Bang(76)

Taking a deep breath, I decide to just be honest with him aside from a few details. “I’m claustrophobic. I guess with the blindfold and not being able to move, I just . . . I felt like I was suffocating.”

“You looked at me as if you didn’t know who I was though.”

I close my eyes and sink back into his chest. “I don’t know. I felt like I was hallucinating.”

He kisses the top of my head, and when I look up at him, he plants another kiss on my forehead. The scruff on his face pricks my skin, and for a split second, it feels like my father. I close my eyes again, overwhelmed with the emotions that keep stacking up on me, and freely reveal, “Your stubble reminds me of my dad.”

He cuddles me up tighter as words start to fall from my lips without much thought as I tell him, “He used to always kiss my forehead the same way you do.” A few moments pass before I add, “I like that you do that.”

“Were the two of you close?”

The tightening of my throat makes it hurt to speak when I simply breathe out a trembling, “Yeah.”

I choke back the tears that threaten as he rests his cheek on the top of my head. Time is idle between us, and when I feel the wave of sadness creep away, I finally ask Declan, “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Tie me up. Have you always done that to women?”

He moves his head from mine when I look up to see his face. He gives a nod and then turns his eyes to me.

“Why?”

“Control.”

“Will you talk to me about it?” I quietly ask, and his vulnerable words take me back when he admits, “I’ve never talked to anyone about it before.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s painful.” And I can see it written in the lines of his face.

I run my hand along his jaw, urging him to look at me when I ask, “Do you think you could tell me? Help me understand you better.”

The green in his eyes is bright, brighter than usual, a sign of the unshed tears that threaten him.

“Come closer to me,” he says and I do, nuzzling my head in the dip of the center of his chest. I listen to his heartbeat for a few seconds before he starts to speak. “My father used to travel a lot when I was younger. He always made sure I knew I was the man of the house and that it was my job as a man to take care of my mum. I always did. When I was fifteen, my dad had come here to the States on business. My mother was in the den, reading, while I was watching a movie in my parents’ room. The door was open, so I was able to see her curled up in my father’s old, leather chair he liked so much. She would always complain about how hideous it looked, but when he’d leave, it’s where she would always sit and read. She loved it but for some reason got a kick out of nagging my father about it.”

I laugh under my breath, and murmur, “Funny.”

“She was,” he responds. “She had so much life in her and never let the stresses get her down.” He takes a pause, and I can feel the muscles in his arms flex around me before he continues. “That night, I had fallen asleep on their bed when I heard a loud commotion that woke me up. My mother’s screams were terrifying, and when I lifted my head to look out into the den, I saw a man with a gun pointed to her head.”

That was the last thing I ever expected him to say, and when I look up, his jaw grinds down. Declan lowers his head to look at me, and I see the shame in his eyes as he says, “I was a coward.”

Shaking my head, I ask, “Why?”

“Because when I saw that gun, I crawled and hid under the bed.”

“Declan . . .”

“I could still see them though. My mum was crying and begging for her life while I did nothing to protect her. I didn’t even try to help her,” he reveals as tears rim his eyes. “I just laid there like a *, too scared to move, and watched as that man pulled the trigger and shot my mother in the head.”

“Jesus.”

Declan’s face is tight as he tries to keep his pain under control, but the glimmer of a tear finds its way down his face. I reach up and run my thumb along the wet trail as he watches me, and then out of nowhere, I feel the heat of my own tear as it falls. I realize in that moment that we share a similar pain. Both of our parents were murdered, taken away from us, and we never had a choice in the matter.

“I’m so sorry,” my heart whispers, because I genuinely feel his ache.

“That was my mum,” his voice cracks, “and I did nothing.”

“You were just a kid.”

He shakes his head, unwilling to accept that as an excuse, and I know enough to realize that no one would be able to convince him otherwise, so I don’t try.

“My father blames me for her death. He always has.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” I state firmly. “What if you had run to protect her and you were the one who got shot? Your mother would have suffered, mourning the loss of her only child. It’s a morbid thought, I know, but which would you prefer? A life of mourning or a quick death?”

He cradles my face in his hands, and I see his throat flex as he takes a hard swallow before he finally speaks, his voice holding only notes of seriousness, “I need control. I need to know that I hold the power so that nothing happens without my say. And with you, I’ve never felt like I needed that control more.”