Page 14 of A Convenient Secret (Merged #3)

Lily

I gasp, my hand flying back to my mouth. “No… Yes. I mean, yes, but not on purpose! I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to… I… You need a doctor. Do you need stitches? I think you need stitches. I’m such an idiot. I’m so, so sorry.”

Fuck. I’m babbling again, my voice high-pitched and breathless as I try to make sense of the chaos.

“Pull yourself together. I don’t want the kids to find us like this.” Declan glares at me, blood dripping down his arm. “You sleep with a knife?”

I freeze, my face turning the richest crimson known to man, I’m sure. “Yes.”

I don’t know how my voice comes out in an audible volume, but the war in his eyes suggests he’s fighting the next question. Or ten. How am I going to explain this? He will file a police report and then—

Declan sways, and a pang of guilt hits me. I’m so selfish. I can worry about myself later. I scramble out of the bed and run to get a towel from the bathroom.

Declan sits on the edge of the bed when I return.

“Here. You need to apply pressure on it.” I press the towel against his arm.

The wound just above his elbow is ugly, but doesn’t look deep. Thank God. And now you’re a doctor, Lily? “Let me call nine-one-one.”

He glares at me, which I take as his acquiescence, and I grab my phone from the nightstand. After I make the call, I chance a look at him. He’s still glaring. And who could blame him?

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters and looks away, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“You mentioned that a few times,” he growls. “If I need stitches, you will stay here with the kids.”

“Of course, of course, anything you need. Do you want me to call Cormac, or Saar? Or your mother?” What or who can make him feel better? “Do you need water? Or maybe whiskey? Or I can—”

“Just shut up, Lily.” His voice is exhausted, but not necessarily mad. But then he is probably in shock.

I stay quiet, my hands shaking and my chest heaving. Jesus. The last thing this poor man needs right now is my panic attack .

The silence stretches, heavily descending on me. I didn’t expect to fall asleep in Declan’s house. But having him intercept my nightmare is… Well, a nightmare.

I fidget, stepping from one foot to the other. When I chance a glance at Declan, my jaw drops, and despite the gory situation—because there is something seriously wrong with me—my pussy clenches.

During the chaos earlier, I didn’t notice he was shirtless. Which only speaks to the volume of my shock. But now I can’t take my eyes off the planes of muscles that form the masterpiece of his torso.

He’s the ultimate package—broad shoulders, sinewy chest, multi-pack abs—all covered in olive skin with a dusting of dark chest hair. And currently some blood.

I should be ashamed, mortified, worried, guilty, and regretful. I feel a potent cocktail of those emotions. What I definitely shouldn’t feel is lust. And yet, here we are.

I’ve always known my childhood and early adulthood couldn’t possibly lead to well-adjusted behavior, but this is the worst timing ever for any depravity. Jesus.

“Do you want me to get you a shirt?”

He groans and looks up at the ceiling, probably searching for the strength not to strangle me. Then he stands up and sways a bit again. Of course, I cross all the boundaries and jump to help him.

He angles his body to avoid me, I think, and takes a few steps toward the door. “Make sure the kids are not concerned when they wake up if I’m not here yet. Tell them I cut myself and I went to see the doctor, but do not scare them. Don’t go into details, for fuck’s sake.”

I nod, like he can see me with his back to me. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll wait downstairs for the ambulance. Stay up here,” he says through his teeth and leaves.

I stabbed Declan.

Cora

Took you long enough (laughing emoji)

Saar

I was going to write the same.

Cora

Have you heard from Cal yet?

Saar

We’re here in the hospital. No baby yet.

Declan might join you soon.

Saar

I thought today was your last day.

It was an accident. I don’t know what to do.

Cora

Fuck, Lily, you are not joking?

Saar

Of course she is.

I have to go. I’ll fill you in later.

“Lily, you’we still hewe!” Zoya jumps from her bed right into my lap.

My limbs scream in protest after sitting up the rest of the awful night in the armchair in Zoya’s room.

I didn’t follow Declan downstairs, but I heard the murmur when the paramedics arrived. They weren’t here long, but everything after the nightmare has felt like an eternity.

Zoya yawns and snuggles against me, and my eyes mist. The bone-weary exhaustion is almost physically painful now.

I will my mind to linger on this one beautiful, innocent moment, but when I close my eyes, layers of different nightmares of the past, not so recent and very recent, form a knot in my stomach.

