Fighter's Kiss: An enemies-to-lovers MMA romance (Irish Kiss Book 3), page 16
I fought to maintain my composure as Declan continued.
“The media is intrigued by you,” he said. “They like the drama of me with a new woman, my rival with my ex. Seamus said people eat that shit up.”
I nodded.
“The more people talk,” he said, “the more the media covers it.”
I listened numbly.
“And media coverage means money,” he explained, “and money means sponsors and sponsors mean—”
“More money.”
He stared down at me after I finished his sentence. He was silent.
“And that’s what you want?” I asked, focusing on Declan’s eyes. “More money?”
You don’t want dancing in the rain? You don’t want picnics in the sun? Dewdrops at midnight?
“I want to win,” Declan’s answer was as cold as the tone of his voice. “And I want to go to sleep.” Without another word, he pushed past me into the room.
Angrily, I shoved the door closed and huffed in frustration. My shoulder bumped into him as I marched toward the bed, grabbed one of what seemed like dozens of crispy, white pillows, and tossed one onto the plush oriental rug in front of the bed. “Sweet dreams,” I said sarcastically before flopping onto my stomach on the bed, arms and legs stretched out to each corner of the mattress.
Not caring that I was still in my evening gown, I reached for the bedside lamp, turned it off, and closed my eyes. But a few seconds later it was right back on. I winced against the glare as I peeked open an eye.
Declan, with his tie loosened and the first button of his shirt undone, was standing next to the lamp with his arms crossed over his chest. His lips were drawn into a tight, firm line. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
“Well, then the bathtub it is, honey, because you’re not sleeping on this bed,” I replied. My fingers fumbled for the light switch and the hotel room was again plunged into blissful darkness. I groaned when Declan immediately turned the light back on.
“You’re being unreasonable, sweetheart,” he said through clenched teeth. Declan unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it off his shoulders, which was a totally unfair move because he had the body of a Greek god, and chiselled abs were my Achilles heel. “Move over,” he demanded.
In response, I stretched my fingers and toes even further to take up even more room on the bed, making sure not to make eye contact with his perfect pecs. “Maybe Seamus will share,” I grumbled before turning off the light. “Goodnight, darling.”
Declan turned it back on within half a second. “Sugar, you’re testing my patience,” he growled. “I’m sleeping in this bed. So move over.”
When I reached for the light this time, Declan grabbed my wrist. I glared up at him. “I’m not in the mood for bondage play right now, sweetie.”
Declan released my hand and I stuffed a pillow over my face to block out the light. I yelped when he then easily scooped me up into his strong arms and dumped me on the far opposite side of the bed. I nearly tumbled right off the bed onto the carpet. With half my body hanging off the edge of the mattress, I stared at him with wide, unbelieving eyes as he climbed into bed, settled himself in against the fluffy pillows, and turned off the light.
Now it was me turning it back on. “Hey!” I barked.
Declan flopped an arm over his eyes and groaned. “Honeycomb, turn off the light.”
I shoved at his bicep, but it was like pushing a boulder up a mountain. Or a very, very, very stubborn ass. “Dumpling dearest, you’re taking up too much of the bed.” I tried moving his legs over with my feet up against his rock-solid thigh with little to no success.
Declan ignored me and again turned off the light.
“No, no, no.” I immediately turned it back on, pointing a frustrated finger at him. “No way in fucking, goddamn hell am I sleeping like this…baby.”
When Declan feigned an unperturbed snore, I bristled, my fingernails digging into my palms as I clenched my fists.
“You asked for it,” I warned before leaping into a bellowing rendition of Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman” horribly out of key on purpose.
Rolling his eyes in frustration, Declan tried to drown out my beautiful, stunning, “bring a single tear to the eye that rolls down the cheek in slow motion”-level singing, but I only belted out the chorus even louder.
“Fine, fine, you win!” Declan shouted as he scooted over to his side of the bed. “Fuck, stop that racket.”
“Whitney Houston is not racket,” I grumbled.
“You’re not Whitney Houston.”
I glared at him and grabbed a pillow off the bed, smacking it down in the middle of the bed between us. “This is how this is going to work,” I declared as I added pillow after pillow to the middle of the bed. “You stay on your side of the bed and I stay on mine.”
“Great.”
I started with a second layer of pillows. “No coming onto my side,” I insisted.
“No coming onto mine then.”
I stared down at him. “Fine.”
He glared up at me. “Fine.”
“No snoring,” I added.
“Not a problem.”
“No stealing the covers.”
“Not a problem.”
I hesitated and then said, “And no snuggling.”
“Definitely not a problem.” With that, Declan reached over and turned off the light.
Cursing him under my breath, I lay down on my side of the pillow wall and closed my eyes, trying to fall asleep. He was insufferable. How could he ever think that I would even pretend to be with him? It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. My thoughts bristled as I readjusted myself to get comfortable, still in my evening gown; it wasn’t like I could take it off. Because he so rudely barged in. Because he was selfish and inconsiderate. Because he was the worst.
Sleep refused to come.
