Page 46 of The Endless Want

Outside my window, the Italians continue their patrol. The compound hums faintly with the sounds of distant voices and muted footsteps. Somewhere above me, Liam and Nadia are likely still arguing about her involvement, her confinement, and her desire to fight. Their world hasn’t paused for my crisis. It never will.

And Declan—Wherever he is—Hasn’t reached out. I don’t know what that means.

Maybe he’s keeping distance for safety. Maybe he regrets everything. Maybe he’s trying to protect me the only way he knows how.

Or maybe I simply imagined everything meant more than it did.

That thought hurts worst of all.

I close my eyes and let my breathing slow. The exhaustion finally slips through the cracks of my armor, tugging at my limbs with a persistence that feels almost merciful.

Eventually, I drift into a shallow, uneasy sleep in my office chair, surrounded by strategy charts, reports, and the faint lingering scent of training mat rubber still clinging to my clothes.

The pregnancy test waits in the drawer beside me.

Silent.

Small.

Terrifying.

Tomorrow, I’ll face it. Tomorrow, I’ll know. Tomorrow, everything changes.

But for tonight, I sleep with my head resting on my folded arms and my heart caught between fear and hope—caught between a man who saved my life, shared my body, and then vanished, and the future that might already be shaping itself inside me without my permission.

CHAPTER 13

Declan

Restlessness gets into a man like rust. Slow at first, harmless looking, then it spreads under the surface until everything feels fragile to the touch. That’s what these last weeks have done to me.

Even when nothing is happening, everything feels like it’s about to. The Russians have gone quiet—too quiet—and silence from them has never been a relief.

Conor corners me just past noon, in the warehouse office where we’re reviewing container manifests and security schedules. He leans against the desk with that look in his eye—the same one he gets right before he tells Liam a hard truth. But his focus has been more on me lately. I’m starting to wonder if they have some kind of deal for Liam’s bestie to look out for me, the crazy, out-of-control brother.

“You’ve been off,” Conor says. “Weeks now.”

“I’ve been busy,” I mutter, flipping through the spreadsheet again even though I’m not seeing a goddamn number on it.

“You’ve been distracted,” he corrects.

I shut the binder harder than necessary. “Everything’s running. Shipments secure. Boys trained. Russians quiet. What exactly am I distracted from?”

“Everything,” he deadpans. “But start with the obvious.”

“And that would be?”

“Ailish.”

Her name slams into my chest like someone fired a nail gun through it. I give him a look. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Conor says, pushing off the desk. “But maybe you should stop pretending you’re fine when you look like you’re thinking about setting half the city on fire.”

It’s ridiculous, the way she haunts me. How she’s been in my head like a splinter that no amount of whiskey or violence or strategy can dislodge. She’s safe at Liam’s now, under double guard with the Italians hovering like overattentive uncles. She’s working, surviving, even participating in Ronan’s self-defense sessions. She’s—Under Liam’s roof. Under Liam.

It’s irrational, I know it. She’s not his. Liam isn’t that man. But logic has no place in whatever the hell it is that coils tight through my chest every time I picture her in that house, moving through those hallways I used to walk freely, laughing in rooms I can’t enter without a war to justify it.

Conor watches me too closely. “You know, you could just talk to her.”