Page 7

CHAPTER 7

DECLAN

I stare at the ceiling of the safe house bedroom, sleep a distant dream. The taste of Maeve still lingers on my lips. The ghost of her touch haunts my skin. Seven years apart and her effect on me has not changed—electric, all-consuming.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Cormac.

"Any problems out there?" he asks when I answer.

"Nothing. The house is secure." I keep my voice low, aware of how sound travels in this place.

"Good. My men tracked the Russians operation to a warehouse in the docks. We're going to pay them an unexpected visit tomorrow."

"I want to be there."

"You need to protect your boy."

My boy. A son I never knew. And the woman I never stopped loving.

"Keep me in the loop," I tell him, ending the call.

* * *

I pull on a t-shirt and step into the hallway. The door to Conor's room is ajar. I pause, peering inside at the small figure in the bed. My son. The reality of it punches me in the gut every time I think about it. It’s like waking up from a concussion, the truth is new each time I see him.

I go into the room quietly, careful not to wake him. When he sleeps, he looks even more like me. The same jawline, the same nose. Even his hair falls across his forehead the same way mine did at his age.

What have I missed? First steps. First words. First day of school. Birthdays. Christmas mornings. All the moments that make a child's life, gone forever because I wasn't there.

I am overwhelmed with regret so powerful it steals my breath.

"He hates sleeping in strange places."

I turn to find Maeve in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. The moonlight from the window casts her in silver and shadow.

"Does he have bad dreams?" I ask.

She nods. "About monsters. Ironic, considering who his father is."

The barb hits its mark. "I'm not a monster, Maeve."

"No? Your bruised bloody knuckles say otherwise."

I look down at my hands, still raw from the "chat" I had with the Russian. "I do what needs to be done."

"That's what scares me." She adjusts the blanket over Conor. "You think violence is the only way to fix things."

"It is in my world."

"That's not the world I want for my son. I do not want him learning that’s the way to get what you want."

"Our son," I correct, unable to stop myself.

She turns those ocean-blue eyes on me, hard as ice now. "Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove you deserve to be his father. Prove you're not just another Donovan thug who solves problems with his fists."

I clench my jaw, fighting back the anger her words ignite. "I left Dublin to escape that life."

"And now you're back, looking like you stepped out of a horror movie, talking about 'chats' with Russians. You might have left, but look at you. You left and spent seven years fighting in a cage."

We stand on opposite sides of Conor's bed, the sleeping child between us the line that both divides us and tethers us together.

"Come downstairs," I say. "I don't want to wake him."

She hesitates, then nods, following me to the kitchen. I grab two beers from the fridge, offering her one. Our fingers brush in the exchange, sending a jolt through my body.

"Tell me about him," I say, leaning against the counter.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

A smile touches her lips, so brief I almost miss it. "He's smart. Too smart sometimes. Asks questions I can't answer."

"Like about his father?"

She nods, taking a sip of beer. "He started asking when he was four. Why he didn't have a dad when all his friends did."

Knowing that he wondered about me, asked about me, that hurts like a motherfucker.

"What did you tell him?"

"That his father lives far away. That it was complicated."

"The grown-up answer for everything."

"What was I supposed to say? 'Your dad ran away because his father threatened to kill us both'? I didn’t even know that, and I did not need him having abandonment issues."

I flinch. "You could have told him I didn't know about him."

"Would that have made a difference? You still left." She puts down her beer. "Do you know what it was like? Finding out I was pregnant after you disappeared? Your brothers refusing to tell me where you'd gone? Your father threatening me when I showed up at your house?"

My blood runs cold. "He threatened you?"

"He said if I ever came back claiming my child was a Donovan, he'd make sure neither of us lived."

Rage boils up, red-hot and untamed. Even from the grave, my father finds new ways to make me hate him.

"I didn't know," I say. "I swear to you, Maeve, if I'd known about the baby?—"

"You'd have what? Come back? Risked your life? Made it all worse, for all of us?"

Everything I want to say sounds empty, meaningless and won't change the past.

"What matters is now," I say. "I'm here now."

"For how long? Until the next threat? Until your father calls from his grave?"

"He's dead. He can't hurt us anymore."

She laughs, a brittle sound. "His ghost is what brought you back to Dublin. His ghost is why Russians broke into my apartment. His ghost is why my son is sleeping in a strange bed tonight. Your siblings are not exactly saints Declan, Cormac, Finn, your sister wherever the heck she crawled off to. You lot have been at each other throats since you could walk, nothing has changed."

I move closer, drawn to her like a moth to flame. "I came back for the funeral. I stayed for you."

"You didn't even know I was still here."

"I hoped." I reach out, touching her cheek. "Every day for seven years, I hoped."

