Echo(35)

Exultation is stolen in an instant when the door to my room opens, and I see Declan’s horrified face.

Am I dreaming?

He’s frozen for a moment before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. I don’t move as I look up, stunned.

“Christ, what happened?” he gasps, but he isn’t looking at me directly.

I follow his focus as my eyes land on my crimson soaked hand that rests on my lap. His legs disappear from my periphery while my vision blurs on my weapon, and then it’s gone. Covered in a warm, wet towel.

Touch.

Declan’s hand works deftly as he dabs gently, cleaning the blood.

Touch.

My heart’s beat reacts, delicate pumps soothe my tormented chest into a lull of lucidity.

Touch.

No longer a hateful, punishing touch; just a touch.

Lifting my eyes to his face that’s pinched in puzzlement, he flips my hand palm-up and then over again.

“Where’s the blood coming from?”

I don’t speak, and when he catches my eyes with his, his voice is fervent, “Nina, where’s the blood coming from?”

Don’t call me that.

Ache splinters when he calls me Nina, tightening my throat in a menagerie of emotions. A collision so unmanageable, my body doesn’t know how to react, so it remains numb and silent as Declan begins to move his hands over me, pulling up the sleeves to my sweater, trying to find the source of the blood.

Lowering my head, I lose myself in skin-to-skin contact, and when his hand finds the back of my head, I go limp, falling into his lap. I lie on the floor, like a baby, with my head on his knees and silently blink out tears. I don’t know if they’re happy or sad tears. All I know is that they are tears that welcome my answered prayer of solace.

His fingers are tender as they move to nurse me. I rest in a ball, curled at his mercy. His pants dampen beneath my cheek, salting the wool fabric.

If wishes were granted, this would be mine. I wanted to remain in his lap forever. To never lose that feeling because he was everything in that moment. Gentle and loving. Lying there, I felt like a child. Like a little girl being taken care of by her father. And although he wasn’t my father, somehow he carried pieces of that man inside of him. It wasn’t something he was even aware of, but I was. I saw it and felt it every time I was in the presence of Declan. He held it all: lover, protector, fighter. He was the ultimate fairytale, and I would have done anything to make him my fairytale.

“What have you done to yourself?” his voice murmurs above me. “Sit up.”

He helps me from his lap, and we sit face to face when he instructs, “Lift your arms,” and when I do, he slips the sweater off of me.

Blood stains the back of the top, and he continues to clean me up before spotting my luggage and pulling out a clean shirt that he then puts on me.

Letting go of a deep breath, he sits in front of me while I remain by the side of the bed. Some of my blood colors his knuckles as I watch him drag his hand back through his thick hair. I observe the details of his movements, the way his chest rises and falls with each deep breath he takes, the way a lock of his hair falls over his forehead in dishevelment, the lines of torment that crease his face, the dark lashes that outline and brighten his green eyes that are pinned to mine.

With my trembling hand, I reach up and lightly touch his face with the tips of my fingers. He doesn’t flinch or move when I do this, something I thought I’d never be able to do again. And then I mutter my first words on a hushed breath drenched thick in heartbreak, “I thought you were dead.”

His throat flexes when he takes a hard swallow. “I know you did,” he responds, voice strained.

“Your father . . . ” I start, struggling to keep my words alive. “He told me . . . ”

“It was a lie.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want you looking for me.”

Truths are blades. But I deserve every cut that comes my way.

“Your head looks really bad,” he notes. “Why? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

I reach back to touch his gift that burns in my flesh, and I’m embarrassed when I answer him with honesty, because I refuse to hide myself from him anymore.

“I didn’t want to let it go?”

“It’s grotesque, Nina.”

“Please. Don’t . . . don’t call me that.”

He drops his head, saying, “I want to hurt you.”