Chapter 32

"Declan."

This is both so much worse and so much better than I'd feared. I get up and take a tentative step toward him, and when he doesn't move away, I span the remaining distance. I rethink hugging him, because I'm still soaking wet—and then rethink it again, because so is he. He also needs it—I can see that in the lines of his body, in the way he won't look at me.

A surprised sound escapes him when I get down and wrap my arms around him, but he doesn't shrug me off. Thank God. He doesn't reciprocate either.

"You're not a monster," I say, because I could see in his eyes that he thinks of himself that way. He doesn't believe he's deserving of love or a life, because he took one.

Maybe I'm being na?ve to trust a man who just admitted he knowingly worked in organized crime for several years. But I've gotten to know Declan. It's obvious he'd do anything for his brother and sister. For me. And I've seen how much he loved his parents, even though his father fucked him over. How much he cared about Dick, even though Dick was, by most accounts, well named. And I've seen the love and care he puts into nourishing his plants. It wouldn't be fair to define him by the worst things he done.

Besides, a part of me understands how it must have gone down. Didn't I spend years under the thumb of a more overbearing personality? I know what it's like to bend to the will of someone powerful, someone who can make you feel like a god in one breath and a crushed ant the next. I know. There's a thrill to living your life like that, teetering between salvation and annihilation—just a breath or a whisper away from either.

There were moments with Agnes when I could see my dream—the awning, the sign, the line out the door. She'd even talk it over with me like it was a done deal before reaching into my head and snatching the vision away the next time her latte wasn't a perfect 155 degrees.

I can see Declan is disgusted with himself for having allowed his uncle so much power over him and his siblings, but here's the thing—when you get yourself into a situation like that, under someone's thrall, it happens so slowly you don't register what's going on. In the beginning, Agnes wasn't sending me to airports to pick up her coat from lost in found, or to ten different stores to find her favorite discontinued brand of lip gloss. She'd tested me, one disagreeable task at a time, until she knew I'd do anything. And that's what Declan's uncle was doing, escalating so slowly that Declan didn't realize it until it was too late. Until they stood at the top of that staircase…

Maybe I'm a bad person, but I don't regret that his uncle's dead. He wouldn't have stopped. People like him never do. Not unless someone takes a stand and stops them. And I don't even think Declan intentionally did that—it's more like karma reached out and decided to plant his uncle in that exact spot when he said those exact words.

Would my real father want me to be with such a complicated man?

Absolutely not. But he operated by the "what she doesn't know won't hurt her" rule for twenty-eight years. Maybe it's my turn to play that card.

"You're not a monster," I repeat, lifting his hand and kissing the back of his knuckles and then the palm. A tortured sound escapes him, and I dip my head and kiss his neck—his Adam's apple, his bearded chin. His nose. He watches me with an expression of disbelief, almost of wonder as I say, "No one is just one thing. We're all a mixture of good and bad. I've seen the man you are, and you are not a monster." I press a hand to his chest, feel his rapidly beating heart, and lift my lips to his brow to kiss him there too. His eyes have an entreaty in him, like he wants to believe me but can't bring himself to, so I repeat it again. "You are not a monster."

A gasp escapes me as Declan finally wraps his arms around me, pulling me onto his lap. And I lean up and kiss him. I tell him again, this time without saying anything, that I see him and like what I see. He makes a brutal sound and sinks his hand into my hair, pulling me closer, kissing me like it is, again, his last act. His lips and teeth and tongue all seem bent on consuming me. I know with sudden certainty: no one else will ever kiss me like this, treat me like I'm irreplaceable. And I kiss back him the same way, showing him how much I want to keep him, how little I want to return to my life before. The Claire before. This person I'm becoming is the one I want to be, and he's been part of teasing her out.

As he sucks in my lower lip, I reach for the soaked hem of his shirt and shove it up, and he pulls it off with a fluid movement, revealing the crow on his sculpted chest, and in seconds he has my shirt off, too, then my bra. I crowd into his warmth, wanting to soak it up, to bottle it up but never to sell it. Because I'm going to keep everything to do with him in a locked cabinet in my soul and save it only for myself. His hand flexes in my hair, and he pulls back slightly. "I need you. Fuck, I need you so bad."

"Then take what you need," I say, using the words he said to me a week ago in this same place. I rock against him, feeling how much he wants me. And knowing, again, it's never been like this with anyone else. It will never be like this with anyone else. Feeling a desperate need to make him stay.

He swears, his hands lowering to my hips as I move against him. "I don't have a condom."

