Page 63 of The Endless Want

Her smile lifts easily. She steps closer, close enough that the scent of her perfume—something floral—drifts toward me. She looks pleased, ready to be a part of what she thinks is harmless flirtation.

And I let her sit in my lap in one of the corner booths. It’s not even remotely tempting as she begins to dance on me, grinding her hips just a little. But I know exactly what Ailish will think when she sees it.

Mira shifts her weight, draping an arm loosely around my shoulders. “Relax,” she teases. “You’re stiff as a statue.”

I force a smirk that feels like glass in my mouth. “Just overseeing the room.”

She laughs softly, leaning closer. Her body is warm, soft in a way that should be distracting. Should be inviting. But all I feel is the echo of something sour rising in my throat.

Then—Ailish turns, catching sight of us. Her face freezes. Her body goes utterly still, the way it did the night she was attacked—shock first, then disorientation, then the instinct to flee or strike.

But instead of any of that, she just stares. Wide, silently wounded. And something in my chest drops so violently I physically flinch.

She says nothing. Doesn’t storm off. Doesn’t confront me. She simply breaks eye contact and walks the other way, disappearing behind the curtain to the staff hallway.

And I feel sick. Mira, oblivious, continues trying to chat and dance, working her seduction on me which is probably great for any other man. But I can’t hear her over the roaring guilt tearing through me like a storm.

My pulse spikes. My breath sharpens. My vision narrows. What the hell did I just do?

I lift Mira gently off my lap before she can react. “Work the room,” I manage, voice low. “I need a minute.” Confusion flickers across her face, but she obeys. I straighten, dragging a hand through my hair. Fury rises—at myself, at the situation, at the feeling of loss I can’t name.

I shouldn’t care that Ailish saw. I shouldn’t care what it did to her. I shouldn’t care about any of this. But the reality is plain and damning: I do care. More than I ever wanted to admit.

I go after her.

The back hallway is narrow and dimly lit, lined with crates and spare bottles and staff doors. I find her in the break room, standing with both hands braced on the counter, her head bowed. She’s breathing too fast. Too shallow.

“Ailish,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t turn. “Do you need something, Declan?” Her voice is calm. Too calm.

I take a step closer. “We need to talk.”

“No,” she says. “You already made it clear you don’t want to talk.”

“That’s not true.”

She lifts her head then, slowly. And the look she gives me nearly breaks my spine in half. It’s not anger. It’s not jealousy. It’s… resignation. A slow, hollow ache. “You made your point,” she says softly. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

I swear every molecule inside me stutters. “That’s not what that was.”

She nods once, not believing me for even a second. “I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

“Ailish—”

“No,” she repeats, more firmly. “You didn’t want me here. So I’ll finish my shift, then speak to Liam about moving me elsewhere.”

My heart bangs against my ribs. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?” she asks, turning fully, her voice cracking at the edges. “Because I’m trying here, Declan. I’m trying to fix things. I’m trying to talk. And you keep punishing me for it.”

Punish. The word lands like a blade. I take a breath, slow and deep, trying not to rupture. “Ailish⁠—”

She lifts a hand, stopping me. “No more tonight. I can’t. I don’t have the strength to keep fighting with you.” She brushes past me. Her shoulder grazes mine, soft and cold.

I don’t follow this time because I’ve already crossed too many lines tonight, and chasing her now would only pull the knife deeper.

When I return to the main floor, the music feels too loud, the crowd too close, and the lights too sharp. My own men glance at me in alarm—they can sense something off. And they’re right.