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He was silent for a long moment, and I could see the conflict playing out on his face. He seemed to be struggling with something, some inner chaos that he was wrestling with. I saw a flicker of something cross his face—regret, perhaps? Or was it just guilt?
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he finally said, his voice so low I had to strain to hear it. “But I need you to understand. This is how it has to be.”
“But why?” I shot back, my frustration bubbling up. “Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t you just . . . let me go?”
“I don’t know why I’m like this, Clover!” Declan’s voice reverberated around the room, filled with a raw anger that made me flinch. His fists clenched, and I saw the tension ripple through his muscles.
His chest heaved, his breathing labored as he seemed to grapple with his anger. I watched him, my heart pounding, unsure of what he would do next.
“I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose to be this . . . this monster,” he snarled, the word filled with self-loathing. His hands went through his hair, gripping at the roots as if he could somehow pull the darkness out of himself.
I didn’t know what to say. I had no words of comfort, no solace to offer. All I could do was sit there, watching as Declan wrestled with his inner demons.
“I didn’t want this life,” he confessed, his voice filled with a desperation I hadn’t heard before. “But that’s all I’ve ever known. Violence, pain, darkness . . .”
“I’m sorry, Declan,” I managed to say, my voice weak. I didn’t know if my words offered him any comfort, but it was all I had. It felt wrong to be the one apologizing.
Declan swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gathered his thoughts. His eyes were far away, as if he were watching the memories play out in his mind.
“My foster brother,” he said, his voice rough. “He was a member of a gang. Pulled me in before I had a chance to refuse.” His fingers traced absent patterns on the worn denim of his jeans, a seemingly unconscious gesture. I held my breath, listening to his tale, a striking difference to the tranquility of the room.
“One day,” he continued, his tone steady, but I could see the tension in his jaw. “I had to kill someone . . . to prove my loyalty.” His confession hung in the air, heavy and foreboding.
I was frozen, torn between wanting to comfort him and the cold realization of who he was, what he had done.
“An ex-military man taught me how to handle a gun. Shoot with precision.” Declan’s voice had a detached quality to it, as if he were talking about someone else’s life. The barest hint of a frown tugged at his lips, the only indication of his discomfort.
“I . . .” He paused, his icy blue eyes boring into mine. “I lost myself in that life.” His admission left me breathless, a pang of sorrow seeping into my heart.
“But then,” he began, his eyes drifting toward the window, “I found out that Hank knew who killed my mother. That was all I needed. My life became . . . about revenge.”
His words stirred up a whirlwind of emotions in me. Shock, sympathy, terror—they all clashed within me, leaving me disoriented.
“But now, Clover,” his voice softened, pulling me back from my turmoil. He turned toward me, his eyes radiating a warmth that contradicted his harsh tale. “You . . . you’ve opened up something in me.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
It didn’t fucking make sense. “Why? What’s so special about me?”
“Do I need a reason? Do you want me to list what I like about you? Why I’m willing tokillfor you? Why you’re worth the risk?”
I nodded, nervous for his answer.
Declan licked his lips. “I suppose I could say that it’s because I want to be the hero, but that would be a lie. Saving you made me feel alive. Like I could actually fucking accomplish something. But I’ve never been the hero, Clover. I don’t think that’s it.”
I waited with bated breath for him to continue.
“I’m sure some fucking therapist would blame my trauma. Would say I want to save you because I couldn’t save my mother.”
“Declan—”
“That’s the thing about obsessions, Wildflower. They rarely make sense. I don’t need a reason to crave you—ache for you. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, a spark burns down the whole fucking world. I saw you. I wanted you. I wantedus.”
“I just don’t get it,” I admitted.
“I don’t pretend to be sane, Clover. I don’t pretend to make sense. I don’t pretend to fall into logical categories of what feels right. Whatseemsright. What’s appropriate. Sometimes you just know.”
