Page 61 of Promise of Destruction

I’m flat on the bed in the next instant, the complete reversal of our previous position. One of his hands presses the blade against my throat, the other grinds both of my hands into the headboard behind me.

I wasn’t sure I could use the knife against him.

I have no doubt that he could use it against me. But that thought doesn’t scare me. What scares me is staying here, trapped in a cycle of pain and misery, questions without answers.

Death honestly would be a wonderful reprieve.

That’swhy I laugh.

“You crazy bitch,” he shakes his head.

There’s no venom in his tone. In fact, he almost sounds in awe of me.

“Go ahead,” I urge him. “Finish what you started, Declan.”

He laughs now too. “I didn’t kill your husband.” His eyes search me. He doesn’t bother trying to hide the hunger in them. His desire for something more than what we’re doing is tangible. “Did you?”

I chuckle again, the blade bobbing against my throat as my body shakes with the laughter bubbling out of me.

Declan sets his jaw, his eyes assessing me.

I laugh harder, until I wonder if maybe Ididdo it. Maybe that’s why I have no memory of that night. Maybe I snapped and did something so horrific that my brain blocked it out. I’ve wondered it before. I quit taking all of the things that were meant to keep me sane and functional because I didn’t want toharm the baby. But what if that caused me to break from reality. What if I really did do it?

“Fuck.” Declan mutters. It’s a throaty sound, almost pained.

I’m too busy soaking in my delirium to immediately realize the source of his discomfort, until I feel it.

He’s hard.

Something about that makes me laugh harder. I dissolve into a fit of giggles and Declan groans. Deciding he can’t take it anymore, he rolls his hips off of me and releases his grip on my hands. I’m free, but it takes me a moment to come down from the hilarity.

When I do, he’s glaring at me like I ran over his puppy.

“I didn’t kill my husband.” I tell him.

He raises a brow in disbelief. “Then who did?”

I close my eyes, because the laughter suddenly feels like it’s turning to tears. “I thoughtyoudid.”

forty-one

Declan

MaybeIshouldtellher I did. Maybe I should confess to a crime I didn’t commit so that I can see that hatred again. The way her whole essence transforms with her passionate, violent hatred of me makes every part of my body hard… none so much as my cock.

We’re a fucked up pair. I’m not entirely sure she isn’t looking for a scape goat to cast suspicion off herself since she’s clearly not well. The way she held that knife to my throat is proof of that. What’s even more fucked up is that Iwantto be that scape goat.

But I’m not.

“Soren,” I say her name as gently as I can manage, afraid that speaking it too loud will hurt.

Everything in me already aches—the spot on my neck where she nicked me, the hot blood roiling inside of my veins, my stiff erection begging for release.

“You are so fucking beautiful. You’ve crawled under my skin and invaded my every damn thought from the moment I saw you. I want to watch you suffer and ease your pain. I want tobreak you and put you back together. I want to choke you, and I want to fuck you.”

She whimpers at my candor; I’m not sure whether it’s a sound of fear or desire, but I hope it’s both. I’m not done yet. “But Ineversaw you before that night we met at the bar. I’ve never been in your house before I brought you home from the doctor earlier this week. I never met your husband.”

My words manage to be simultaneously what she wants and also what she doesn’t. Because if I didn’t kill her husband and neither did she, then who did?