Page 93 of The Endless Want

He steps closer, voice softening. “This is not me doubting you. Or sidelining you. This is me protecting my family.”

My breath catches. “Your family?”

“You,” he says simply. “And the baby. And Declan, whether either of you admits it.”

For a moment, I can’t speak. The world feels suspended, holding its breath with me.

“I’m not hiding,” I whisper. “I won’t live afraid.”

“You’re not hiding,” he replies. “You’re choosing survival.” He waits. Patient. Unmoving. Letting me make the choice myself.

I exhale slowly, a long, trembling breath. Everything in me wants to fight. To be stubborn. To cling to the identity I’ve built through blood and sweat and sacrifice. But one hand drifts down to my stomach, cupping the gentle curve that houses a heartbeat not yet ready for the world.

This isn’t only my life anymore. “I’ll do it,” I finally say. “But only because I’m not risking the baby. Not because I’m afraid.”

“I know,” Liam murmurs. “And that’s why it’s the right choice.” He squeezes my shoulder, a rare, quiet gesture, then leaves me standing alone in the gym with the faint echo of approval trailing behind him.

When the door shuts, the silence settles over me slowly. Heavy. Honest. Final. I’m being reassigned. Repositioned. Protected. And for once, I’m not running from the implication.

I’m embracing it.

Packing is harder than I thought it would be.

My apartment has always been small, cluttered with books and maps, half-finished logistical plans, and mugs I keep insisting I’ll wash later. Now I move through it slowly, methodically, folding clothes and sliding them into a suitcase until it refuses to close.

Every movement tugs at something inside me—my ribs, my lower back, my memories. I pause now and then to press my hand against my belly as the baby shifts. Not painful, just present. Reminding me I’m not packing alone.

The safehouse Liam assigned me is across town, fortified with layers of security that weren’t available when Declan tucked me into his. It’s temporary, but necessary. I keep telling myself that.

I fold another sweater, then sit on the edge of the bed, catching my breath. My hair clings to the back of my neck. Pregnancy overheating—another glamorous perk.

After a moment, I pull open the nightstand drawer and take out a small, folded list I’ve been secretly building for weeks. Names. Potential baby names. Some traditional, some absurd, some sentimental.

I smooth the paper across my knee.

If it’s a girl:

Maeve

Rowan

Saoirse

Lila (Declan would hate it, which makes me love it more)

If it’s a boy:

Declan Jr. (crossed out violently)

Cian

Aidan

Ryan

My chest tightens as I trace a fingertip across the names. I don’t know why picking one is so hard. Maybe because a name makes the dream real. Makes the future real. Makes everything I stand to lose real.

I fold the list again, holding it between my palms for a quiet moment before slipping it back into the drawer. The apartment feels different when I stand—emptier, haunted by the echo of who I was before the Russians made me an enemy and before the baby made me a vessel.