Elena
Istare at the closed bathroom door and the dark smears on the marble floor leading to it. Blood, still wet, catching the dim light from the hallway. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it behind my eyes.
He was covered in blood.
The thought repeats itself, over and over, like my mind can't process anything else.
Declan walked past me without a word, without even looking at me, and he was covered in blood.
His white shirt—what I could see of it beneath his jacket—was soaked through.
His hands were dark with it. There was a smear across his jaw.
I should give him space and let him handle whatever happened tonight on his own, the way he's been handling everything on his own since we got married. But I stand up instead, almost as if I can’t help myself, and walk toward the bathroom.
I feel like I'm approaching something dangerous, something that might bite.
He looked destroyed. That's what stops me just outside the door, my hand raised to knock. The expression on his face when he walked past me wasn't anger. It was devastation, so painful to see that my chest aches with it.
I press my palm flat against the door and listen. I can hear water running, then a harsh exhale ending in a curse. He needs to be alone, I tell myself. He doesn't want you in there.
But my hand is already turning the knob.
The bathroom is filled with steam. It billows out when I open the door, smelling of soap and something metallic underneath.
Blood. The shower is running, water beating against tile, and through the frosted glass I can see Declan's silhouette.
He's still dressed, standing under the spray like he forgot to undress first.
"Declan." My voice comes out very quiet.
He doesn't acknowledge me at all. He just stands there with his head bowed, water streaming over him and turning pink as it washes the blood away.
I close the door behind me, standing there uncertain of what to do.
"I'm sorry," he says finally, his voice rough. "I'm sorry the night was interrupted."
The words are so absurd, considering that he’s covered in blood, that I almost laugh. Almost. But the sound that wants to come out isn't laughter. It's something closer to a sob.
"I don't care about the opera." I move closer to the shower, my bare feet silent on the heated tile. "What happened?"
"Nothing you need to worry about."
"Declan—"
"I said it's nothing." His voice hardens, but there's no real force behind it. Just exhaustion. "Go to bed, Elena."
I could do that. I could turn around and leave him alone, and go back to pretending we're strangers living in the same house. That's what I've been doing for weeks. That's what's safe.
But suddenly, I can't.
"Let me help you." The words surprise me as much as they probably surprise him.
He goes still. Then, slowly, he turns his head. Through the frosted glass, I can see him looking at me. "Help me?"
"You're still dressed." I gesture at the shower. "You're going to ruin your clothes."
"They're already ruined."
"Then let me help you get them off."
For a long moment, he doesn't move or speak. The water keeps running, steam keeps rising, and I stand there with my heart pounding, wondering what the hell I'm doing.
Then he reaches for the shower door and opens it.
Water streams off him, soaking the bathmat and pooling on the floor.
His shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, transparent now, showing the tattoos underneath.
His pants are heavy with water, sagging low on his hips.
His hair is plastered to his head, copper darkened to rust. And his eyes are so tired. So defeated.
"Why?" he asks quietly.
"Because you need help." I step close enough that the spray from the shower mists my skin. "And because I want to."
"You want to." He says it like he doesn't believe me.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I don’t know exactly how to answer that. "Because you're my husband," I say finally.
He looks confused, but he doesn't argue. He just stands there, and I step closer, feeling the water soak into my T-shirt and lounge shorts as I step into the shower. I feel ridiculous, but I’m not about to strip off in front of him yet, and if he’s soaked through while dressed, I can be too.
It feels, oddly, like the kind of thing a husband and wife would do. I don’t know how to be that. I’m not sure Declan does, either. But all of a sudden, it feels like we’re trying.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers are shaking, and the fabric is soaked, making the buttons difficult to work. Blood has stained the white cotton rust-red in places, and I try not to think about whose blood it is, whether it's his or someone else's.
"It's not mine," he says, reading my mind. "Most of it, anyway."
"Most of it?"
"I got hit a few times. Nothing serious. He scraped me with a knife, but it stopped bleeding before I got home."
