Page 102 of The Endless Want

I sit up slowly, scrub a hand down my face, and I stand, stretch out the tension, and head to the kitchen. There’s a mug waiting on the counter beside the coffee pot—clean, empty, placed deliberately where I’ll see it.

She didn’t bring it down here. But she thought about me being here.

That alone is dangerous territory.

I pour coffee, let the steam rise against my face, and debate my next move. Liam needs the report from last night. Conor will nag me if I don’t check in. The Italians will want proof of how solid the intel was. Business, war, strategy—they’re all pulling at me.

But none of it drags half as hard as the soft sound of her moving above me. A door opens upstairs. I look up instinctively. And then I hear her voice.

She’s talking to someone quietly—the guard stationed in the hallway or maybe Mackenzie, who sometimes stops by early. I can’t make out the words, but I hear the weight in them.

Before I can think, I’m moving.

By the time I reach the base of the stairs, I’ve already argued with myself a dozen different ways. Don’t corner her. Don’t push. Don’t make her regret letting you close again. A dozen warnings I have no faith in myself to obey.

But she appears at the top landing before I can climb even one step. Wrapped in a soft cotton robe, her hair pulled into a loose braid, her hand resting—unthinking, unconscious—over the small swell of her belly.

She’s alone and tucking her phone away. She must have been on the phone with MacKenzie, then.

My breath leaves me in a rough exhale I hope she can’t hear.

She freezes when she sees me. Her fingers tighten slightly against her stomach, but her face doesn’t close up the way it once did when I walked into a room. Not today.

“Morning,” she says quietly.

“Morning.” My voice comes out rougher than I want.

She hesitates a moment, like she’s deciding whether to approach or retreat. Then she starts down the stairs slowly, her hand gliding along the railing. I stay very still—as if any sudden movement might spook her—until she reaches the bottom step.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she murmurs.

“I know.”

“You could’ve gone home.”

“I know.”

She finally lifts her eyes to mine. “Then why didn’t you?”

I only manage: “You asked me not to leave.”

Her expression flickers—something warm, conflicted, guarded, and searching all at once. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” she says.

“I wasn’t sure I’d still be welcome.”

“You’re… here.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m welcome.”

“Declan.”

My name from her mouth does something to me I’m not ready to examine. Before I can say something stupid, she nods toward the kitchen. “Do you want breakfast?” she asks. “I was going to make something.”

“I can help.”

“No,” she says with a strange conviction. “You sit. I’ll cook.”

Whether she means she needs control or she needs space or she needs normalcy, I don’t know. But I accept it. I sit at the counter while she moves through the kitchen—slow, thoughtful motions, measured breaths, the faint crease between her brows when she reaches for something on the higher shelf.