Page 86 of The Endless Want

The words land deep. Somewhere in the back of my mind—beneath the anger, beneath the fear, beneath the fractured edges of everything I’ve been since she said I’m pregnant—a single truth takes root. If I don’t change, I’ll lose them.

Forever.

And the terrifying part is… losing them feels worse than anything else I’ve survived. I nod, barely. A vow forming in the quiet.

Conor claps my shoulder once. “Good. Now get your shit together. Liam’s expecting an update on the shipment numbers.”

“Tell him they’re fine.”

“I’ll tell him you’ll be by tomorrow morning.”

I glare. “Don’t push me.”

“Declan,” he says with a smirk, “I’m just getting started.”

He turns toward the door, calling back over his shoulder. “And sober up before you see her next. If she smells whiskey on you, she’ll bury you alive.”

I huff out a breath. When he’s gone, I look down at the glass of whiskey still sitting on the counter. Slowly, I slide it away.

My hands still shake. My head still feels like it’s made of splintered metal. But for the first time in a long time, there’s a sliver of direction. A path. A choice.

Conor is right. If I don’t learn how to love her without destroying her, I’ll lose everything. And I’m done losing.

CHAPTER 26

Ailish

The explosion footage loops in my mind before Liam even calls the briefing to order.

I’d seen bomb sites before—burned-out cars, scorched pavement, the metallic sting in the air still echoing—but this one hits differently.

Maybe because I recognize the building instantly. Maybe because I’d been scheduled to walk those halls yesterday before Declan shifted assignments around without explanation.

The group FaceTime call begins with the usual static and juggling of screens, but there’s no small talk today, no sardonic comments from Conor or dry humor from Ronan. Just hard faces, tight jaws, and the faint hum of chaos behind everyone’s microphone.

Liam sits in his home office, the shelves behind him dusted with Italian leather-bound ledgers and framed childhood photos of all of us brothers. His expression is grim but focused. “Ailish,” he says first, spotting me in my little square. “You weren’t near the hub today?”

“No,” I answer. “I was at the compound for the weekly logistics recap. The detonation was all clear of my schedule.”

He nods, but there’s something like guilt flickering behind his eyes. “Good.”

Declan’s face appears a beat later, the overhead light behind him cutting harsh angles across his expression. He looks exhausted, hands braced on what is definitely Liam’s kitchen counter. Conor stands over his shoulder with the look of a man making sure someone doesn’t unhinge again.

I ignore the tightness twisting in my stomach at the sight of Declan. He didn’t want to talk to me when it mattered. He wanted to control things instead.

Liam begins the briefing. “Russians struck the North End hub at ten-oh-nine this morning. Secondary charges were found in the loading bay—meant for first responders, most likely. We neutralized them. Losses are equipment, product, and the warehouse roof itself. No bodies.”

A collective breath releases from the grid of Irish and Italian allies on the call. Finn mutters, “Fucking miracle.”

Declan’s voice cuts in, clipped and controlled. “This wasn’t about product. Or territory. This was about timing. They wanted us rattled before the real play.”

I don’t disagree. I just don’t want to hear him speak with that tone—efficient, detached, all soldier, no heart—because every time he uses it, I’m reminded he compartmentalizes me into the same space when it suits him.

Liam continues. “We’ll need redistribution plans and new routes by the end of the week. Ailish, you take point.”

“Got it,” I say.

“And new layers on internal security,” Liam adds, glancing to the side. “Declan, that means you.”