Page 17 of Sins and Salvation

I laugh bitterly. "And I'm supposed to trust you? The man who abandoned me without a word? You come home looking like—this. I do not trust you, or your family."

Pain flashes across his face. "I told you why I left."

"Seven years too late."

Declan moves closer, invading my space. "I had no fucking choice, I really didn't want to die either."

"And what happens the next time you decide staying alive is more important than staying?"

"I won't leave you again." His voice drops. "Either of you."

He's too close. The scent of him—sweat, blood, and that violence that is pure Declan—it overwhelms me. My body heats in response, a traitorous reaction I can't control.

"You don't get to make promises," I say, voice tight. "Not to me. Not anymore."

"Maeve." He says my name quietly. "I never stopped loving you."

It is like a punch to the gut. "Don't." I stop him.

But he's already moving, closing the distance between us, touching my face. I should push him away. I should punch him, or shoot him. Stab him with the fucking fish knife. I should hate him.

Instead, I stand frozen, caught in his orbit, unable to get away from the force that is Declan.

"Tell me you don't feel this," he whispers.

"I don't."

"Liar."

He kisses me, and everything I've fought to suppress for seven years explodes. I grab his shirt, pulling him closer even as I hate myself for the weakness. The kiss is violent, angry, full of the pain we've inflicted on each other.

His hands tangle in my hair, moving my head to deepen the kiss. I bite his lower lip, drawing blood, wanting to hurt him the way he hurt me.

He groans, pressing me against the counter, his body hard against mine. Seven years melt away. We're twenty-two again, desperate for each other, unable to resist the pull.

"I hate you," I whisper against his mouth.

"I know." He lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my legs. "Hate me all you want, just don't stop."

His hands slide under my shirt, igniting fire everywhere he touches. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing the friction.

"Mom?"

We spring apart. Conor stands in the doorway, eyes wide.

"What are you doing?"

Declan backs away, running a hand through his hair. I slide off the counter, straightening my clothes, heart pounding.

"Nothing, sweetie," I say, voice unnaturally high. "Declan was just... helping me reach something."

Conor looks skeptical. "Why is there blood on his shirt?"

"I had an accident," Declan says. "Cut myself. I'm going to clean up now."

He leaves the kitchen, escaping the awkward moment, leaving me to face our son alone.

Conor watches Declan go, then turns his curious gaze on me. "Your face is red."

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