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Declan stayed. Of course he did.

He sat in the chair beside my bed, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor.

He had looked unhappy since the woods.

Not irritated. Not Chief-stern. Miserable.

I reached over and touched his forearm.

His head came up immediately. He didn’t move away.

That still felt new enough to hurt.

I let my fingers stay there. “You told me not to touch you.”

His face tightened. He knew exactly what I meant.

The kitchen. His recoil. Don’t touch me.

I had carried those three words around like a shard under my skin ever since.

Declan looked down at my hand where it rested against him. “I know.”

I waited.

He rubbed both palms slowly over his jeans before finally looking at me again.

“I never hated it.” His voice dropped. “You touching me.”

I went very still.

“Just the opposite.”

There were probably better things to do with that sentence than stare at him.

I stared at him. “What does that mean?” I asked.

His jaw worked. “It means that wasn’t why I told you to stop.”

“Then why?”

He looked away. “Because I needed you to.”

“That cleared up absolutely nothing.”

His mouth twitched without becoming a smile. “I know.”

I studied him. “Did you want me touching you?”

His eyes came back to mine. A long silence followed.

Then he said, “Yes.”

Something warm moved through my chest. Not warm. Hot. Dangerously hot.

“All this time?”

He looked pained now. “Hazel.”