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I was drawn to the scars, those imperfect patches that interrupted the smooth flow of his flesh. Each one was a cryptic tale written into his skin, of battles won and lost. His muscles were the product of a life lived on the edge, shaped and hardened by demanding physical labor.
The expanse of his chest was commanding, a fortress of muscle veined with dark hair that emphasized the unrestrained strength lying just beneath the surface.
“Sit tight.” Declan’s command sliced through the tension in the air, delivered in a tone that brooked no argument. He bore my scrutiny without a hint of discomfort, his stance betraying a familiarity with being under a critical stare.
His eyes locked with mine as they traced over the raw scars littering his torso, provoking a deep sigh from him. “Legacy of one of my foster dads,” he divulged, honesty seeping into his usually guarded tone. It was a crack in his usual stoic front, offering a fleeting glimpse into a history he often kept shrouded.
Even as the blistering pain of my new brand throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat, his admission kindled an odd sense of connection. Our pasts had branded us, although in very different ways, molding us into who we stood as today. His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of shared pain. “And now you’re going to mark me too,” he breathed, his words a mere whisper, carried away by the Texas wind. “Brand me, Wildflower.”
I stiffened, my breath hitching in the cool air. A wave of pure dread rolled through me, dark and overwhelming, as the meaning of his words sank in. He wanted me to mark him like he had done to me. The violent memory of searing pain was still too fresh, the scorching sting of the brand on my skin a constant reminder.
“No,” I muttered, instinctively recoiling from him, my voice shaky. “I won’t do it.”
Declan’s demeanor shifted, a strange gentleness replacing his earlier harshness. He closed the gap between us, his strong hands enclosing mine. The warmth of his skin seemed to pulse against mine, his expression almost tender.
“You’re gonna take some of the power back,” he stated gruffly, a glimmer of vulnerability in his expression. “I’ve marked you, now it’s your turn to mark me, to own me, just like I own you.”
“I don’t want to own you, Declan,” I responded, the words slipping out amidst the whirlwind of emotions. He was so close, his energy so potent, it was hard to think. I needed a doctor to look at the agonizing brand on my skin. The pain was too real, too present.
His lips curved into a wicked grin, his grip on my hands tightening. “Too damn bad, Wildflower,” he said, “because you’re stuck with me. I’m yours just as much as you’re mine.”
Declan’s hand moved with purpose, seizing the branding iron still alive with a harsh, fiery glow. Its heat was a palpable, radiating energy, a searing reminder of the savage moment in which we were suspended. His hard eyes locked onto mine, a mix of fervor and resolve swirling within their depths.
Wordlessly, he pressed the burning iron onto his bare chest, the hiss of searing flesh piercing the tense silence. A guttural grunt escaped his lips, but no cry of pain, no tears; his ironclad resilience was as mesmerizing as it was chilling. I was drawn in, captivated by the gruesome spectacle, my gaze unwavering as he finished branding his skin.
The scent of charred flesh hung heavy in the air, a stomach-churning stench that had me fighting the urge to gag. Still, Declan remained stoic, enduring the self-inflicted agony with an eerie level of composure.
As he set down the branding iron, he turned to me, a triumphant grin splitting his face. The sweltering mark on his chest matched the one on my shoulder, a gruesome testament to our twisted bond.
“We’re connected now, Wildflower,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a strange, unsettling kind of affection emanating from him. “For better or worse.”
DECLAN
Isat on the porch, my eyes fixed on the dusty road stretching out from the farmhouse. A heat haze shimmered in the distance, but there was no sign of Laura’s beat-up Toyota nor Avery’s silhouette in the passenger seat. The farm was quiet save for the steady buzz of insects and the occasional bird call. The silence was heavy with anticipation.
I knew they’d come looking for Clover.
And I was ready to set them straight.
Inside, Clover was resting. After the branding, after I’d pressed the hot iron against her flawless skin and marked her as mine, I’d done everything I could to ease her pain. I’d disinfected the raw, angry mark, smeared it with a thick layer of cooling cream, and bandaged it carefully, all the while making sure to keep my touch light. She was mine, yes, but that didn’t mean I would let her suffer.
I’d managed to find some pain pills in the medicine cabinet, and they seemed to help. At least, she hadn’t cried out in pain since she took them, which I took as a good sign. I wished I could do more. Wished I could take away the pain entirely.
But this was necessary.
I loved the brand on my own chest. I almost didn’t want to treat it. Just let it heal in its painful glory so I could revel in the fact that we shared the same mark.
It was beautiful. Far better than the ring I bought her. Better than declarations. It was a real, tangible wound that would scar and stick with the both of us together.
I stole a glance at the door, half expecting to see her standing in the doorway, watching me with those piercing eyes of hers. But the house remained still, its windows reflecting the setting sun.
I rested my hands on my thighs, feeling the rough fabric of my jeans beneath my fingertips. My mind was filled with a myriad of thoughts, an overwhelming surge of emotions—regret, desire, a twisted kind of affection. All for the woman inside the house, branded by my hand. I’d hurt her, yes, but I’d also cared for her. And I would continue to do so.
The sound of crunching gravel brought me back to reality. Avery’s truck pulled up, dust pluming around it as the tires came to a halt. She swung out, the door slamming shut behind her. She was a vision of pure Texan grit; high-waisted denim jeans hugged her figure, a loose flannel shirt was tied around her slender waist, and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots completed the picture.
But what caught my attention was the shotgun.
She held it with surprising steadiness for a woman her size, pointing it square at my chest. I didn’t move, not because I was afraid—I’d stared down far scarier things than a nervous cowgirl with a shotgun—but because any movement might be misconstrued as a threat.
