Page 33 of Declan

His jaw ticks.

“Don’t,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you care.”

I flinch. He sees it. His eyes flick over my face, down to my lips, back to my eyes. There’s heat in them. Pain. Something else I can’t name.

“What happened to your face?” I ask, reaching out instinctively, but he catches my wrist before I can touch him.

The grip isn’t hard, but it’s enough to stop me.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You don’t look fine.”

He lets go of me, turns slightly, and takes another sip of his beer like the conversation is over. But it’s not. Not for me.

“You got in a fight, didn’t you?” I press, stepping closer. “Was it Jason?”

His eyes flash, and I know I’m right. A flicker of guilt and satisfaction plays across his face. He doesn’t deny it.

“What did you do, Declan?” I whisper.

“What needed to be done, and it wasn’t me.”

I shake my head, my chest tight. “You did something, and besides, I can handle myself.”

He finally looks at me again, and there’s something raw in his expression now. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean I’ll let someone lay a hand on you and get away with it.”

My heart stutters in my chest.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say, softer now. “You can’t protect me and push me away at the same time.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me like he wants to say a thousand things, and none of them are safe.

I take a shaky breath. “You’re bleeding, Declan.”

“I’ve bled worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

He leans in then, his voice low and dangerous in my ear. “The point is, he touched you. And now he won’t ever touch anyone again.”

I shiver.

Not from fear.

But from the storm he’s always been. The storm I’m still drawn to, no matter how much I fight it.

We stand there, silent for a long beat, surrounded by the thump of the bass and laughter of strangers.

And somehow, I’ve never felt more exposed.

Our eyes are locked, not a single word spoken between us.

But there’s no need for words.

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