"I'm on the pill. Are you—"

"I've always used protection. Are you sure?"

I rock against him again. "Oh, I'm sure."

He shoves my shorts and underwear down, his hands trembling slightly, and I get up so he can finish undressing too, our clothes forming wet heaps on the ground of the greenhouse. A chill tries to work through me, but it doesn't get very far because he pulls me to him, his heat soaking into me and making me warm from the inside out.

"The things I want to do to you…"

"Thousands of pages couldn't cover all the things I want to do to you."

He spears a hand into my hair and holds on, the nerve endings lighting up. "I want you to straddle me, like you did that first day."

"You mean when I dry-humped you by the side of the road?" I ask, almost needing to squirm against the tide of need that sentence pulls from me.

"Yes," he hisses, hiking my thigh up around his waist. His hand finds me where I'm wet and desperate for him, and I make a sound that's frankly embarrassing. But from the way his cock pulses against me, he likes it. "I've been thinking of it ever since."

So had I. Then again, my imagination has been very free with Declan. He's unleashed a side of me that's been slumbering my whole life, waiting for someone to kiss it awake.

He's still playing with me as he leans in and kisses my neck, just beneath the ear, and then trails kisses down to my breasts. Groaning, he takes my nipple into his mouth and sucks, and what his hand and his mouth are doing make my knees threaten to buckle. He must sense it because he sits and guides me down to him.

"Declan," I breathe against his lips, his cock captured beneath me. I rock against it, the pressure hitting perfectly right, and I feel like I did that day on the side of the road—lost to him. Lost to sense, reason, and logic. My fingers trace the crow on his chest, and I send up a wish for him—that he can let go. That he can be free. That he can be mine. Feeling feverish, I rock harder, bursts of pleasure lighting up my body each time I do. I grab the back of his hair, and I kiss him.

"That's it, baby," he says, pulling away slightly, his eyes finding mine. "You take what you want."

What I want is him, so I lift up, adjust him and then slowly lower down, taking him in deep, watching his eyes as they flutter with pleasure. "I want you," I say. "I want you."

"Then I'm luckier than I deserve," he says, his voice strained, and he thrusts into me as I press down. He's in so deep, so deliciously deep. He kisses me, his lips and tongue claiming me as his cock does—the same way I'm claiming him each time I press against him, asking for and getting more. Kissing his lips and his neck and his bearded chin. I want everything. I want time to go slower, to give me more of this, to let this moment stretch out forever—to take over everything that will come afterward and all the uncertainty and anxiety that came before. I want him, and I want him here, and I want him always.

I don't know where that thought comes from, but I don't have time to explore it, because I feel it coming. I feel a bigger release than I've ever had edging up on me as he kisses me and thrusts inside, all the while looking at me like I'm someone he adores. And then he captures my back with his hand and rocks forward, pushing me to the ground—a cold contrast to the hot, muscular man on top of me—and guides my legs around his hips as he strokes in deeper, hitting me at exactly the right angle to make me lose my mind.

"That's it," he whispers into my ear, chasing the words with a kiss. A stroke of his cock. Taking my hands and pinning them above my head, which instantly makes me even more feral as the waves of pleasure ripple through me, filling each limb, each cell of my body. "That's my girl."

I squeeze around him, I feel his breath come in faster pants, and then he's burrowing his head into my neck, his cock swelling inside of me, and his body shudders and then settles into mine. And he's mine, in that moment he's really mine. He kisses my neck and then turns us onto our sides, his cock still buried inside of me.

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers to my mouth.

"Good."

I feel his smile as much as see it. "I'm fucked up."

"I think I am too," I say. "So it's not really the turn-off you might think it is."

His hand soothes up and down my back and then he pulls out. "I'll be right back."

I sit up, watching, because I can't bear to let him out of my sight right now. But he retrieves a towel from a cabinet at the side of the greenhouse, runs it under the tap, then comes back. He strokes it between my legs, making the sensitive skin light up again, asking for more, please.

He sets it aside, then gathers me in his arms again, with me facing him. My heart is swollen and large, and I feel it in my throat as I say, "I don't want you to push me away. And I really, really don't want you to leave."

"Your sister and her husband know everything," he says into my hair, his hands flexing on my back.

"Yes," I say, "but she's known for half a week, and she hasn't done anything about it. I don't think she's the type of person who feels obliged to…well, anything, to be honest."

He pulls back to look at me, and I can tell from the set of his jaw that he doesn't particularly trust Nicole to do the right thing—or the wrong thing, depending on a person's perspective.

