We Grew Up Side By Side

Michaels girlfriend was chronically online. She loved testing out every new TikTok trend she scrolled past, and tonight was no exception.

Michael, you're a year older than me. Why didn't you visit me in the hospital the day I was born? Do you even love me at all?

Michael let out a helpless laugh, entirely used to her antics. He played along with the joke, but then his eyes caught his famously stoic, buttoned-up uncle sitting nearby. A mischievous glint crossed Michael's face.

"Uncle Declan, what about you? How would you answer that?"

The man, who rarely cracked a smile, swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "I did visit."

He took a slow sip. "Not only did I visit, but I held her when she was just a baby."

As the words left his mouth, his dark, heavy gaze drifted across the room, landing squarely on me.

Michael Prescott and I grew up together. For the first twenty years of my life, we were inseparable.

It wasn't just me who thought we were endgame. Our parents, our entire social circle, everyone practically had our wedding invitations drafted in their heads. We were the quintessential high-society match, perfectly suited in background and temperament.

When I turned eighteen, my parents officially brought up the idea of a merger between the Astor and Prescott families through marriage. They asked how I felt about it.

Honestly, I adored Michael. If our families joined, it would be a beautiful story. But we were still young, so the engagement talks were gently shelved, and we headed off to the same Ivy League university instead.

For the next two years, we lingered in that agonizingly sweet gray area. More than friends, not quite lovers. Everyone around us treated it as an inevitability. Swept up in the expectations, I let myself fall a little deeper for him with every passing day.

Then came the winter of our sophomore year. Michael found me, his eyes bright with an excitement I had never seen before. "Sharon, I met someone. I think I'm really falling for her!"

It wasn't me.

Seeing him so ecstatic was a brutal wake-up call. The last two decades of our lives had never sparked real romantic love in him. The lingering hugs, the intertwined hands, to Michael, they were just the perks of having a best friend.

You cannot force a heart to feel something it doesn't. And I refused to humiliate myself by begging.

So, I gathered up my feelings and locked them away.

To the absolute shock of our social circle, Michael started dating a girl from a very ordinary, middle-class suburb. She was undeniably pretty, with a spoiled, slightly demanding streak that proved she was her parents' pampered princess.

He paraded her around, introducing her to every single person in our elite bubble.

My presence suddenly became a very awkward elephant in the room.

Our mutual friends didn't buy it. They placed bets on when the novelty would wear off, convinced that once Michael got bored of playing tourist in a normal life, he would realize I was the one he belonged with.

"Don't stress it, Sharon," a friend whispered to me over martinis. "He's just fascinated by the naive, girl-next-door routine. Give it a few months. He'll get sick of it."

He didn't.

Michael stayed with her for two solid years. He flashed his new relationship all over town, making sure everyone knew, including my parents and his.

My father was furious enough to march over to the Prescott estate and give them a piece of his mind.

My mother had to physically block the door. "If they don't want the match, we walk away gracefully. Why make a scene? Do you honestly think our daughter is going to lack suitors?"

"That is not the point!" my father thundered.

When the families had first discussed the marriage, Michael wasn't a child. He knew about it. He had, at the very least, offered silent consent. Even if we hadn't made it official, we were a hair's breadth away from an engagement. It was only because my mother thought we were too young that she gave us time to date properly.

By flaunting this new girl, he wasn't just breaking my heart. He was publicly slapping the Astor family in the face.

Still, on the surface, Michael and I remained friends. Our families had hundreds of millions tied up in joint ventures. We had to keep up appearances.

But friends were all we would ever be.

Which brings us to tonight. Michael booked a massive VIP lounge at an exclusive club downtown for his birthday, inviting half the city's young elite.

I was on the guest list.

And naturally, so was his girlfriend, Sophie.

Once Michael started dating, my texts to him slowed to a trickle.

But we had a messy digital footprint. Before Sophie came into the picture, our Instagram comments and late-night chat histories blurred the lines of platonic friendship.

Once they were official, Sophie demanded total access to his phone.

They fought about it a few times. I only found out when Michael pulled me aside to apologize, sheepishly admitting Sophie had blocked and deleted my number from his contacts. Since I hadn't reached out to him in weeks anyway, I hadn't even noticed.

Sophie was desperately trying to claw her way into Michael's inner circle. Old money circles are notoriously cliquey, and someone had definitely whispered in her ear about my history with her boyfriend.