The knot tightens when Zoya’s small voice seeps through my consciousness. “Awe you still ouw nanny? ”

Most definitely not.

“I stayed tonight because your dad needed to take care of something.” Panic whooshes through me again, and the need to tell Zoya way more than she should hear, or I should ever share, is strong.

“But he was hewe last night. We awe going to chase pigeons. He pwomised.” She looks at me with her large brown eyes, her bottom lip quivering.

“He will come soon. He might need to rest for a moment, but he will spend the weekend with you.” I don’t know that, but if Zoya starts crying I won’t be able to keep it together.

She nods and settles her head on my chest. I wrap my arms around her, stroking her back. The motion gives me a sense of peace. Like she is my lifeboat. And yes, there is a storm awaiting me, but for now, I’m safe.

“Can we make Fwench toast?”

Oh, shit. “Do you know how to make it?”

“Suwe.” She slides down from my lap. “Zach, wake up; we awe making Fwench toasts.”

Turns out the kids don’t know how to make French toast, and neither do I. I pull out a video on my phone, and we watch it together.

“You don’t know how to cook, do you?” Zach asks, matter-of-fact, hands in the pockets of a flannel housecoat more suitable for a senior than a child.

Being judged by this little dude is as effective as his father’s glower. I want to shrivel. “I know plenty.” I try to sound breezy. “Like how to use a microwave. And… how to open cereal boxes. That counts, right?”

Zoya giggles and turns off the video. “It looks easy,” she says with confidence, holding a whisk like it’s a magic wand.

Perched on the counter, she swings her tiny legs back and forth, her fluffy slippers discarded.

Zach watches me with a mixture of suspicion and something close to disdain. The weight of his gaze is not helping the tornado of thoughts swirling in my head.

“Easy peasy.” I force a smile. My voice sounds strained even to me. “Piece of cake. We’ve got this.”

We do not have this. I have never used a whisk.

My stomach churns, but not from hunger. I can’t even imagine eating. But I need to create a normal, fun morning for these kids. I owe them that, at least.

Why can’t I do anything in the kitchen? I check my notifications, hoping for some sort of update. Nothing. Just the same blank screen mocking me.

I pull my gaze away and try to focus on the task at hand. “Okay.” I clasp my hands together. “Let me get toast from the pantry. ”

I open the door behind me, right beside the cleaning closet. I immediately see myself with Declan standing there while I retrieved the vacuum.

He was affected by me then, but I believed it wasn’t about me but rather his need. But then, last night, when he asked me to lock my door? There was something carnal behind it. Like he couldn’t control himself, so he asked me to do it.

That was what my overactive imagination offered, anyway. I didn’t lock it. And I would lie if I didn’t imagine him coming to check on me. That fantasy turned out very differently in real life.

I should have locked it. He wouldn’t be in the hospital now.

Sighing, I step into the pantry, looking for toast. What I find floods me with a strange feeling of homesickness. I stare at the shelf full of Spinelli pasta and sauces, memories rushing through my mind.

“What’s taking so long?” Zoya bumps into me from behind. “Oh. You can’t find the toast?” She sneaks around me and reaches for the bag with the white bread.

“You guys like Spinelli pasta for sure,” I mumble.

“It’s the best.” She looks at me like I come from another planet, and don’t know the obvious.

“It is the best.” I close the door quickly, lowering my forehead to the wooden surface .

It must be my lack of sleep and last night’s adrenaline that stirs this weird melancholy. I shut it all down, just like I learned to do when I left home.

I turn to the twins with a smile. “Step one: crack the eggs. Who wants to try?”

Zoya eagerly raises her hand. “Me! Me!”

Her enthusiasm brings a smile to my face despite everything. “Great.” I hand her an egg. “Just… be gentle.” Or maybe it requires strength? It looked easy in the video.

She smashes the egg against the rim of the bowl with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Half the shell crumbles into the bowl, the yolk barely surviving the assault. The other half plops to the counter.

“Oops.” She giggles.

“Maybe we should order breakfast.” Zach narrows his eyes.

Zoya wipes her hands on her pink pajamas. “Fwom that waffles place.” She bounces, the cooking project forgotten.

Their father makes their breakfast almost every single day, and here I am, responsible for his absence and failing to recreate their normal morning.

“It’s okay. We can make our own breakfast,” I say quickly, fishing out shards of eggshell with my fingers.

“Why are you even here?” Zach asks bluntly, his serious tone cutting through Zoya’s giggles .

