Page 26 of Declan

“What are you going to do, mate?” Connor asks, his brow furrowing.

I lean back in my chair, weighing my next move. “I’ll deal with Roisin,” I add, standing up. “Then I’ll deal with Viviana.”

Kian smirks, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“You have no idea, brother,” I mutter, heading toward the door.

As I walk toward the parlour where Roisin is waiting, my mind betrays me. I can’t shake the memory of Viviana’s touch, the way that black dress clung to her. And then, as if summoned by the thought, I spot Roisin, legs for days, red lipstick, and tan skin like a goddess sculpted from stone. But she’s not Viviana.

Fucking hell, that woman is messing with my head.

“Roisin,” I greeted her with a brief smile, kissing both cheeks before leading her to my study and closing the door behind us.

“Are you okay, Declan?” she asks, her voice soft but laced with curiosity.

“I’m fine.” I’m not.

She steps closer, sliding onto my lap, her hips grinding on my already hard cock. But she’s not the reason I’m like this, andthat’s the damn problem. Why can’t I do this? It feels wrong, and why does it feel wrong? Because my cock caught feelings, that’s why! Traitor!

“Declan?” Roisin’s voice pulls me back, her hands already unbuttoning my shirt, lips on my neck. I stop her, cupping her chin between my thumb and forefinger, lifting her gaze to mine.

“Not tonight, Roisin.” I brush my thumb over her lower lip, trying to soften the blow. It’s not her fault I’m feeling this way.

We sit and talk for a while about nothing in particular, and when it’s time, I walk her to the car. She pulls me in for a kiss, and I let her. It’s the least I can do.

As the car pulls away, I turn back to the house and see a shadow at Viviana’s window. She is watching. I know she thinks I fucked Roisin. Let her think that.

It may be for the best.

I give a casual wave to the window, and the shadow disappears.

I lick my lips and clean Roisin’s lipstick from my cheek; the next lipstick I’ll have on my skin will be Viviana’s around my fucking cock.

Chapter 8

Viviana

Iwake up feeling like absolute shit. My head throbs, pounding in time with my racing thoughts. The nightmares were relentless tonight—vivid, suffocating. I must’ve woken up a dozen times, always seeing the same scene, permanently trapped in that hellish memory of Alek. I haven’t thought about it in ages but being around Declan and hearing them talk about the Koslovs must’ve brought it back.

I shake my head, trying to shove it away. It’s too early to be up, but if I stay in this bed any longer, I’m going to lose my mind.

Throwing the blankets off, I force myself to move. The cold tiles send a shiver up my spine as I shuffle to the bathroom. I step into the shower, hoping the water will wash away the lingering dread, but it doesn’t.

I dress quickly in black sweatpants, a shirt, and shoes. Simple. Comforting. I look in the mirror, looking like shit—like asick vampire. The hell with it. Opening the door slowly, it’s still dark outside. I take a deep breath, this weird feeling deep in my veins.

The mansion is eerily silent, the kind of quiet that feels too heavy, like the walls themselves are watching. Everyone’s still asleep. It’s a good time to explore this place. I haven’t seen much of it yet—just the basics on the ground floor and Declan’s side of the mansion.

I head upstairs, passing Kian’s floor. The lights are out, and the vibe is similar to Declan’s side—dark and woodsy—but the scent is different. A guard eyes me, and I meet his stare, rolling my eyes as I move past him.

Connor’s floor is the last one. Two guards stand at his door, and I smirk. Did I really scare Connor so much that he needs two guards? The hallway is dimly lit, with the same number of closed doors as the other floors. On the opposite side, a short hallway leads to two more doors.

I push one open and find an office. It has a black Victorian-style desk and a large chair—very old-school. I step inside, noticing two framed photos on the desk. One is of an older couple, and the other is of the entire Callaghan family.

I’d bet this used to be their father’s office. The room feels stripped, with no papers, no files—just a few old paintings hanging on the walls.

I leave and close the door behind me, then move to the door opposite. I open it and flip on the lights. It’s some trophy room.

Three display cabinets line the wall, each belonging to one of the brothers, filled with school trophies. Declan’s cabinet is full of track medals, judo awards, and, of course, a quarterback trophy. Figures. I roll my eyes at the cliché.

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