I was too distracted by the sound of Declan’s breathing, the smell of his cologne, the impression of his body next to me, the warmth of his skin just past the line of hotel pillows.
Pillows I wanted there.
Pillows I wanted gone.
Pillows that could never move.
Pillows that could never stand in my way.
Pillows I couldn’t see through.
Pillows my heart could.
River
Alright.
That was it.
The last straw.
That was it.
I could deal with a little moving. Miley used to shift around in her sleep, too, on the nights she crashed in my bed after a late boozy night in. That wasn’t a problem. I could handle the noise of some heavy breathing, even some mumbling while someone slept. After all, it was nothing compared to the honking of horns, screeching of tires, and blaring of ’90s hip-hop from beat-up boomboxes at three in the morning. No, noise wasn’t the problem either. That wasn’t nearly enough to make me want to shove Declan out of the bed and onto the floor.
But I drew the line at stealing the covers. That was unforgiveable. That was a violation of bed code. That was the last straw.
I tugged the covers back over my shivering shoulders once before falling back asleep, only to have them wrenched back over to his side. Grumbling, I snatched them back a second time. By the third time, I’d had enough.
Sitting up, I opened my mouth to shout his name, but after one glance toward Declan, I did neither of those things.
He wasn’t just moving in his sleep, he was thrashing. It wasn’t just incoherent mumblings escaping his lips, but panicked whimpers. Because he wasn’t stealing the sheets to just be a greedy asshole. He was kicking, tossing and turning in the grip of a terrible nightmare.
Fear etched deep lines across his forehead as his breath quickened and his struggles to escape some unknowable foe intensified.
“Declan,” I tried whispering his name. “Declan, wake up.”
I watched as he continued to thrash his head back and forth on the pillow. Swallowing nervously, I extended a finger to tap his shoulder, which I found slick with sweat.
“Declan,” I repeated, voice hushed.
When I laid my hand fully on his arm, he flinched away from my touch with a whimper. He kicked at the sheets as his breathing grew ragged and strained. I knew I had to wake him up. No one deserved to go through whatever horror he was experiencing, even if it was just in a dream. But I feared what would happen if I woke him up the wrong way. If he wasn’t aware of where he was…I imagined his hand around my throat. I knew I’d be helpless, completely and utterly helpless.
Instead of reaching over for the lamp with its harsh, bright glare on the bedside table next to me, I slid out from under the silk sheets and tiptoed across the plush carpet. I held up my wrinkled skirt as I pulled back the heavy, velvet curtains covering the French doors that led out onto the quaint balcony overlooking the cobblestone street lined with bars and cafes. Soft moonlight swept in like a gentle breeze across the hotel room as I hurried back and sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed next to Declan.
The white light from outside illuminated his chiselled chest, his huge biceps, his defined abs. But this was not a strong man. In fact, he’d never looked weaker, more vulnerable. His body was drenched in sweat as he curled in on himself, quivering uncontrollably.
With my own shaking fingers, I slid my hand across the bed toward his hand. I watched his face as I brushed my pinkie against his.
His clenched eyes tightened with fear, but he did not wake.
“Declan,” I whispered as softly and gently as I could. “Declan, wake up. You’re okay.”
Everything inside of me told me to stop. The rational part of my brain screamed at me that this wasn’t safe; I was going to get hurt. He was going to wake up, confused and panicked, and I could do nothing if he attacked. But still I continued. “Declan, you’re okay,” I said in a hushed voice as I slipped my fingers beneath his. “You’re safe, you’re safe.” I wrapped my hand around his and squeezed gently. “Declan, you’re safe,” I whispered. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”
His palm was searing against mine as I traced circles on the back of his hand with my thumb. He whimpered and shook, but I did not leave.
“I’m here,” I cooed. “Declan, I’m here.”
I held my breath as he slowly started to still. The tension in his face eased, his shoulders relaxed and his breathing evened out as he grew quieter and quieter. I sighed in relief as his eyes no longer darted back and forth wildly beneath his eyelids.
“I’m here,” I whispered one last time.
It was one too many times.
Declan’s eyes shot open and he immediately wrenched his hand from mine. “What are you doing?” His tone was angry, angry at me.
“You were having a nightmare,” I tried to explain calmly.
“So?” he barked, eyes glaring up at me in the moonlight. “What excuse is that to wake someone up?”
I shook my head, not understanding why he was so upset. “You looked like you were in pain and—”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“I know, but—”
“I don’t want your help.”
I stared down at Declan, whose chest was now heaving, his forehead again glistening with sweat. There was anger and frustration and rage in his eyes, but there was something more, too.
There was fear.
Nodding nonetheless, I pushed myself up from the edge of the bed and returned to my side of the line of pillows. “Sorry,” I mumbled as I slipped back under the covers.
Across the bed, Declan sagged into the bed. I expected his breathing to slowly return to normal. But as I stared up at the ceiling, I heard him continue to gasp for air like he’d been training in the cage for hours, for days. It was a desperate, hopeless kind of wheeze.
