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DECLAN

Song, Sleepyhead, Jutes.

I leap out of bed the second her screams tear through the wall.

Agony. Pure, bloodcurdling agony.

I don’t think, I don’t even breathe, I just move.

Still in nothing but my boxers and a black t-shirt, I sprint across the hall and shove her door open.

“Don’t hurt my baby, please. Please.”

Her voice is wrecked, and it shreds through the room. She thrashes in her sheets, soaked in sweat, her body twisted in panic, as if she’s trying to fight something invisible.

“Take me. Not her. Don’t do this to her.”

Her words slice through me.

I said I’d be her nightmare. But right now, I’m not sure that’s something I can live with.

Her agony is too real. Too raw.

I reach toward her, hovering over her flushed skin. My fingers tremble as they graze her cheek.

“Shhh, heartbreaker. It’s me.”

She recoils sharply, knocking my hand away, her nails digging so hard into her wrists that blood starts to well, a crimson stain against her pale skin.

“Fuck.”

I lunge for her hands, wrapping mine gently around them, trying to stop her from doing more damage.

“Charlotte. It’s Declan. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Her eyes snap open, almost black in the dark.

“Isabella,” she breathes. “Save her.”

The name hits me like a fist to the gut.

I scoop her up and hold her close, cradling her like she might shatter in my arms. Her tears streak across my chest, her sobs tearing into the quiet.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, my hand finding her hair, smoothing it back. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“Save who, baby?”

She doesn’t answer at first, she just clings to me tighter, sobbing like her soul is collapsing.

“Talk to me, heartbreaker. You said you wanted me to hear you out. This is your moment.”

Her voice is barely audible. “I—I can’t. You can’t.”

She shifts, straddling my lap, arms wrapped around my neck like I’m the only thing tethering her to earth. My heart hammers against my ribs.

“Who is Isabella?” I press. “Who’s hurting her?”

Please, let this be the moment. Please tell me.

She swallows, trembling.

“My daughter,” she says. “And my husband.”

I still.

Everything in me stills.

Daughter.

Husband.

I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

Her body shakes in my arms. Her tears soak through my shirt, and I can barely breathe through the pressure in my chest.

“Your daughter,” I echo. “Vlad hurts her?”

The thought alone ignites something murderous in me.

She shakes her head. “Not yet. I need to go home. Please. Let me go home.”

She clutches me like she’s drowning.

“Does he hurt you?” I whisper.

She pauses, then nods. Just once.

“Yes.”

I pull back and gently lift her chin. I need to see her. I need to see her eyes.

“Is he the one who haunts you?”

Another nod. Slower. Her lips quiver like she’s trying not to fall apart all over again.

And suddenly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore.

I’ve seen her fierce. I’ve seen her break bones and spill blood. I’ve seen the chaos inside her.

But this. This shattered version of her, raw and exposed and trembling in my arms, is my undoing.

How can someone be so powerful and so broken at the same time?

I trace her cheek with my finger, then down to the curve of her neck, settling my palm over the center of her chest.

Her heartbeat is erratic. Wild. Like it’s trying to escape her ribcage.

And her eyes... that spark is gone.

She’s fading right in front of me.

I should let her. I should break her all the way. That’s what I wanted? But I can’t. I don’t think I ever would have.

For the first time in a long time, I follow my heart.

I study her face, her breathing, every tremor in her muscles. I need to bring her back, quiet the storm inside her.

I need to understand.

Because whether I like it or not, my soul is tied to this woman.

And I don’t think I could sever that bond even if I wanted to.

“Do you trust me?” I whisper, brushing the damp hair from her forehead.

Her eyes narrow.

“No. I trust no one.”

A small, dark smile tugs at my lips.

“There she is,” I murmur. “Good girl.”

She shudders.

I could offer her sleep. I could offer her warmth. I don’t think either of those will work for my girl.

I believe we are cut from the same cloth. And that maybe, just maybe?—

She needs pain.