I trace the tattoo on his chest. It's beautifully rendered, the ink whirling over his pec. "What's this from?"

His mouth twitches and he captures my hand against his hot flesh. "It's the sign for my uncle's organization. I wanted to remove it, to get laser treatments or burn it off if I had to, but I felt like I deserved to be marked."

I purse my lips. "You know, crows are seen as a positive sign. They stand for transformation and change." I pause, considering if I should share what I have to say, then decide screw it and do: "They can also symbolize someone trying to send a message from the other side. A good message."

There's a benefit to having a best friend who occasionally dips into crystals, the Tarot, and symbology when she's feeling maladjusted.

His smile spreads. "Look at you finding the sunshine lining."

"Oh no," I say, flexing my hand against his chest—I'll never get tired of touching it. "Don't you call me a sunshine girl. I can be downright dour if I don't have my caffeine."

"I don't think you're an anything girl. You're a woman who can't help but find the good in other people. Mrs. Rosings has been giving you the runaround, but you're still helping her, and it's not because you need the money. Or because you're looking for an Agnes replacement. You saw the same thing in her that you did in me."

He's looking at me like he couldn't possibly look away, and I feel an answering glow inside. "What's that?" I ask.

"That we were both lonely as fuck."

My heart quails and aches and grows.

I kiss Declan's jaw, his lips. I let myself push the wet hair off his forehead. "I'm not going to let you be lonely ever again. You're going to get so sick of me."

His smile is sad, and worry pounds a steady beat in my chest. He's going to leave me. He's going to take that bug-out bag and bury himself away somewhere no one can find him, not even Nicole and Damien.

I weave my hands into his hair, as if I can force him to stay by sheer force of will. "I can understand why you don't want to trust a person who's so obviously a loose cannon, but I've realized something about Nicole. She wants to be there for me. She wouldn't do anything to hurt you, because she wouldn't do anything to hurt me."

"So I guess I'd better not piss you off," he says with a half-smile that doesn't meet his eyes.

"I would never let her hurt you, even if you did piss me off," I say intently, because he needs to know that I'm not going to throw a hissy fit if he blows me off to go plant a tree or whatever.

He dips his head to kiss my neck. "I believe you." From the look in his eyes, he does, but he still doesn't trust Nicole. I don't really blame him, because there's no denying she does whatever she wants.

I pull back and cup his jaw. "Don't leave without saying anything to me. Don't do that."

He's already shaking his head. "I wouldn't."

He doesn't object that he might decide he needs to go, but I decide I'll have to settle for the assurance he's offering. At least for now.

"Do you really think Dick was murdered?" he asks. He's intentionally changing the subject, but I don't have it in myself to shift it back to one I'd rather avoid anyway.

So I tell him about the bequests, all of them written as if Dick knew the end was staring him in the face. And I tell him about Anthony Smith. Mark. Mrs. Rosings. And all of the other women Dick might have screwed over or pissed off.

As I talk, I think of Dick, giving Declan that dog in his will. He must have done it because he knew how much Declan would miss him—how much he needed at least one other person to know him. It hits me that everything in Dick's will was geared toward him dying sooner rather than later. Was he just paranoid, the way Nicole thinks, or had he known it was going to happen? And if he'd known, was it because he'd planned it or because he sensed it was coming?

Declan runs a hand over my wet hair. "Claire…there was no one in the house. No sign anyone else had been there. No car. Nothing."

"Yeah, but if you went over to kill someone and wanted it to look like an accident, would you park in their driveway?"

He inclines his head, then says, "You don't want to think he did it to himself."

He's right, of course. I feel like I've gotten to know Dick, in a way, and I don't want to believe he killed himself. "Do you?"

His throat works. "No. He had his demons, but I don't think he… I still think it was an accident."

I nod slowly, not truly believing it, not sure he even believes it. "Maybe."

He leans in and kisses my neck. "But I'll help you look into it. Whatever you need."

"You will?" I ask in disbelief.

He gives his head a small shake. "I must be a real shithead if you're this surprised."

"No, it's just… I know you've avoided getting involved in the town."

"Maybe it's past time for me to stop avoiding things."

My heart swells, because it's almost as if he's promising he's not leaving, or at least not leaving yet.

His mouth tics up in one corner. "You look like someone just gave you a recipe for the perfect madeleines."

"I feel like it."

He takes my hand, weaving his fingers through mine. "Do you want to come meet my sister?"

"As much as I hate to say it, I think you should probably put on a shirt first."