Page 43 of The Endless Want

Every morning. Every night. Every time it buzzes with something meaningless. Nothing from Declan.

Not a word. Not a message. Not even a sharp, annoyed check-in. After everything—after the safehouse, after what we did, after the secrets and the blood and the heat of his body over mine—I thought he’d at least call to tell me I was an idiot for trying to leave. Or to accuse me of something. Or anything.

The silence is worse than anger.

It’s like he picked up the pieces of everything that broke between us… then dropped them again and walked away. And I don’t know what that makes me feel.

Liam stops by my office one afternoon with a thick file under his arm and a tired expression softening the lines of his face. “Ailish,” he says, and for once there’s no command in his tone. Just acknowledgment. Maybe even concern. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“I’m fine,” I say, because that’s what I’m supposed to say.

He pulls out the chair opposite my desk, sits, and rests his elbows on his knees. “I watched the footage from the session.”

“And?”

“And Ronan put you down three times and you got up faster each time.” He lets that sit. “He also said you fight like someone who’s expecting it from behind.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Hardly.”

“He doesn’t throw around compliments,” Liam says. “Take it.”

The warmth in his voice catches me off guard. Liam isn’t cold, exactly, but he is controlled. Distant. Always thinking three steps ahead, even with the people he loves. I can’t tell whether this is concern or an assessment, and with him it’s usually both.

He studies me for a moment, then adds, “You know, you’re allowed to rest. No one expects you to work yourself into the ground.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“Ailish,” he says, cutting me off softly, “I’m not the enemy here.”

For a split second, I think he knows everything I haven’t said aloud—the night with Declan, the confusion, the ache, the silence. But then his mouth tightens slightly, and I realize his meaning is different.

He’s trying to reassure me. He’s trying to be kind.

Before I can respond, the door bursts open without a knock. Nadia steps inside, expression sharp, movements precise in that way she gets when she’s restless enough to chew through a wall.

“Liam,” she says, “I need to talk to you. Now.”

Liam’s expression shifts instantly—concern, exasperation, affection, all tied into one tangled thread. “Nadia, can this wait five minutes?”

“No,” she says flatly.

He closes the file on my desk. “Ailish, excuse us.”

I stand, gathering my notes, but I can’t stop my eyes from flicking between them. Nadia looks like she’s vibrating with energy. Liam looks like he already knows where this argument is headed. I step toward the door slowly, and before I leave the room, I hear Nadia say, low and urgent:

“I need to go back into the field. You’re wasting me here. I can help⁠—”

“You’re staying put,” Liam snaps.

And then the door shuts behind me.

Tension ripples through the air as I put distance between myself and their argument, and I realize—this isn’t ending. Not today. Not soon. Maybe not ever.

I go back to work, barely noticing when the muffled noises fade. Barely noticing anything until a sudden pain racks my stomach.

I leap up, knowing what this is because it’s happened four mornings in a row now.

By the time I reach the hallway restroom, my stomach churns so violently. I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white. It’s been like this for over a week—waves of nausea that hit me without warning, sharp and sudden, leaving me breathless until they fade.