Page 91 of Sinful Bride

But if I do this…

I push off the wall and start walking. I don't know where I'm going, just that I need to get away. The hallway stretches out before me endlessly, and I think about Declan and the way he looked at me in the hallway earlier, his hands on my body, his voice rough with need. About the way he promised we'd wait for children until I was ready. About the diner, the dancing, our night together last night.

He's not the man I thought he was. Not the brute, the upstart, the interloper who doesn't belong. He's complicated and vulnerable, trying so hard to prove himself worthy of a world that will never fully accept him.

And I've started to care about him. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I care about him as a person, someone who makes me feel things I didn't know I could feel. But I also have a duty to my family. To my father. To the world I was born into. And if I do this—if I kill Declan—I can be free. I can live my own life. I can choose.

All I have to do is betray the man I'm starting to fall for.

I find myself in the garden, the cool night air washing over me. The scent of jasmine is heavy around me. I sink onto a stone bench, my dress pooling around me, and press my hands to my face.

What am I supposed to do? If I refuse, my father will find another way. He always does. And when Declan is gone, the consequences I’ll face are unthinkable. A worse marriage, being cut off from the family… maybe worse things than that. I can’t begin to imagine how he’d punish my failure.

But if I agree…

Could I really kill him? Could I look him in the eye, knowing what I'm planning, and go through with it?

My stomach churns. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. I thought I understood my world and my place in it. But everything is changing, becoming something I don't recognize.

Declan isn't supposed to matter. He's supposed to be a duty, an obligation. But he does matter. He matters more than I want to admit.

And my father is offering me the one thing I've always wanted. Freedom.

I sit there in the garden, the night air cold against my skin, and try to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do. Because for the first time in my life, I have a choice.

And I have no idea how to make it.

19

ELENA

The next morning, I wake to find Declan already up, standing by the window with a cup of coffee. The early light catches in his copper hair, turning it gold at the edges. He's wearing only sleep pants, his chest bare, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Morning," he says without turning around.

"Morning." My voice sounds rough. I didn't sleep well. I couldn't stop thinking about my father's words, about the gun I hid in my jewelry box where I know Declan won’t look, about the impossible choice I have to make.

Declan turns to look at me, and something in his expression softens. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just tired."

He studies me for a moment, then sets his coffee down and moves to the bed. The mattress dips under his weight as he sits beside me, his hand coming up to brush hair back from my face. The gesture is gentle, and it makes my chest tighten.

"You sure?" His voice is concerned. "You seemed upset last night."

"I'm fine," I say again, and this time I force a smile. "Really."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he leans in and kisses me soft and slow, his hand cupping my jaw. I kiss him back, trying not to think about what I'm supposed to do. I try not to think about anything except the warmth of his mouth and the solid weight of him beside me.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire. "Come here," he murmurs, and pulls me into his lap.

I go willingly, straddling him, the silk slip I wore to bed last night riding up around my thighs. His hands settle on my hips, warm and possessive, and I can feel him hardening beneath me. The evidence of his desire sends heat pooling low in my belly, chasing away some of the cold fear that's been sitting in my chest since last night.

"Elena." He murmurs my name, his hands sliding up my sides, taking the silk with them. "I want you."

I reach between us, freeing his cock. I stroke him slowly, feeling guilt flood me as he groans with pleasure. I lean in to kiss him again, trying to banish those thoughts, to not think about what I can’t change.

He lies back, stripping my slip off and pulling me astride his face. He licks me to a slow orgasm while he strokes himself, then lifts me, the strong muscles of his arms flexing, and sets me down just above his cock while he rolls a condom on.

I feel that guilt again. By the rules of the world I live in, this man doesn’t have to do this—doesn’t have to sacrifice the pleasure of fucking me bare for my own neuroses. And yet, he did it without me even asking him to buy them. He could have just pulled out every time and insisted on taking the risk. But instead, he’s sacrificing his pleasure for my happiness.