I pause, my fingers midair with a piece of eggshell on them.

“Stop it, Zach. We like Lily, wemembew.” Zoya swipes hair from her face, and now there is egg gluing her tresses.

Zach glowers, and there is so much of Declan in that expression I avert my eyes.

My phone continues to mock me from the counter. The clock does as well. It’s six-fifteen in the morning. My fatigue presses against my eyes.

“I’m just helping your daddy while he can’t be here, Zach.”

“Why is he not here?” Zach demands, and Zoya turns her curious eyes to me.

Do not scare them.

“Your dad had a minor cut and needed to see a doctor, but he will be back any minute now.”

“He cut himself when shaving?” Zoya asks, seemingly unperturbed by the fact her father needed to see a doctor.

“And then you will go?” Zach asks, but it sounds like a demand.

We got along this past week, but I was right: his acceptance extended to the limited time frame of my stay with them.

It breaks my heart a little, but this is not the time or the place. Certainly not the circumstances to win him over.

I’ll be gone in an hour. Probably forever banished from this house.

“Yes, Zach, I’ll go.” His rejection stings more than I would have expected. I force yet another smile this morning. “Let’s focus on making the best French toast ever.”

I look at the counter. Shit. Somehow, while I talked to Zach, Zoya attempted to crack a few more eggs. Eyeing the egg massacre, I bite back a sigh and dip my fingers into the bowl, fishing out all the shells.

“Step two is adding milk.” Zoya yanks open the fridge door and takes out the carton.

“I’ll do it.” Zach snatches it from her.

I turn to wash my hands.

“Zach,” Zoya screams as drops wet my ankles.

I turn so quickly I get dizzy. Zach stands, smirking at me, the cartoon in his hand turned upside down, milk seeping quickly across the tiles.

He really is unhappy with me still being here. Is this what chased all the nannies away? I know this is deliberate behavior. I experienced this boy at his best.

He might be overly serious for a six-year-old, but he is also fiercely protective of his sister, funny, and smart. He is not a bully.

The gleam in his eyes right now suggests otherwise, but I decide to believe my intuition. If he’s trying to rile me up, he’ll be surprised.

“Zach, did you miss the bowl?” The cheer in my voice is forced but sounds genuine.

He drops the carton. More droplets land on my feet. “I’m not hungry. I’ll be in my room.”

“Daddy,” Zoya cheers, and Zach and I turn.

Declan glowers from the dining room, but his expression softens as Zoya runs to hug him. Her bare feet splash through the milk.

Declan squats to hug her. “Careful, my arm hurts a little.”

“How did you cut youwself?” Zoya wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. My ovaries decide this is a good time to shimmy.

Declan’s eyes find mine, and now I understand the expression, ‘Please, ground, swallow me,’ because that’s exactly what I need to happen right now.

“I was a bit clumsy, sweetheart.” He stands up.

Still in his pajama pants and wearing a black T-shirt, he sports a large sterile patch above his elbow. Some blood—far less than last night—and a yellow disinfectant stain his arm.

His gaze lands on the milk puddle. “What happened here, Zach?”

“We wewe making French toasts,” Zoya chirps.

“Zach?” Declan prompts with authority .

“It was an accident,” I blurt out, and Zach’s eyes whip to me.

Declan sighs. “I guess we will have to order breakfast this morning.”

Zach studies me for a moment, and then he smirks. “That’s what I suggested.”

“Awe we going to the park still?” Zoya asks, her bottom lip already sporting her famous manipulative pout.

“I’ll order the breakfast and have a shower. After we eat, we go to the park,” Declan tells his kids while he stares at me.

I have been on the receiving end of his glower, but this stare is new.

He’s eyeing me with curiosity, his eyes lined with exhaustion, but also with a similar softness to that he shows his kids.

I must be hallucinating, the lack of sleep and last night’s trauma playing tricks on me.

“Can Lily come with us?” Zoya bounces around him.

I hold my breath, wracking my brain for some excuse.

Declan sighs heavily. “Sure.” He doesn’t look at me anymore. “Let’s go upstairs.”

The twins file out of the kitchen. Avoiding my eyes, Declan walks to the fridge, stepping around the milk puddle. He opens the door and gets a bottle of water.

My heart hammers in my chest, but I find my voice, however small. “How are you feeling?”

He gulps down his water and leaves the kitchen without another word, or a glance my way.