Echo (Black Lotus #2)(54)
He’s my body’s epitaph.
His intensity grows and we’re nothing but wild heartbeats, frantic breaths, bleeding lips, broken souls. We cling, grab, and claw our way to incomprehensible closeness. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, and I writhe in pleasure as he bites me, marking my flesh, breaking through the delicate tissue, bleeding me out for him to taste.
He growls deeply, chest vibrating against mine. Reaching down, he grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it up, but quickly stops. Bracing himself above me, he looks down at my stomach, and when my eyes move to see what’s pulled him away from me, my gut turns. I’ve mutilated my skin, gifting it with monstrous bruises.
Declan drops his head, the tips of his hair brushing along my stomach. The moment my hands touch his head, he snaps up and pushes himself off of me. I sit up and instantly miss him as I watch his sudden change. His eyes narrow then pinch shut as ache penetrates his face.
What he’s able to mend inside of me so quickly, he shatters even faster.
He stands and walks away, depleting the goodness he just filled me with. But before he leaves, he turns back, and says, “You breathe deceitful fumes; I can taste it when we kiss.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me an empty mess, not wanting to think about the war that’s going on inside of him, because that war will always cast back to me, and I can’t deal with the responsibility of that burden in this moment. I’m too weak.
WHEN THE SUN begins to shine through the windows, I wake. My head is already throbbing as I stretch and sit up, tired from being woken up all through the night. I had a hard time falling back to sleep after kissing Declan, and when I walk to the bathroom, my darkened eyes confirm.
I rummage around but find no toiletries. All my belongings are back at Isla’s. I shiver from the chill in the house as I make my way to Declan’s room, but it’s empty.
“What are you doing?” he asks, startling me, and when I turn around, he’s walking up the stairs with a mug in each hand.
“I woke up, and . . . I was just looking for you. I wanted to freshen up, but there was nothing in the bathroom.”
He hands me one of the mugs, and I’m instantly greeted with a fragrant floral spice from the tea he made for me.
“Umm . . . thanks,” I mumble when he moves past me and into his bedroom.
I don’t know whether I should follow him, so I stay put, but I don’t have to wait long for him to return with his leather toiletry bag I remember from his loft back in Chicago.
“Here,” he says as he hands it to me. “You can use my things.”
He then walks into my room, and this time, I follow. He takes a seat in the sitting area by the windows, and I go into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I open his bag, pull out his toothbrush, and take comfort in using it along with his deodorant. I brush my hair, careful not to rip off the bandage the doctor put over the scab on the back of my head.
When I walk out, he’s made himself comfortable, looking pulled together in slacks and a crisp, charcoal button-up. But I can see the exhaustion in his eyes as well. I walk over and slip back into bed, covering up in the warm blankets, sitting against the upholstered headboard. I take a sip from my cup of tea and look over to Declan who’s flipping through a stack of papers.
“Are those . . . ?”
He raises his head and says, “I wanted to know what upset you, so I took them from your room.”
“Did you . . . I mean, have you . . . ?” I fumble with my words as my anxiety picks up, remembering what I read.
“I figured it would be best to talk about this and deal with it head on instead of it taking control over you.”
Shaking my head, I tell him, “I don’t want to talk about it, Declan.”
“Why?”
Putting the tea aside on the nightstand, I wilt down in the bed and give him my honest thoughts. “Because it hurts too much. Because talking won’t change it. Because my life is already too screwed up for me to handle.”
He sets the papers down on the coffee table in front of him, leans forward, and says, “Ignoring it is only going to make it hurt worse. That’s your problem, Ni—Elizabeth.” Shaking his head at his near slip, he looks back to me and continues, “You hide everything, and when you do that, you give those things power over you.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No,” I respond, and he releases annoyance in a sigh, saying, “Then explain last night to me.”
“That wasn’t—”
“Have you looked at yourself lately?” he chides. “A woman who’s in control wouldn’t be smashing her head into a f*cking wall.”
“You don’t understand,” I defend.
“Then please, explain it to me. Make me understand why your body is covered in contusions.”
His glare is sharp, pinning his frustrations to me as I sit here awkwardly. Knowing how Declan saw me last night, knowing the things I’ve revealed to him, I feel denuded of my armor I’m used to hiding behind. I’ve laid myself bare to this man, but now I want to hide again. I want to throw the fa?ade on and lash my crude words at him. Push him out of the honesty I’ve been giving him.
But he sees me wanting to avoid when he presses, “I want you to tell me why you’re determined to destroy yourself. Tell me why.”