28. Declan

DECLAN

I curse,slamming my fist into the wall, right by where Bree was standing. My fist goes through the sheetrock. I remove it with a wince and my knuckles are bleeding.

Usually, when I'm in the midst of an argument, I know that I'm right. Right now, I'm not sure.

Bree said some things that make sense—I had taken her from her home, her family. I imprisoned her here, and now I'm punishing her for trying to get out?

But on the other hand, she told me that she loved me. She'd said that she feels the same way about me as I do about her, and that implies trust. She could have come to me. She could have asked me if she could go.

Would I have taken that well, though?

I sigh, knowing that I wouldn't have. We would have had this same fight, and maybe I'd feel just as betrayed.

I head into the bathroom in the hallway, bandaging my knuckles, because I'm going to need to go to the gym. I can't stay here, god knows, and I can't keep pretending like everything's okay when everything's falling apart around me.

I don't bother calling Cillian, knowing that I'll be terrible company. I just drive there like a maniac, trying not to think.

What if Bree's right? What if we're just like Murphy?

She's definitely right about the dust, and she's right that it's hooked a lot of people. How many bullets from my guns have gone into women? Children?

I've wanted this fight to be over for so long, but I'd never quite understood that we're also in the wrong.

When I arrive at the gym, I run on the treadmill until I want to throw up, and then go over to the punching bag, beating the hell out of it.

Each sting in my knuckles reminds me of the bruises I've probably left on Bree's shoulders. Each sting reminds me of the ache in my heart.

She betrayed me.

But why am I so shocked? I knew it all along. I knew she was a Murphy at heart.

Bree made some good points in that argument, though, I have to admit. She's right. We do bad things. We tell ourselves it's for the greater good, but is it?

Da always says that if we didn't run drugs and guns, someone less responsible would. And maybe he's right, but that doesn't make it moral. Bree said that our family was just a different kind of monster, and that makes more sense to me than I like to admit.

Cillian walks in just as I'm punching the bag so hard that it shakes on the hook.

"Declan? What are you doing here?"

I grunt, punching the bag again.

"Declan," he says again softly, catching my arm. "Your hand... it's bleeding."

When I pull away, blood is running down my arm. I curse and walk toward the locker room. Cillian follows me.

"Why are you following me around instead of working out?" I snap.

He holds up his hands. "Because you're my friend and you're clearly upset. What's going on?"

I slam the locker door shut after grabbing my towel to wrap around my bleeding knuckles. They were already injured. It's no wonder I'm bleeding.

"She did it. She betrayed us."

Cillian doesn't look shocked. "Is it really that much of a betrayal?"

"I could have died, Cillian."

"But you didn't. And even if you had, she didn't pull the trigger. Her father did. But can you blame her? She wanted to be rescued."

"That"s not what happened," I say stiffly.

"No, but Murphy's to blame for that, not Bree. She just wanted to go home."

Cillian's words repeating what Bree said are driving me up the wall.

"And why would she want to go home?" I burst out. "I've given her everything."

"Not everything," Cillian murmurs.

"Money, clothes, a roof over her head, protection?—"

"Freedom." Cillian raises his eyebrow. "You took away her freedom, Declan. You gave her no choice."

I frown, glaring at him, but in the end, I know that he's right. She didn't have a choice in this marriage. She didn't have a choice in any of this.

So, how can she love me?

My shoulders slump.

Of course, she doesn't love me, after what I've done. How could she? When she asked me to put myself in her shoes, it had shaken me a little.

She is right. About all of it.

And what am I supposed to do now? Now that I love her. Now that I've lost her.

"You wanna come to my place and get fucked up?"

I let out a breath. "Fuck it. Let"s go."

Two hours later, we're singing Irish ditties and drinking Jameson. I keep getting these waves of despair, a depression that makes my shoulders slump.

"You're thinking about her again," Cillian warns.

"I can't stop thinking about her."

He shoves a glass at me, but the amber liquid doesn't seem appealing to me anymore.

"Maybe I should go home."

"You should stay here. Don't want to say anything to her that you might regret."

"Too late."

