Bang (Black Lotus #1)(94)

“I don’t want to leave.” My voice is a mere whisper as I close my eyes to shield the tears from falling. I’ve never exposed this vulnerable side to another person as I find myself doing with Declan. I’ve always prided myself on how well I can cast the iron around me. Stoic and poised; the envy of everyone. But with him? It took something I didn’t think I had in me.

Trust.

Somehow . . . somewhere along the way, he got me to trust him, and in the wake of that, I let him in. He now occupies a part of me that I had only reserved for Pike, but Pike only filled parts of that for me. It’s Declan who fills me entirely, breaking the elasticity, filling me completely and running over to occupy the other vacant pieces inside of me.

The water laps around me, and I open my eyes to see Declan, naked, stepping down into the large tub. I move forward as he situates himself behind me, wrapping me up in his arms as I sink into his embrace. He slowly combs his fingers through my wet hair, and I release a faint hum in approval for the soothing touch. I run my hands down his strong legs that I’m tucked between and close my eyes again.

“Lean forward,” he says, and when I do, he starts to gently massage my lower back. “How’s that feel?”

“Really good,” I tell him. I’ve been suffering from searing stomach and back cramps, the same cramps that led me to the doctor earlier this week. Declan became really concerned the other night when he woke up to find me sleeping in the bath tub, filled shallow with hot water. He made me call the doctor to see if she could prescribe painkillers, but since I’m pregnant there isn’t anything that wouldn’t be harmful to the baby. So I’ve been spending most of my time soaking in hot baths since it seems to be the only thing that gives me any real relief. The doctor said that this type of cramping is pretty common during an endometriosis pregnancy.

“I hate that you’re leaving when you’re hurting so much,” he says while he kneads his fingers along my back.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Don’t. Stay. I’m not going to be able to function knowing you’re with him.”

Drawing my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs, making my request, “Talk to me.” I need him to do something to distract me from my sadness.

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Tell me about your home in Scotland. What’s it like there?”

He pulls me back against his chest, grabs a washcloth, and starts dipping it in the water and wringing it out over my shoulders and neck.

“It’s rainy most of the time,” he begins, and I close my eyes, resting my cheek on his pec and listen as he speaks. “But the green, sprawling hills make up for the lack of sunshine. The countryside is amazing.”

“Is that where your house is? In the countryside?”

He drags the washcloth around my neck and down to my breasts, answering, “Yes. It’s south of Edinburgh in the Galashiels.”

“What does it look like?” I ask, my eyes closed while he continues to soothe me with his voice and touch.

“The estate is called Brunswickhill. It was built in the mid-late nineteenth century, a neo-classical Victorian mansion, but was completely renovated before I took ownership a few years ago.”

“You were here though.”

“I know.”

“Have you ever stayed a night there?”

“No. I hired someone to furnish the place, but I’ve never actually stayed there yet,” he tells me.

“So why did you buy it?” I ask.

“Because after my father sold his house to take permanent residence in New York, I felt I didn’t have any more roots there aside from my mother,” he tells me.

I open my eyes and look up at him when I ask, “Is that where she’s buried?”

“Yeah, it is,” he murmurs.

“You bought the place to stay connected to her?”

He nods as he looks down at me, and then kisses my forehead before he continues, “You’d love it there. It’s on six acres, so it’s peaceful and quiet with a great view of the Tweed River.”

“Tell me more.”

“There’s a huge garden and a Victorian grotto built entirely out of clinker under this huge glazed dome.”

“Are there lots of flowers?”

He drops the washcloth and bands his arms around me, tucking my head under his chin, sighing, “Yeah, darling. Tons of red and purple ones.”

“Purple?” I question, my mind suddenly seeing the purple walls of my childhood.

“Mmm hmm.”

“I don’t like purple,” I mutter softly, and he doesn’t let a second pass before saying, “Then we’ll rip them out.”

I laugh under my breath and then he inquires, “You’ve never told me what your favorite flower is.”

I take a moment even though I already know the answer, but the thought alone grips my throat, tightening it as I reveal to him, “Daisies. I like pink ones.”

“Daisies?” he questions in surprise. “Such a simple flower. I would have thought something lavish.”

“Why’s that?”

“You just seem like a girl who likes nice things, that’s all,” he responds casually as he leans back, pulling me with him as we recline.