Page 8 of The Endless Want

I should be angry—at the arrogance, the cryptic drama of it—but instead there’s that same pulse of heat under my skin. A reminder that even when we’re enemies, he’s still watching my back.

I close the door and lean against it, eyes shut.

Then, I cut all lights but the one over the oven, and I crawl into bed without undressing, exhaustion winning out over pride. The sheets are cold. The city hums outside like a lullaby for the damned.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. When it does, it brings him with it.

He’s standing in the rain again, same umbrella, same defiant tilt of his chin. Only this time he doesn’t walk away.

He reaches for me, fingers brushing mine—and I wake with my heart hammering against my ribs.

The clock reads 3:07 a.m. Thunder rolls somewhere over the water, low and angry.

I stare at the ceiling until the shadows start to look like maps—routes, choices, the lines between what we were and what we can’t ever be again.

By morning, I’ll bury it under paperwork and sarcasm. By morning, I’ll pretend it doesn’t matter.

But right now, in the dark, I can admit it: it still does.

CHAPTER 3

Declan

The morning hits like a hangover, even though I only had one drink. Maybe two. Doesn’t matter. The air down by the docks smells of diesel and salt and bad memories.

Conor’s waiting beside a stack of cargo crates, phone in hand, cigarette hanging off his lip. “You look like you slept in the gutter,” he says.

“Didn’t sleep at all.”

“Ah. So, business as usual.” I ignore him and crouch beside the gate. The padlock’s been cut, replaced, then cut again. Sloppy. Whoever did it wanted us to notice.

“Any cameras catch it?”

“None that work,” he says. “Power went out sometime after midnight.”

“Convenient.”

Conor snuffs out his cigarette and flicks it into the puddle. “You think the Russians are poking around again?”

“I think someone wants us to think that,” I say. “The Italians tightened security here last week. Only a handful of people knew the new schedule.”

“And one of those people’s a leak.”

“Maybe.” I stand, watching a cargo ship ease into the bay, cranes groaning above it. The rain hasn’t stopped in days. “Get a list of everyone who had access to those codes. If this is a test, I want to know who’s taking it.”

Conor nods. “What about Liam?”

“I’ll tell him once I have proof. No sense feeding his paranoia yet.”

He smirks. “And what about Ailish?”

“What about her?”

He gives me the look that says he knows exactly where to dig. “She’s been spending more time with the Italians’ liaison—Santo, the pretty one. Word is she’s managing the shipments personally.”

My chest tightens, irrational and instant. “You believe every rumor you hear now?”

“Not every rumor. Just the fun ones.”