Page 55 of Declan

“I know that. But what if—” I trail off, my voice cracking under the weight of realization.

“Viviana isn’t a part of this,” Connor says firmly, handing me a small bottle of alcohol and a piece of clean paper to press against my lip.

“Are we sure about that?” My gaze flickers between them. They both look away, staring at the floor, the doubt written on their faces.

We can’t be sure. Giovanni Morelli is too fucking smart. He’s been playing this game longer than I’ve been breathing, like a master poker player who never shows his hand. This was his plan all along: working with the Koslovs, weakening us from the inside. And maybe, just maybe, sending Viviana to distract me.

“What are we going to do?” Kian’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I know how he and Connor feel about Viviana. We’ve all grown used to her fiery presence, and the idea that she can be involved with her father’s betrayal is like a knife to the gut.

“We don’t do anything,” I say, rolling down my bloody sleeves and pulling on my suit jacket. “No one can know about Ivan or what he said.” I turn to face them, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “If the Irish Consortium finds out—”

“They’ll come for Viviana,” Connor finishes, his voice dark, his fists clenched.

“This is a Callaghan problem,” I say, looking each of them in the eyes. “And only we will handle it.”

Both nod.

Arriving home, I take a deep breath, steadying myself as my hand grips the door handle to my room. The events of today weigh heavy on my shoulders. Still, as I push the door open, her scent envelops me, a sweet embrace that momentarily dulls the edge of my thoughts. Jasmine, with a hint of something warmer, sweeter, lingers in the air.

The room is mostly dark, the faint glow of the lamp on the nightstand casting soft, golden light over everything.My breath catches as I see her.

She’s lying in my bed, her figure relaxed, bathed in that soft glow that makes her look almost ethereal. Her pale skin glows like moonlight against the dark sheets, the deep contrast of her raven hair spilling over her back, making her look otherworldly, like a goddess descended just for me.

She’s wearing a black lace nightgown, the hem barely brushing her thighs, the delicate fabric teasing more than it covers. Her chest rises and falls with the rhythm of her peaceful breaths; her lips slightly parted in what looks like a faint smile. One side of her breast peeks out just enough to be maddening, the swell moving gently with each inhale.

I stand frozen, taking her in. She’s a firecracker, stubborn as sin, relentless in defiance, yet here she is, looking impossibly soft, delicate even. This contrast shouldn’t exist; it can’t. The scent of her, the image of her serenity, clashes violently with the chaos of the day.

It can’t be her.

That thought reverberates through my head, shaking me to the core. She left her father, her sister, and everything tied to his world because she hated this life—my life. There’s no way she can be part of this, of him.

My hand trembles as I step closer, my fingers still stained with Ivan’s blood. Slowly, I trail them along her leg, her skin smooth and warm beneath my touch. A soft sigh escapes her lips, her body stirring slightly, and my chest tightens. Please, don’t let it be her.

Unable to stay, I turn away and head for the bathroom, the tension in my chest coiling tighter with each step. I crank the shower handle, and the sound of rushing water fills the space. Steam clouds the air almost instantly, but it does nothing to clear my thoughts.

Leaning against the cool tiles, I let out a shaky exhale, my forehead resting against the wall. The heat of the water peltsagainst my back, but it doesn’t wash away the ache clinging to me, the weight pressing into my ribs. My hands press harder into the tiles as if I can force the answers out of the cracks.

How did it get so complicated? Ivan’s face flashes in my mind, his blood coating my hands. And then, unbidden, another face: Elva. The memory is a gut punch. First Elva, and now—

Her touch stops me cold.

Her hands glide over my back, soft and caring, and my breath stalls in my throat. Her lips press gentle kisses to my shoulder blades, the warmth of her mouth soothing the bruise Ivan left on my left side. Her fingers trace the mark slowly, carefully, as if trying to erase the pain beneath.

I feel her pause, her breathing hitching as her fingers find the darker bruise near my ribs. She knows I’ve been in a fight.

Slowly, I turn to face her.

Her gaze is fixed on the bruise, her expression torn between concern and anger. The way she looks at me like she’s searching for answers in the lines of my body, makes my stomach twist. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. The steam swirls around us, the water dripping from my skin mingling with the silence.

For a moment, we just stood there, her hands resting lightly on my sides, my chest still heaving from everything that’s been building inside me.

Her hair is in a ponytail now, her eyes still on my bruise. My eyes go wide, and I see worry in them. Then they start to turn red as she sees the cut on my lip.

“What happened?” Her voice sounds so little, fragile. Is she this worried about me?

“Just a workout that got too rough.” I release a chuckle, and her eyes darken.

“Don’t lie to me, Declan.” Her eyes narrow, her voice clipped as her hands press on my chest, right on the bruise from Ivan’s punch. I try to hide the wince.

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