He keeps a straight face as he says this, and the truth behind his words irritates me. I know I’m ugly. Uglier than most. I’m tarnished and decrepit, but I’ll be damned if I ever let him or anyone else see the wretched heart that beats inside of me.

“You’re an asshole,” I bite.

“Baby, I’ve been called a lot worse, so if you’re trying to offend me, you’ll have to do better than that.”

With a glare, I say, “I don’t get you and your insults. I thought you wanted to be my friend.”

He moves in closer to me, and with a low voice, murmurs, “I don’t want to be your friend, Nina.”

Taking a hard swallow, I feign nervousness, whispering, “You should go,” as he continues to move himself toward me, and then over me, forcing me to lie back on the floor with both his hands braced on either side of me. “Declan, this is wrong,” I breathe.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me you love your husband,” his voice taunting.

“I love my husband.”

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he says, eyes pinned to mine.

“I don’t want you.”

My breathing increases and grows heavy when he lowers himself onto his elbow and starts running his one hand down the center of my sternum, between my breasts, adding quietly, “Tell me you’re not lying to me.”

“I’m not lying to you.”

Then, with his legs intertwined with mine, he slips his hand down my pants, under my panties, parting the lips of my pussy and dragging his finger through my heat. He smiles cagily down at me when he feels how wet I am and then quickly removes his hand, bringing it to my lips and shoving his finger into my mouth, telling me, “Taste your lies, Nina.”

His breath bathes me with his words, and I give in, allowing my tongue, for a brief and noticeable moment, to wrap around his finger, giving him the obedience I know he craves, but inside, I’m mortified and disgusted. I hate that my body would react this way—growing wet for this man. Pulling away and jerking my head to the side, I don’t look at him, but soon feel his nose gliding along my exposed neck, hearing him inhale my scent.

“Declan . . .”

“Hmm . . .?”

I roll my head back, and look straight up at him. “Get the fuck off of me.”

When he doesn’t move right away, I fist my hands, and flip the switch on him, weakly slamming them against his chest, allowing the look of guilt to wash over my face. “Get off of me now, Declan.”

He moves back and sits on his heels as I rise off of my back and scoot away from him, muttering, “Please, just go. Just leave me alone.”

“Nina . . .”

“You can’t do this to me. I’m not that person.”

He reaches out for me, saying, with apology in his voice, “I don’t want to upset you; you just make it hard for me to control myself when I’m around you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I like you. Because I know you’re not happy. I can see you hiding, and I don’t want you to do that around me.”

“I’m not hiding,” I affirm sternly.

“Okay then,” he releases in frustration. “You want me to accept that when we both know it’s a lie?”

“I’m not hiding,” I repeat, and with that, he stands and walks away and out the door.

Fucking, Christ!

A part of me wants to squeal in victory, knowing I’ve got this guy by the balls, and the other part feels like it needs a drink because he’s so goddamn deluged with intensity. I’ve come across a few guys in the past year, but none have shown this level of interest. They all fizzled before anything could ever get started, so the elation that I feel with Declan gives me the power I need to move forward.

I NOW FIND myself tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep because my mind won’t seem to quiet down. It’s past one in the morning when I decide the night with Declan isn’t over just yet. He wants to believe that I’m lying to him about my contentment with Bennett, so I’ll give him reason enough to confirm his assumption. Throwing the covers off of me, I walk through the room and out the door. This floor is private, so I go ahead and walk past the elevator bank and down to Declan’s room. Standing in front of his door, I take a deep breath, and allow my mind to go to a place that’ll put me in the state I need to be in when he opens the door and looks at me. He needs to believe I’m harboring a deep pain inside, so I drift back twenty-three years. I’m being ripped out of my father’s arms, watching him fall to his knees as he’s cuffed. I can see the tears falling down his face, and when I feel my cheeks heat in the pain, the tears puddle in my eyes. I knock.

Lights.

Camera.

Action.

The door opens, and I look up to see Declan standing in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms that hang on his narrow hips that angle down from his broad, sculpted chest. My tears are heavy, but they don’t spill over. He takes one step towards me and pulls me into his arms, his cheek pressed to the top of my head, holding me tight. No words are spoken when he brings me inside his room and shuts the door.

I keep my arms around his waist as he walks me back to his room and over to his bed. Cradling my face in his hands, I look up at him, and his eyes are noticeably worried.

“Stay.”

With a nod of my head, he pulls the sheets back, and I crawl into his warm bed. He follows, scooping me into his arms. His body pressed against mine, my head resting on his chest, I take the comfort I need in this moment. My mind isn’t with Declan or Bennett or this whole fucked up scenario, it’s with my dad. I opened that gate for one second to trick Declan and now I’m five years old—scared and lost.

The first tear drops, and I fucking hate that I’m exposing this weakness. It’s one thing to manufacture pain for the sake of deception, but my father is very much real, and it hurts. I don’t want to think too much, so as Declan comforts me from what he believes is Bennett, I take the consoling for my father.

Neither of us says a word as I silently fight to contain the few weeps that break free, all the while Declan’s hold is firm and strong around me. I weave my legs with his and eventually allow myself to drift to sleep.

STANDING IN FRONT of the windows, I look down and watch as the snowplows make their way through the city, clearing the streets. I left Declan’s room early this morning while he was still sleeping. I wanted to build the mystery and chase, and waking up in his arms would make it too easy for him, and from what I’ve learned about men, easy leads to a shallow investment. I need Declan to be fully immerged if I have any chance at this working out, so I quietly slipped out of his room.

I laugh when I hear the knock on my door since last night he took it upon himself to just barge in on me with no warning. But it isn’t Declan standing on the other side; it’s room service.

“Mr. McKinnon ordered breakfast for you this morning,” he says as he wheels in a white-clothed cart with a French press and a platter of fresh fruit and crullers.

“When was this request made?” I ask.

“Maybe an hour or so ago, Mrs. Vanderwal,” he says. “May I pour you a cup?”

“No, thanks.”

“Would you like anything else?”

“It seems Mr. McKinnon has covered all his bases this morning. Thank you though,” I tell him before he turns to leave. The pit of my stomach pinches and this display should please me, but instead, irritation swarms. I should have never connected to his comfort last night. It was a foolish move on my part, and now I’m pissed at myself.

I leave the food and coffee and head to the shower to clean up. Not having any other clothes besides what I wore yesterday and the pajamas, I slip back into my dress and press a little powder on my face from the compact in my purse and then dry my hair.