She doesn't pull away this time. "You broke my heart."

"I know."

"I hated you."

"I know that too."

"I tried to forget you."

I step closer, our bodies almost touching. "Did you?"

She looks up at me, conflict in her eyes. "No."

Her admission changes something in the air between us.

I lean down, my lips inches from hers. "I never forgot you either. Not for a single day."

She puts her hands on my chest, neither pushing me away nor pulling me closer. "Declan..."

"Tell me to stop."

She doesn't.

I kiss her, gentler than before. No anger now, just longing. Seven years of wanting her all poured into this one kiss.

She slides her hands up to my shoulders, then around my neck. She presses against me, her body fitting perfectly as if we were never apart.

I guide her backward until she hits the edge of the table. She pulls me closer, threading her fingers through my hair and tugging just enough to make me groan against her mouth.

"I've missed you," I murmur against her neck, breathing in her scent. "Every part of you."

She arches into me as my hands slide under her shirt, tracing the soft skin of her waist. "Don't think this means I forgive you," she says, but her body contradicts her words.

"I don't need forgiveness, I need you, right fucking now." I capture her mouth again, deepening the kiss until she moans against my lips.

I want to take my time, to relearn every inch of her, but need overrides patience. She grips my shirt, pulling me tighter against her, the heat between us building even through our clothes.

"Not here," she whispers, eyes darting toward the stairs.

I take her hand and lead her to my bedroom. I kick the door shut behind us and pull her to the bed, covering her body with mine.

"Are you sure?" I ask, needing to hear her say it.

Her answer is to pull my shirt over my head. She explores the new scars on my torso with her fingertips. "What happened here?" she asks, tracing a jagged line across my ribs.

"Knife fight. Barcelona."

Her fingers move to another scar on my shoulder. "And here?"

"Bullet. Grazed me in Paris."

She looks up at me, sadness in her eyes. "You lived a whole life I know nothing about."

"A half-life," I correct. "There was always something missing."

I kiss her again before she can respond, before she can put her walls back up and shut me out. I grab the hem of her shirt and pull it up over her head.

The sight of her bare skin in the moonlight steals my breath. "You're fucking gorgeous," I tell her.

A blush colors her cheeks. "I've had a baby, Declan. I'm not the same perfect ten you left behind."

I trace the faint stretch marks on her stomach, marks earned bringing my son into the world. "You're more gorgeous now."

She pulls me down for another kiss, tugging at the drawstring of my sweatpants. I help her, shedding the rest of my clothes before removing hers.

When we're both naked, I pause, taking in the sight of her. "I want to see all of you, every inch I have missed," I say.

"Stop talking." She pulls me down, wrapping herself around me.

I slide my cock into her, watching her face as I do. Her eyes widen, lips parting on a gasp. I stay still, buried deep inside her, nothing has ever felt more like home.

"Declan," she whispers.

I move inside her, hard and deep. She arches off the bed, her nails dig into my back, drawing blood like I am in a fight, only this is one I don't want to win. I want to drag it out all night.

"You're mine," I tell her. "You've always been mine."

"Prove it," she challenges.

I move faster, driving into her with a force that makes the headboard hit the wall. She cries out, the sound muffled against my shoulder.

"Mine," I repeat. "All mine, this pussy, this body. It's mine."

Her pussy tightens, squeezing me as she shudders. She says my name on a breath as she comes. I come inside her, nothing holding me back, burying my face in her neck to muffle my groan.

We collapse on the bed, our bodies pressed together, both of us breathing hard. Her skin is hot against mine, sweat making us stick to each other. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, gentle in a way that undoes me.

"I still hate how much I want you," she whispers, her voice raw with emotion. "Seven years and my body still betrays me for you."

I turn to face her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Your body knows what you won't admit. You're still mine, Maeve. You always fucking were."

She's quiet for a long moment. "I can't trust you."

"You can."

"How do I know you won't leave again?"

I take her hand, placing it over my heart. "Because this time, I have something to stay for, to fight for."

"You had me before, that didn't make you stay."

"Now I have both of you. And I know what it's like to live without you." I kiss her forehead. "I won't fuck up again."

She rests her head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. "Conor needs to know who you are."

"I want to tell him."

She shakes her head. "I should do it. Tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. He might hate you as much as I did."

"Did?"

A small smile touches her lips. "Past tense. For now."

I pull her closer, her body fitting against mine like she never left. Like we didn't lose seven years.

"Get some sleep," I tell her. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

She nods, eyes already closing. I watch her drift off, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Another text from Cormac.

Russians on the move. Be ready.

I glance at Maeve, peaceful in sleep, then at the door that leads to the hallway, to the room where my son dreams.