Page 40 of Declan

And now I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross.

“Declan.” Her voice is soft, but unsure.

I glance over my shoulder. She’s still standing by the wall, still breathing hard, eyes locked on mine like she’s waiting for me to come back to her.

And that’s the worst part.

Because I want to.

“I never should’ve told you to come here,” I say, my voice rough. “I never should’ve kissed you.”

She flinches at that. Just a little. But it kills me all the same.

“Then why did you?” she asks. “Because you’re angry? Because you saw me at the club and got jealous?”

“I am angry,” I growl, turning back toward her. “But not just at you. I’m angry at myself. Angry that I let it go this far. Angry that I couldn’t fucking stop.”

“Stop what?” she whispers.

“This.” I motion between us, like that’s enough to capture the chaos of what just happened. “This thing between us that I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.”

Her eyes soften, just a little, like maybe she understands.

But she doesn’t. She can’t.

“Do you know what this would do to him?” I ask, the words ripping out of me before I can stop them. “To Wesley?”

She stiffens.

There it is.

The one truth that matters more than anything else.

“I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s like a brother to me,” I say, pacing now because if I stop moving, I’m going to touch her again, and I can’t. “I’ve watched him fight for you. Care about you. Trust me around you.”

She’s quiet. Too quiet. And it makes everything worse.

“I can’t betray him like that. I can’t be the reason he looks at me differently. Loses faith in me. I won’t do that to him.”

“But what about you?” she asks, her voice cracking. “What about what you feel? What I feel?”

My hands ball into fists at my sides.

“I’ve dreamed about kissing you,” I say through clenched teeth. “Every night, for years. I’ve imagined what your skin would feel like under my hands. I’ve hated myself for wanting what I can’t have.”

Tears well in her eyes, and fuck, that undoes something in me.

“But I can’t do this to him, Lena,” I say, voice low and gutted. “No matter how badly I want you, I can’t cross that line.”

I brace myself for her to turn away, to walk out and leave me standing here, wrecked. But she doesn’t. Of course, she doesn’t.

She takes a few slow steps toward me, her heels clicking softly against the floor, like each one is a deliberate choice. Her eyes are soft but steady and lock onto mine, and I swear it’s harder to breathe with every inch she closes between us.

“I’ve pushed my feelings down for years,” she says, her voice quiet but fierce. “Not because I was afraid of crossing a line or disappointing my brother, but because I didn’t think you felt the same.”

She’s close enough now that I can feel the heat of her body. My fists are clenched at my sides. I should back up. I should say something. But I don’t. I stand there like I’m waiting for her to rip my soul out.

And maybe I am.

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