. But Declan’s hand was a grounding force, his thumb tracing comforting circles on the back of my hand.
“Daisy was a beautiful chestnut color, with a white blaze down her nose,” I continued, my voice shaking slightly. “I remember being terrified, but the moment I was on her back, it felt . . . right. Like I was meant to be there.”
Throughout my story, Declan’s hand never left mine. His steady presence served as an anchor, helping me get through Avery’s ride. I could hear the cheers grow louder, signaling the end of her ride. My heart pounded in my chest as I waited for the dust to settle, my story forgotten, replaced by the fear of what might have happened to my sister.
And then she was there, standing in front of us, all dusted up, panting, and grinning from ear to ear. Avery had been thrown, that was clear from the state of her, but she was standing. She was okay.
“Didn’t stick the landing, but hell, was that a ride or what?” she exclaimed, her chest heaving with exertion. She doubled over, trying to catch her breath, but the excitement in her eyes was unmistakable.
Despite the whirl of emotions streaming through me—relief, fear, anger—a laugh bubbled up from within me. It was shaky, teetering on the edge of hysteria, but it was a laugh all the same.