I understood her insecurity. So, I took a step back and gave them space.

Tonight, I had planned to drop off his birthday gift and ghost. But as I walked through the heavy velvet curtains of the lounge, my eyes snagged on a figure sitting in the corner. I froze. Just then, my phone lit up with a text.

After reading it, I quietly found a seat at the edge of the room.

"Sharon, you made it!" Michael looked genuinely thrilled. "I heard you've been shadowing your dad at the firm. I figured you'd be too busy closing deals."

I smiled smoothly, handing over the sleek wrapped box. "Happy birthday, Michael."

"Sharon!" Sophie's sugary voice chimed in. "It feels like forever. Are you trying a new mature look? It's giving... pushing thirty."

Sophie was draped in a custom pink couture gown that cost more than a sports car, her hair curled into playful, bouncy waves.

She wasn't stupid. She knew exactly what she was saying.

I looked down at my impeccably tailored, razor-sharp designer suit and let out a soft laugh. "Is it? Good. I am aiming for ruthless corporate executive, after all."

Michael immediately jumped in to keep the peace. "Sharon, you know Sophie. She's just playing around. Don't take it to heart."

I didn't take it to heart. I didn't let just anyone into my heart anymore.

I sat a fair distance from the main action, but the acoustics in the room were crisp.

That was when Sophie pulled out the viral internet joke. "Michael, you're a year older than me. Why didn't you visit me in the hospital..."

The crowd erupted in affectionate laughter. The guys ribbed him. "Yeah, Michael! Why weren't you rolling up with a baby bottle for your girl?"

It was harmless teasing. Sophie was beautiful in an innocent, doe-eyed way, and over the past two years, she had managed to charm a few of the guys in our group.

Michael grinned, tossing his arm over the back of the sofa. "I was probably throwing a tantrum and getting grounded by my mom for spitting out my apple juice."

The room dissolved into more laughter.

Michael turned his head, spotting his notoriously strict uncle who had surprisingly shown up to the party. Wanting to test the ice, he threw the question his way. "Uncle Declan, what about you? How would you answer that?"

Declan Prescott was five years older than Michael and me. He was the unexpected miracle child of the Prescott grandparents, born late in their lives.

From the day he drew breath, he was the golden standard. Despite the small age gap, the generational hierarchy was absolute. Factor in Declan's Ivy League degrees, his ruthless ascension in the corporate world, and his devastatingly cold charisma, and every trust fund kid in our circle was secretly terrified of him.

Growing up, I called him Uncle Declan too.

Michael was probably hoping to get a dry, pragmatic business answer out of the man.

One of Michael's friends chuckled nervously. "Come on, man, don't drag Declan into this. The guy runs an empire. When does he have time for romance?"

Then, Declan spoke. "I did visit."

The room went dead silent. "Huh?"

The man who treated boardrooms like war zones added softly, "Not only did I visit, but I held her when she was just a baby."

No one noticed his eyes. They were locked dead onto me, dark and consuming.

"..."

The tension broke as the room burst into roaring laughter. "Holy shit, Declan! I didn't know you had a sense of humor!"

No one took him seriously.

Except me.

Declan didn't look away. Even though I actively avoided meeting his gaze, the sheer weight of his stare felt reckless and entirely too loud.

When the party started winding down, I slipped out and found my car in the underground valet garage.

I opened the door and froze. Someone was already in the backseat.

My driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, clearly unsure of what to do.

From the shadows of the backseat, Declan's low, gravelly chuckle filled the space. "Mind giving me a lift? I didn't bring my driver tonight."

I slid in, and the heavy door thudded shut. The man beside me leaned his head back against the leather and murmured, "I seem to have forgotten my address. Miss Astor, care to let me crash at your place?"

Declan feigned being completely wasted, letting his head rest heavily against my shoulder. His breath, warm and laced with expensive bourbon, ghosted over the sensitive skin of my neck. It was impossible to ignore.

I stared out the tinted window at the blurred city lights, my mind drifting back to two years ago, the night Michael made it Instagram official.

I would be lying if I said it didn't shatter me.

Less than a month after telling me he liked someone else, Michael blasted her picture to the world. I was still sitting in my bedroom, trying to figure out how to untangle our families' massive expectations without causing a corporate war.

Worse, Michael paraded her through our friend group immediately. Maybe he just wanted to show her off, but there were plenty of girls in our circle who hated my guts. The petty, thinly veiled insults came pouring in.

