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The barn door protested under my push, creaking open to reveal a sight that shattered the world around me. There, amidst the scattered tools and dust-laden floor, stood Clover. The faint light that managed to breach the old wooden boards of the barn danced on her figure, painting her in a spectral glow. She held a shovel, its edge shining with a vicious promise under the ambient moonlight.
But it was the sight beneath her that struck me the hardest, Jim Harlow lay at her feet, his life’s essence pooling around his lifeless form. His once threatening presence was now nothing but a silenced menace, vanquished by the woman who dared to stand against him.
She killed him.
The object of my obsession. My affection. My world.
She killed the man I’d been searching for. My life’s purpose. My revenge.
Her skin was adorned with crimson, the blood painting her in a morbid masterpiece of survival. Her eyes met mine, glowing with a fierce determination that eclipsed the tragedy of the situation. At that moment, she was no damsel. She was a warrior. A survivor. An avenger.
My breath hitched in my throat, every fear, every doubt, drowned under the wave of gratitude that surged within me. The sight of her, standing tall and victorious, was more beautiful than any sunrise, any rainbow, any star-lit sky. She was beauty personified, not in the traditional sense, but in a way that resonated deep within my soul. She was beautiful not because of her symmetry, but because of her strength, her courage, her defiance.
The gun slipped from my numb fingers, its impact against the barn floor distant against the thunderous drumming in my ears. I was drawn to her, my steps unsteady as I closed the gap between us. When I reached her, it was as if a seismic shift occurred within me. My arms wrapped around her, holding her to me as if our survival depended on that singular act.
Her arms reciprocated my hold, her touch a grounding force amidst the chaos that surrounded us. I buried my face in her hair, the faint scent of her shampoo clashing with the metallic tang of blood that permeated the air. We clung to each other, two survivors in a sea of past and present horrors.
Clover clung to me as if I were her only tether to reality. Her voice, usually so soft and soothing, was raw and fractured as she whispered my name.
“Declan.”
“Wildflower, I was so fucking worried about you.”
Her arms tightened around me, her fingers digging into my back through the fabric of my shirt.
The warmth of her lips crashed against mine, a storm of emotions conveyed in a single act. The taste of her was mingled with the iron tang of blood, a haunting reminder of the violence that had just taken place. She was fervent, almost frantic, her hands roaming across my skin, leaving smears of red in their wake.
Her nails scraped down my back, each mark a fiery line of possession. It was as though she was trying to burrow into me, seeking solace within the contours of my body. Her need was noticeable, wrapping us in a shroud of vulnerability.
The sharp sting of her teeth against my lip jolted me, a sharp contrast to the sweet taste of her mouth. I could taste her tears now, the saltiness intermingling with our shared breaths. They were echoes of her fears, her traumas, her fight for survival.
This wasn’t a simple act of intimacy. It was a communion, a mingling of our shared turmoil and relief. It was Clover marking me as her refuge and, in turn, my silent vow to always be there for her. It was us, reclaiming our story, our bodies, from the nightmare of past and present monsters. We were survivors, painting our defiance in shades of crimson and tears.
The power of the moment faded, though our hold on each other remained. I pulled away, my eyes tracing her face, looking for any wounds or signs of distress. Her eyes were bright with a fierce determination, and I could feel her skin radiating with heat against my own.
She touched my face, her fingertips light against my stubbled jawline. Then, she smiled, the expression tinged with sadness but bursting with strength.
“I’m alright,” she murmured, almost as if she had to convince herself of the fact.
I nodded, pressing a kiss to her forehead before I stepped away from her and guided her toward the barn wall on the other side, away from Jim’s body.
I held her clothes in my hands, the fabric heavy with Jim’s blood. I could no longer stand the sight of them on Clover, so I started stripping them off without a word.
Her breathing had become shallow and rapid, a moan accompanying each movement of my hands. She kept reaching for me, desperately clasping onto me as if I could remain her anchor throughout this storm.
I ripped off her shirt, pulling it away from her body before tossing it aside. Her jeans were next. The zipper stuck at first before being forced down with one tug. My fingers fumbled around the clasp of her bra before finally successfully tugging it apart.
Once all of her bloody clothing was gone, she stood in front of me, clad only in pale skin and determination. Though she was shaking slightly from adrenaline and fear, there was an undeniable strength radiating from her body that filled me with awe.
I took a step back, admiring her beauty and power. The moonlight cast a soft glow on her skin, making her appear ethereal.
I reached out for her, and she hesitated at first before finally taking my hand. I felt a jolt of electricity when our skin touched, a promise of something bigger yet to come.
“Show me your brand,” I said softly, gesturing toward her shoulder, where I knew the evidence of our bond still bloomed.
I needed to see it.
Feel it.
