Chapter 5
Lena
The hot water crashes over me, scalding and relentless, but I don’t flinch. I let it burn, hoping it’ll sear away the weight sitting on my chest. I stare at the water sliding over my skin, watching it swirl down the drain, disappearing like it was never there.
I wish guilt washed away that easily.
But it doesn’t.
It clings, quiet and invisible, but heavy as hell.
When I showed up at Declan’s place, I didn’t expect him to know Jason Woods.
I definitely didn’t expect that name to strike a chord so deep, so furious in him that I thought the air around us might catch fire.
I didn’t ask questions, I know better. What happens in the club stays there.
Lines you don’t cross. Secrets you don’t pry into.
Still, I saw it in his eyes. The connection to Jason wasn’t just business. It was personal. Declan took it that way. And now, because of me, it’s more personal than it ever should’ve been.
I didn’t want to bring this trouble to his doorstep. I never do. But somehow, I always manage to. It’s like my life keeps bleeding into his, staining the corners he works so hard to keep clean.
And now I’ve put him in an impossible position, asking him to keep a secret from Wesley.
Wesley, who’s not just his best friend but his brother in every way that counts.
A sigh slips from me, ragged and raw, as I rest my forehead against the cool tile. The contrast of cold against my overheated skin makes me shiver. I hate this.
I hate needing help.
I hate being the reason Declan looks ten seconds away from war.
And I hate that he’s always the one I turn to because he’s the only one I trust enough to catch me when I fall.
And God, I keep falling.
Declan’s doing this for me.
Lying for me.
Fighting for me.
And I know, deep down, that no one else ever would.
When I let myself really think about it, which I try not to, because it’s dangerous and reckless. I know this pull I feel toward him is more than just attraction. It’s rooted somewhere deeper, somewhere scarier.
Yes, he’s sexy. That part is obvious.
Broad, muscular shoulders. Tattooed arms that flex when he crosses them when he’s trying to stay calm, but you can see the fire underneath. That messy, dark hair. That gruff, gravel voice that roughs over your skin like sandpaper.
Those are things any woman would notice.
And God knows, any woman would probably fall to her knees for a shot at him.
But it’s more than that.
It’s the way he talks to me. Gentle, even when he’s furious. It’s the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, like he’s counting my breaths just to make sure I’m still taking them.
It’s how he always steps between me and the world.
Like I’m his.
Like I matter.
And I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of devotion.
But the part that scares me the most?
I don’t think I ever want to give it back.
The water shuts off with a final hiss, leaving a heavy silence in its place. The kind that settles in your chest and doesn’t let go.
I wrap the towel tightly around me and stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, swiping my hand across it until my face comes into focus. My eyes are still red, my cheeks blotchy. I look like I’ve been through hell, and honestly, I feel worse.
Declan’s shirt hangs from the hook on the back of the door, and I slip it over my head. It falls to my mid-thigh, soft and warm from his drawer, smelling faintly like him, like spice and cedar and something I can't name but always associate with safety. With him.
I grab the shorts he left outside the door and step into them, cinching the waistband tight. They’re way too big, but that somehow makes me feel even smaller, like I could disappear inside the fabric and hide from everything.
When I finally step out into the hallway, the cool air hits my damp skin, and I pause just before the doorway to his bedroom. I can hear him inside, the drawers opening, his footsteps crossing the floor. I close my eyes for a second, pull in a breath, then step in.
Declan turns the moment he hears me, and his eyes land on me like a physical touch.
He goes still.
I see the shift in his expression. The way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze flickers over me, lingering for just a second too long on the bruises that are still faintly visible on my arms. Then up to the shirt I’m wearing. His shirt.
He swallows hard. “You good?” he asks, his voice quiet, a little rough around the edges.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. The shower helped.”
“Good.” He clears his throat and forces his gaze back to my face. “I left the pizza on the counter. Figured you’d want to eat something now.”
“Thanks.” My voice is small, but I mean it. For everything. For the shirt. The shorts. The silence. The fight. The fact that I’m here and not alone.
But I don’t say all that. I can’t. The air between us is already charged and thick with things we’re not saying, with emotions we’re both trying to keep buried. If I speak too much, I might spill all of it.