If I acted like I cared, I was pathetic. If I acted completely unfazed, I was bitter and in denial.

That was exactly when Declan returned from London.

He had been overseeing a massive real estate acquisition in the UK, a project that wasn't even finished yet. I was in a place where I didn't want to look at anyone with the last name Prescott. But Declan bypassed all the social red tape and walked straight into my life.

It was winter break. Declan found me and asked, completely out of the blue, if I wanted to go to London with him to clear my head.

I stared at him, utterly lost.

For most of my childhood, Michael and I were intimidated by him. He was only five years older, but Declan didn't play in the dirt with us. The genetic lottery had favored him in cruel, unfair ways. He was brilliant to the point of intimidation. As we grew older, he morphed into this untouchable figure, possessing a quiet, lethal authority and striking, sharp-edged good looks. Women practically threw themselves at his feet.

I had barely held a real conversation with him. Any interaction we had was strictly by proxy because I was glued to Michael.

So, an invitation to London made zero sense.

Declan stood in the snow, hands in his cashmere coat pockets. "Do you still love Michael?"

I swallowed hard, the silence stretching out between us.

"It's fine if you do. He's just a man," Declan said smoothly. "He won't be the only one you meet in this life."

I couldn't tell if he was trying to comfort me or mock me.

"Michael likes someone else. Would you consider liking someone else?" Declan looked at me, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Consider me?"

Absolute shock bulldozed right over my heartbreak. The tears that had been swimming in my eyes finally spilled over, but my expression was one of pure, speechless horror.

Declan pulled a pristine linen handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed the tear from my cheek.

"Don't waste tears on people who aren't worth it," he murmured. He paused, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Though, I suppose you can look at it as detoxing."

"..." I had zero clue Declan Prescott possessed a sense of humor.

He dropped his hand. "If your original reason for choosing Michael was to secure the corporate merger between our families, my portfolio is vastly superior to his."

Vastly was the understatement of the century.

Declan was the undisputed heir to the Prescott empire. Michael lacked the ambition and the sheer, ruthless intellect his uncle possessed.

"If you purely loved Michael for who he is, well, he forfeited his right to your heart when he chose someone else. Stepping in now hardly makes me the villain."

I didn't go to London because of his romantic pitch. I went because he asked, "Are you planning to take over your family's firm after graduation? I have negotiations in London. Want to sit in and watch?"

Declan's reputation in the business world was legendary. Like anyone with half a brain, I idolized his work ethic.

It was basic ambition. I wanted to see a master at work.

So, even knowing he had essentially offered himself up as my new fianc, I boarded his private jet.

For two weeks in London, he kept me by his side. There was absolutely nothing inappropriate between us. He treated me like a protege, guiding me through the brutal realities of corporate takeovers. I watched him dismantle CEOs with a calm, terrifying grace.

If we took emotions out of the equation, choosing Declan was a thousand times better than choosing Michael.

The ROI was astronomical.

"But, Declan, Michael is your nephew."

It was my last night in London. We were sitting in a dimly lit, velvet-lined speakeasy tucked inside our hotel. Soft jazz drifted through the air, the yellow ambient light wrapping around us in a warm, intimate haze.

Declan didn't even blink. Those deep, unreadable eyes held mine over the rim of his scotch glass.

"Yes. He played a foolish game. Marry me, become his aunt, and you can boss him around at family dinners for the rest of his life."

"..."

Become Michael's aunt?

I had to admit, the level of petty revenge in that statement was deeply appealing. But I had my own life to map out. Michael broke my heart, but I refused to let him dictate my future.

"I have one more question."

"You can ask as many as you want," Declan replied. "And you don't have to keep a formal distance. Just use my name."

Since I was a toddler, I had lumped him in with the adults. Michael called him uncle, so I did too.

But now, as the energy between us shifted into something dark and charged, using his first name felt dangerously taboo.

"What exactly..." I hesitated, searching for the words. "How do you view me?"

"Are you asking if this is a business acquisition for me, or something else?" he countered.

Before I could stutter out a response, he leaned forward. "Sharon, five years is nothing. Besides Michael, you and I grew up together too, didn't we?"

I froze.

"When you started kindergarten, you were always running over to our estate. The adults were busy. You and Michael followed me around like ducklings. Do you remember?" His voice was a low rumble.