Declan struggled alone for minutes before I felt the pillows shift slightly next to me. Beneath the covers, Declan’s hand searched for mine till his thumb, burning with heat, brushed up against my pinkie. As if afraid to scare off a wounded animal in need of aid, I kept myself as still as possible as he slowly, slowly, agonisingly slowly interlaced his fingers with mine. I feared every pounding beat of my heart would send him retreating back to his side of the bed. I hardly dared to breathe.
Declan’s racing heartbeat pulsed against my palm as I remained still and silent in the bed next to him. With his hand in mine, I heard his harsh gasps for air soften, his wheezing lessen, the rise and fall of his muscular chest slow, slow, slow…
After a long span of stillness and quiet, I suspected Declan had thankfully fallen into a peaceful sleep.
Then I heard him sigh. “I thought I’d gotten them under control.”
I wanted to look over at him, but I was afraid to even move my head. I breathed in deeply to try and calm my racing heart. “This has happened before?” I asked quietly.
A dark laugh escaped Declan’s lips. “Yeah, you could say that.”
I stared up at the ceiling of the hotel room, hyperaware of Declan’s hand still in mine. “Is it always the same dream?”
Declan sighed. “No, not always…” His voice seemed far away even in the absolute quiet of the room. I thought I felt him squeeze my hand tighter before he added, “Always the same fist, though.”
The silence was heavy, oppressive. I wanted to know more. But I didn’t know how far I should push. So I remained silent and still, my hand in his.
Finally, it was Declan who spoke. “I never wanted Giselle to know,” he said, his voice soft, uncertain.
I remembered Giselle’s room at the manor…separate from Declan’s…
“I never wanted anyone to know,” he continued. “Anyone.”
I glanced over to see Declan staring at the ceiling.
Then he turned his head so his blue eyes, soft in the moonlight, fell on mine. “I’m a fraud,” he said. “People think I’m strong, but I’m not. I’m not.” His fingers between mine again began to quiver as I waited, anxious and terrified. “I never did anything…” His voice faltered. “Every night he beat me and I didn’t fight back. I didn’t stand up to him. I was a coward. I am a coward.”
I couldn’t tell which pain was worse: Declan’s shaking hand gripping mine to the point where I feared my bones might snap in two or my heart wrenching in two. “Declan, I—”
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he said, immediately changing the subject. “I’m sorry.” He looked into my eyes.
I could see him begging me not to ask more questions. He had done what he had never done before—he had told someone. He hadn’t told anyone, but he told me. That was a huge step and I understood that.
I had a million questions I wanted to ask, a million things I wanted to say, a million caresses I wanted to comfort him with. But I knew if I pushed, he would retreat back into himself, back into the cage, back into his lonely world of pain and darkness. “You don’t have to apologise, Declan.”
“I do,” he quickly said, averting his gaze for a moment. “You scared me.”
I nodded. “I know,” I said. “I tried to be as gentle as possible when waking you up, but—”
“That’s not what I mean.” Declan’s eyes again met mine. “You scared me because of how easily you calmed me,” he whispered, as if afraid to even hear the words aloud. “From those nightmares I’ve only ever awoken screaming, paralysed so I can hardly breathe, shaking uncontrollably for hours after. But with you, with your touch…” His voice trailed off.
I waited.
His eyes were locked on mine. “I’m afraid I’m starting to need you, River,” he said softly. “And that scares the shit out of me. When I get scared, I get angry. Because it’s weakness.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I wanted to grab his face and scream into his face that he was wrong, wrong, wrong. I wanted to shout at him that he’d never been more wrong about anything in his entire life.
Fear wasn’t weakness. Admitting you needed help wasn’t weakness. Accepting help wasn’t weakness. Far from it.
I wanted to tell him there was nothing stronger.
But in that moment, Declan slipped his hand from mine and rolled over without another word.
I stared at his back, feeling the cold like a frigid winter’s night where his hand had been the sun itself. I bit my lower lip and hesitated before laying my hand on Declan’s arm. He flinched slightly, but he did not shrug me off or curse me out or move away.
If I couldn’t tell him, I wanted to show him.
Slowly, I cuddled up next to him and wrapped my arm tightly around his chest. My eyes fluttered closed as I felt his steady, even, calm breathing against me.
Declan must have thought I was asleep when he again moved his hand.
And slipped his fingers between mine.
River
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!”
The door to my hotel room crashed open and I jolted awake. With one bleary eye open, I watched as Seamus swept into the room in a flurry of noise and movement.
“How are my favourite lovebirds doing this fine Dublin morning?” he bellowed as he stalked over to the cracked curtains and flung them wide open.
Declan stirred against me. My cheeks burned as I quickly pulled my arms from where they were wrapped around his waist and scooted away from where I had been snugged tight against his back.
He cleared his throat and moved over toward his own side of the bed as he ran a hand through his hair, each of us avoiding eye contact with the other.
“No, no,” Seamus pointed between the two of us. “Get back close together. That’s perfect. They’ll eat that shit up, all that cuddling, lovey-dovey stuff.”
Declan and I glanced at each other before nervously looking away.
I winced as Seamus clicked on the television and blasted a news channel. I was shocked to see my own face there on the screen. Even after rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t still asleep, there I was…on television…with Declan…