I take a tentative step closer, arms crossed loosely over my stomach. “Declan…”
He looks up sharply at the way I say his name. Like it hurts.
Like I mean it.
I see the war in his eyes. The urge to protect me, battling with the storm of something else. Something he’s fighting to keep locked down.
“Don’t look at me like that, Lena.” His voice is a low rasp, eyes dark.
“Like what?” I whisper, even though I already know.
He runs a hand through his hair, turning away for a second, pacing a few steps like he needs the space. “Like you trust me to fix this. Like I’m something I’m not. Like I’m not one second away from doing something I can’t come back from.”
I take another step. “But you did fix it. You always do.”
He stops, turns, and suddenly we’re closer than we should be. The tension stretches tight between us, buzzing like a live wire.
“Don’t say that, Lena.” His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. “Because if you keep looking at me like I’m the guy who saves you, I might start believing it. And I can’t. Not with you.”
“Why not?” My voice is trembling now, emotions bubbling too close to the surface.
His hand lifts, like he’s about to reach for me, but he stops himself mid-air, fingers curling into a fist before falling back to his side.
“Because you’re Wesley’s little sister.”
The words are a whisper, but they hit like a punch.
I flinch.
And for a second, neither of us breathes.
But then he closes the distance, his face inches from mine, his voice barely audible.
“And because I care about you more than I ever fucking should.”
His words nearly bring me to my knees.
I care about you more than I ever fucking should.
They echo in my head, rattling around in the spaces I’ve tried to keep sealed off. My heart stutters in my chest, pounding against my ribs like it wants to respond before I can even find the words. But I keep myself steady, barely.
I stare into his dark, stormy eyes as they hold mine, searching for something. Maybe permission. Maybe reassurance. Or maybe he’s just making sure he didn’t say too much.
But he already has.
More than he’s ever allowed himself to say to me.
And I can tell he wants to say more.
God, I want him to.
But not now.
Not like this. Not when I’m wearing his shirt, still damp from a shower meant to rinse off the weight of the world. Not when I’m bruised and broken and barely holding my pieces together.
So instead of leaning in and kissing him like I want, like I need, I force a small, shaky smile.
“Do you want some cold pizza?” I ask, my voice gentler than I intended.
He drags his hand through his hair, a soft exhale leaving his lips. “Sure, Lee Lee, I’ll eat some cold pizza.”
The sound of that name on his lips makes something sharp twist inside me. I roll my eyes and turn away, needing distance, fast.
“Please, stop with that nickname. I hate it.” I toss the words over my shoulder as I walk out of his bedroom.
I don’t look back, because being near his bed, wrapped in his shirt, surrounded by the scent of him, it’s too much.
It makes me want things I know I shouldn’t want. Not right now. Maybe not ever.
I hear his soft chuckle behind me, low and warm. It drips down my spine like melted honey, lingering.
When we reach the kitchen, he pulls open the cabinet and grabs two plates. He hands one to me without a word, the warmth of his fingers brushing mine for a second too long.
“Since when do you hate that nickname?” he asks, cracking open the pizza box. “We’ve been calling you that since we were kids.”
I take a slice, but I don’t look at him. “We’re not kids anymore, Declan.”
That name, Lee Lee, it doesn’t feel like affection. Not anymore. It feels like a reminder of a girl who was powerless. Small. Scared. A nickname tied to scraped knees, slamming doors, and tears cried into pillows I kept flipping over to stay dry.
It’s not who I am anymore.
“No, we sure as hell aren’t,” he says, his voice quieter now, heavier. I finally glance up just as he watches me take a bite of my pizza. His gaze drops to my lips as I lick a bit of sauce from them, and his eyes darken.
Everything in the room stills.
The air shifts. It’s now charged, thick, full of something hot and unspoken.
“We’re both adults now,” he adds, and his voice is deeper, rougher. Laced with something that feels dangerous in the best kind of way.
Heat creeps up my neck, crawling over my skin, and I suddenly forget the taste of the pizza.
God, what are we doing?
One more look, one more step closer, and I won’t be able to stop myself.
Not from touching him.
Not from wanting more.
Not from risking everything.