The memories flashed in my mind. Kids always want to play with the older kids. We used to shadow him everywhere.

But as he grew up, he was swallowed by boarding schools, university, and eventually the boardroom. The gap widened until he was a god and we were just kids.

"When you two graduated high school, my brother and sister-in-law were thrilled. They wanted to lock down the engagement. You two were practically joined at the hip," Declan said, his tone sharpening. "But Sharon, he walked away. Even if I am technically his elder, pursuing a brilliant, single woman is hardly a crime."

Declan brought me back to the States. For the entire half-month in London, he never crossed a line.

That Christmas, Michael and his parents were too embarrassed to attend our family's holiday gala because of the girlfriend drama. The Prescott family sent Declan in their place.

The house was packed with guests. No one noticed when Declan slipped into my bedroom, closed the door behind him, and asked, "Sharon, have you made your decision?"

"Declan, did you really come to the hospital the day I was born?" I asked suddenly, pulled back to the present moment in my apartment.

His face was buried in the curve of my neck, pressing soft, biting kisses against my skin.

He let out a raspy laugh, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. "Did you think I was joking in front of that crowd?"

"Michael was barely two months old. My brother was swamped at the firm, and his wife was recovering. My parents dragged me to the maternity ward to see you," he murmured against my collarbone. "Though, I was the only one who actually wanted to see you. My parents were just there for the PR."

"As for whether I held you, surely you remember how you used to act?"

"..."

When Michael and I were at our clingiest phase, I was constantly demanding Declan pick me up and carry me.

Relationships mutate with time.

At five, I clung to him. At fifteen, I kept a respectful distance. At twenty, I treated him as an elder. And now, hidden away in the dead of night, we were tearing each other's clothes off.

That Christmas in my bedroom, I didn't give him a verbal yes. But I didn't push him away either. He took the opening and executed a flawless, relentless pursuit right under everyone's noses.

The moment Michael fell for someone else, his ghost began to fade from my heart. I wasn't the type of woman to pine over a man who belonged to another girl.

And Declan was impossible to resist. He knew exactly when to push and when to give me space.

The void in my chest was meticulously filled by someone else.

The summer before last, Declan and I made it official.

It was about six months into Michael's new relationship. He planned a group getaway to the Hamptons and actually sent me an invite. I turned it down flat.

That sparked a massive rumor mill. Sophie and the rest of our friends whispered that I was too brokenhearted to watch them be in love.

The reality? I had zero desire to ditch my brand-new, spectacular boyfriend to play third wheel to my ex-crush.

We kept our relationship completely underground. Like any normal couple, we navigated the exhilarating slide from holding hands to breathless kisses, to tangled sheets and late nights.

Before tonight, we hadn't seen each other in over two weeks due to his business trip.

I straddled his lap, pulling him into a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of the longing I'd felt into it.

Declan's hands were anything but polite, lighting fires wherever they traced, dragging me down into the intoxicating haze of him.

The night was thick and heavy. A vase of fresh pink bellflowers sat on my glass coffee table. A sudden breeze drifted through a cracked window, and the delicate petals trembled, over and over again, in the dark.

With graduation looming, my life became a blur of corporate strategy.

My father was eager to hand over the reins. He had thrown me into the deep end of the family business the previous year. Between defending my thesis and closing deals, I barely had time to breathe.

After a wild, reckless night, my internal alarm woke me at dawn.

I opened my eyes, tried to slip out of bed, and was instantly yanked back by a heavy arm wrapping around my waist.

"Why are you up so early?" Declan's voice was thick with sleep and rough like sandpaper. "Come back to sleep."

"I have to go to the office, Mr. Prescott," I coaxed, running a hand through his messy hair. "I'm spearheading a massive acquisition this week. Behave."

Declan chuckled into the pillows. "Want me to review the contracts for you?"

"Absolutely not. Corporate espionage. I don't care if you're my boyfriend." I rejected him with practiced authority.

Since we started dating, Declan had secretly tutored me in high-level corporate warfare. But this was the first project my father had completely entrusted to me. I had to win it on my own.

Declan propped himself up against the headboard, watching in silence as I showered, flipped on the vanity lights, and applied my makeup.

I told him to go back to sleep, but ten minutes later, he was out of bed.

By the time I stepped into the kitchen in my stilettos, Declan was plating breakfast.

He was incredibly skilled with his hands. In every possible context.