I let my head fall forward, banging it on the kitchen table, and Cillian snorts out a laugh.

"Man, this is why I don't get close to women. One-night stands are all I need."

"Not like I planned this," I mutter, taking the drink glass and rolling it around in my hand before taking a sip with a grimace.

It still burns, so I'm not drunk enough yet, I suppose.

"Has there ever been a woman for you?" I'm curious, and since we're both close to shitfaced, he might actually tell me the truth.

"Not since high school." Cillian's voice sounds hoarse and far away.

"That young?"

"Everything feels so big when you're young, you know?"

I nod, but I'm not altogether sure I know what he means. Seems like things have always been big for me, but my mother used to always say that I was a sensitive one.

I fly off the handle when I'm angry, drown in despair when I'm sad. Which is why being in love has been such a roller coaster for me.

"Everything feels big now."

"You love her?" Cillian leans back in his seat, looking at me.

"Fuck. Yeah." I chug down the rest of my glass of whiskey, and the world tilts on its axis.

Finally.

Maybe I'm on the verge of a blackout so I can forget this whole, awful day.

The next thing I know, I'm in a car on the way home, trying to look out of the window so I don't throw up.

"You all right, boss?" somebody, maybe Sean, asks.

"Fine," I slur, but when I try to get out of the car, I nearly fall flat on my face.

Sean—it is Sean, I can tell even through my swimming vision—all but carries me into the house, making it as far as the couch before he drops me.

I bounce on the couch, and I'm out before my head even hits the cushion.

I wake up to someone standing over me, thrusting a glass of water into my hand.

When I look up, I realize that it's Lara. She's frowning down at me.

"I see you tied one on last night."

"What's it to you?" I mutter, sitting up and putting a hand to my aching head.

"Drink the water." She pushes the glass of water into my hands, and I drain it.

It does help my head a little.

"What happened with you and Bree? She wouldn't come out of the bedroom all day."

"None of your business."

Lara huffs out a breath, crossing her thin arms over her chest. "This family is my business, Declan, and Bree is a part of that."

"Is she?" I stumble to my feet, walking into the bathroom, but Lara just follows me, and once I'm done, she's leaning against the wall outside the bathroom.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"This marriage was forced on us. Forced on her."

"Maybe, but things have changed since then."

"No, they haven't. She's still a Murphy, and I'm still a Burke."

"No." Lara's voice is raising. She's clearly mad at me, but my head and my heart hurt too much to care. "She's a Burke now. She chose to stay."

I snort. "No, she didn't."

"You're still drunk. Talking nonsense! Sober the fuck up and be real with me for one fucking second."

"She wanted out," I roar. "She sent her dad a message, wanted him to rescue her. She doesn't want to be here. What else can I tell you?"

Lara blinks at me, her face going suddenly pale. "Wh-what?"

"She betrayed us, Lara. She's a Murphy, just like her father. Snake blood runs through her veins," I sneer, and Lara promptly slaps me across the face.

"Don"t talk about her like that. She's your wife."

I chuckle bitterly, wondering if I'm still a bit drunk and deciding I don't care.

"She's nothing to me," I mutter, and head up the stairs.

I pass Bree as she is almost at the bottom of the stairs, but I don't even look at her. I can't. Because I know I said that out of hurt. Out of spite. And if I look at her, I'll cave. I'll beg her for forgiveness.

And right now, I think I want her to hurt just as bad as I am.

I make my way up the stairs, my head spinning, my stomach nauseous, and I barely make it to the bathroom before throwing up whiskey and bile. I've barely eaten today.

I breathe hard through my nose, trying not to throw up again, and finally, I stand and splash water on my face, looking at myself in the mirror.

"Get it together," I tell myself. "She's nothing to you."

Maybe if I say it often enough, one day I might believe it.

My reflection looks tired and drawn, looking back at me like I'm the fucking idiot, talking to myself in my own bathroom.

"Fuck her," I whisper. "I don't need her."

The way my heart aches tells me I do, but I ignore it.

I stumble to the bed, lying down fully clothed, and I pray that my sleep is dreamless.