I get the first button undone. Then the second. The shirt falls open, revealing his chest. My pulse picks up at the sight of the dark, dangerous-looking tattoos inked across his skin, the chiseled muscles carved into his body. A dark bruise is blooming along his ribs, and another on his shoulder.
"That doesn't look like nothing."
"I've had worse."
I'm sure he has. But that doesn't make it easier to see. I push the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the tile with a wet slap. His skin is warm under my hands, slick with water, and I can feel his heart beating too fast, like he's been running.
Or like he's afraid.
Or…
"Elena." His voice is strained. "You don't have to—"
"I know." I reach for his belt. "I want to."
His breath catches. I can feel the tension in him, coiled tight, like he's holding himself back from something. From reaching for me, maybe… or from pushing me away.
I unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants. The zipper sticks because of the water, and I have to work it down slowly. My knuckles brush against his stomach, and I feel him tense. "What happened tonight?" I ask quietly, focusing on the zipper instead of his face.
For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then he says slowly, "I offered to help the Capettis with a shipment."
My hands still. "What about it?"
"It was ambushed." His voice is flat. "Nearly all the men I sent are dead. Seven of them. One is critical, but Cormac doesn’t think he’ll make it. Because I thought I could do things differently. Because I thought I could prove I belong in this world."
The zipper finally gives. I push his pants down over his hips, and he steps out of them, kicking them aside. He's naked now except for his boxer briefs, and those are soaked through too, clinging to him in a way that would be obscene if I weren't so focused on his words.
Seven men dead.
"It's not your fault," I say softly.
"Isn't it?" He laughs, bitter and harsh. "I sent them there. I made the offer to help. I thought—" He breaks off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. They're dead because of me."
I look up at him. Water streams down his face, and I can't tell if it's just the shower or if there are tears mixed in. His jaw is tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"You were trying to do the right thing.”
"The right thing got seven men killed."
"You couldn't have known—"
"I should have." His voice cracks. "I should have seen it coming. Should have been smarter. Should have—fuck, I don't know. Done something other than what I did."
He turns away from me, bracing his hands against the shower wall, his head bowed.
The water beats down on his shoulders, his back, washing away the last traces of blood.
But it can't wash away the guilt. I can see it in every line of his body, in the way he's holding himself like he's trying not to break.
"I can't do this," he says quietly. "I can't lead these men. Can't navigate this world. Can't even be what my wife needs me to be. I'm failing at everything, Elena. Everything."
I stare at him, hearing all of it, but especially the part where he said he can’t be what I need him to be.
I didn’t realize he wanted to be. That he cared at all about what I needed.
I’ve lived so long with cold, conniving, manipulative men that I never thought Declan would be anything but just a lesser version.
But looking at him now, hearing him, I realize that while I’ve never known a truly good man… I might be seeing one now.
And I've spent weeks trying to make him feel exactly this way—inadequate, out of place, wrong for this world. I've undermined him and insulted him and done everything I could to prove he doesn't belong. And now, hearing him say it himself, I realize how much I hate it.
"You're not failing," I murmur.
"Yes, I am." He doesn't look at me. "You know it. My men know it. The other families know it. I'm a fucking joke, Elena. An upstart who doesn't belong, trying to play at being something he's not."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" He finally turns to face me, and the look in his eyes is devastating. "You've said as much yourself. Multiple times."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "I was angry—"
"You were right." He steps out of the shower, water streaming off him, and reaches for a towel. I hit the tap to turn off the spray, now almost as soaked as he is. "I don't belong in your world. I never will. And trying to pretend otherwise is just getting people killed."
I watch him dry off with rough, angry movements. His muscles flex and shift under his skin, the bruises already darkening. He's beautiful and broken and so far from what I expected him to be.
"You're wrong," I whisper.
He pauses, the towel in his hands. "What?"
"You're wrong about yourself." I step out of the shower, tilting my head back to look at him.
"You don't belong in my world because you're better than it.
You're loyal and honest, and you actually care about your people.
You're not like my father or the other bosses who see their men as expendable.
You're not like anyone I've ever known."