Even rushing on a weekday morning, the eggs benedict he set on the marble island looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Sometimes, I caught myself wondering why a man like Declan chose me. It wasn't an inferiority complex. It was just statistics. He had the world at his fingertips. Heiresses and supermodels had practically thrown themselves at his feet for years.

Declan caught me staring and didn't miss a beat. "It's the same reason you were entirely blind to everyone except Michael growing up. I only ever had eyes for you. Then. And now."

"..."

He was still holding a petty grudge against his own nephew.

The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and expensive, territorial jealousy.

Falling in love with Declan had been the easiest thing in the world. Just like I always believedlove had to go both ways.

I gave him a lingering kiss before grabbing my briefcase.

"My schedule is clear for the next few days," Declan murmured against my lips. "I'll be staying here."

Technically, he had a guest room at my place. He used it once, last year, when I had a fever and he drove through a torrential downpour to take care of me.

Slowly, his tailored suits started taking over my closet. His expensive watches ended up on my nightstand. And then one night, I just wanted him next to me. He hadn't slept in the guest room since.

I was slammed at work right now. Forget dinner datesI was squeezing in university meetings between board calls. The only place we actually saw each other was in my bed.

Thankfully, he didn't complain.

By the time I finalized the acquisition, June rolled around, and I officially graduated.

My father had zero intention of starting me in the mailroom. I was the heir apparent. He needed me in the shark tank.

When the Prescott Matriarch's birthday gala arrived, I attended with my parents.

Despite the awkward tension from two years ago, the Astor and Prescott empires were still deeply entangled.

We all operated on the unspoken elite rule: smile, drink the champagne, and pretend the arranged marriage talks had never happened.

The ballroom was packed. I followed my parents to the VIP tables to offer our rehearsed, elegant congratulations. When I smiled and said, "Happy Birthday, Grandma Prescott," the words caught in my throat.

I had called her that my entire life. But considering exactly what I did to her youngest son last night, the title felt distinctly blasphemous.

Declan materialized out of the crowd. He was wearing a deep burgundy dress shirt. Uncharacteristically, he hadn't worn a tie, and the top two buttons were undone.

He had literally crawled out of my bed that morning. Underneath the expensive silk, his skin was marked with evidence of our night together. Just like mine was.

The moment our eyes met, a faint, devastating smirk touched his lips.

There was nothing more lethal than a notoriously rigid, cold man showing a sliver of unadulterated sin.

In public, we played the role of distant family acquaintances flawlessly. I looked right at him and nodded. "Uncle Declan."

Behind closed doors, I hadn't called him that in ages. Except, occasionally, when my back was arched against the headboard and he demanded it. Saying it here, in the middle of a glittering ballroom, felt like a filthy inside joke.

He offered a curt, utterly professional nod, his face an ice-cold mask. "Sharon."

Fake.

The gala was lavish, but knowing the Prescott family as well as I did, it took me exactly three seconds to read the room.

The tension at their main table was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I pulled out my phone under the table and texted Declan. What's the drama?

He texted back immediately. Michael tried to bring his girl. Got ripped to shreds.

The translation: Michael wanted to officially introduce Sophie to the family. His parents already despised her, and realizing he was serious about marrying her sent them into a tailspin.

So, Sophie was banned from the gala.

Michael's parents looked at me with open regret. They offered polite, socially perfect small talk, and I parried it with equal grace.

Declan hovered nearby, pretending to casually listen.

"Declan, you aren't getting any younger," the Matriarch suddenly announced, turning her attention to her youngest son. "With all these brilliant girls in the city, has no one caught your eye?"

It was a loaded statement. Half the debutantes in the room had been vetted by her as potential daughters-in-law.

Declan, who usually shut down these conversations with brutal efficiency, actually smiled. "Mom, I have a girlfriend."

"Are you serious?" Michael, walking by with a glass of champagne, stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes lit up with gossip. "Uncle Declan, I have an aunt? Who is she? Do I know her?"

"..."

I shot Declan a covert, withering glare.

Ignoring his parents, his older brother, and his sister-in-law, Declan stared directly at his nephew. "Focus on fixing your own mess first."

Michael shut his mouth.

"Well, if you're serious about her, bring the girl around," Declan's older brotherMichael's dadchimed in.

Michael looked ready to scream. His dad had just banished his girlfriend from the premises but was practically rolling out the red carpet for Declan's mystery woman.

"She's here tonight," Declan said smoothly.

The entire Prescott family gasped. Heads immediately swiveled, eyes darting across the ballroom, aggressively scanning the crowd for suspects.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I had no idea what game he was playing.

"Declan, which one is she?" his sister-in-law pressed.

Given the exclusive guest list, whoever Declan was dating had to be a high-society heiress. The family's tone instantly shifted to pure excitement.

"She's young. We aren't in a rush to marry. Let's give it a couple of years," Declan deflected smoothly.

"..."

"Uncle Declan, don't tell me you're dating someone younger than me?" Michael joked.

Declan went completely silent.

"Wait, actually younger than me?" Michael looked horrified.

Declan's father finally cleared his throat, looking deeply concerned. "Declan, this girl... she is of legal age, correct?"

"Obviously," Declan shot his father a look of pure disgust. "What kind of monster do you think I am?"

Within an hour, the rumor that Declan Prescott had a secret girlfriend tore through the ballroom. Thanks to Michael's loud mouth, everyone had the clues: She's in the room, and she's younger than Michael.

The gossip mill went into overdrive.

Not a single person guessed it was me.

Michael even cornered me by the champagne tower to spill the tea. "Sharon, have you noticed my uncle talking to any girls tonight?"

I stared at him blankly, then shook my head. "I hardly know your uncle."

"Fair point," Michael accepted the lie instantly. "You see him like, twice a year. Makes sense you wouldn't know."

He swirled his drink, looking miserable. "I'm booking a trip to Europe for the summer to get away from my parents. I'm taking Sophie. Do you want to come? I feel like we haven't gone on a trip together since high school."

I looked at him like he had lost his mind, fighting to keep my polite smile in place. "No thanks. Work is swamped."

"Are you sure? Sophie specifically asked me to invite you."

"?" Both of you are actually insane.

"Pass," I said coldly. I didn't have time to be a pawn in whatever insecure power play his girlfriend was running.

When I got home that night, Declan was already there. He was standing on my balcony, the warm summer night air rustling his burgundy shirt. He held a crystal tumbler of scotch, watching me walk into the living room.

It was a ridiculously cinematic sight.

"What's this?" I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the glass door, amused. "I left the gala after you. How did you beat me here?"

Declan didn't miss a beat. "I paid my driver double to run the red lights."

He closed the distance between us, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of oakwood and expensive alcohol. "You were staring at me all night. Do you like me in red?"

So he had noticed.

"Is it a crime to look?"

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "I wore it specifically for you to look."

I leaned in and took a sip of the scotch right from his glass. "You're raiding my liquor cabinet again."

Declan threw back the rest of the amber liquid, setting the glass on a side table. "Come by my penthouse tomorrow. Pick out whatever bottles you want. Take the whole cellar."

The city breeze tangled with the taste of alcohol as he pulled me in. The kiss was slow, deep, and intoxicating.

Beneath the burgundy silk, the scratches I left on his back the night before were still fresh. He backed me against the wall, murmuring against my jaw, "What were you and Michael whispering about for so long?"

"Why are you so obsessed with him?" I huffed, annoyed. "Are you trying to pick a fight?"

In the two years we'd been together, we argued like any normal couple. But Declan was the kind of man who refused to sleep in a different bed, even when he was furious. The fights never lasted until morning.

"My brother and sister-in-law are still mourning the fact that you aren't their daughter-in-law," he growled playfully. "Am I not allowed to be a little territorial?"

"Go pick a fight with them, then." I pushed lightly at his chest.

Instead of letting go, Declan hooked his hands under my thighs and lifted me effortlessly. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his waist, my vision blurring for a second as the world spun.

"I'm not fighting them. They lost their chance at a daughter-in-law," he kissed the corner of my mouth, his eyes glinting. "But a sister-in-law is still on the table."

I bit down lightly on his lower lip. "I never agreed to marry you."

Declan wasn't phased. He lowered his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses down my neck, doing exactly what he did best until I was entirely at his mercy. Then, he looked up, his eyes dark and voice hoarse.

"Then what am I supposed to do, Sharon? I'm hitting thirty soon. No one else will have me. Are you going to abandon your Uncle Declan?"

Hearing him call himself Uncle Declan in that tone was like a cursed spell. It was a poisoned apple, dripping with pure, unadulterated sin.

The man was a menace.