Page 87 of The Endless Want

Declan’s jaw sets. “Already drafting them.”

Our eyes catch—just for a fraction of a second. His look is unreadable. Mine is anything but.

The meeting lasts another twenty minutes. When it ends, I feel wrung out. I close my laptop, and for a moment I just sit there in the quiet of Liam’s side office, listening to the echo of distant footsteps in the compound hallway.

Mackenzie pokes her head inside the doorway. “You okay?”

“No,” I admit.

She nods once, sympathetic but practical. “Self-defense class starts in ten. Nadia’s already stretching. You can walk down with me.”

“Actually,” I say, exhaling, “I need to talk to Declan about the new security layers. Liam said the two of us should coordinate.”

By coordinate, Liam meant: You two need to figure out how to stand in the same room without setting each other on fire.

Mackenzie gives me a gentle, knowing look. “Alright. Be careful. Nadia and I will save you a seat.”

When I step into the hallway, Declan is already there—leaning against the wall opposite the office door as if he materialized out of the concrete. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

Maybe I should care. But I don’t know how to, not when my chest is still cracked open from the fight in my apartment, from him accusing me of manipulation when I was at my most vulnerable.

I straighten my posture, smoothing my shirt. “We need to talk about the hub bombing and security protocols.”

He nods once, expression impassive. “I know.”

We walk side by side, but the air between us is thick, too silent. Professionals passing through a shared corridor. Except nothing about us has ever been professional, not really.

We reach the glass atrium that separates the offices from the training wing. Natural light spills across the space, illuminating his profile—broad shoulders, the line of his jaw, the faint bruise along his cheekbone from whatever happened between him and Conor last week.

I stop first. “Before we talk business, there’s something else.”

His eyebrow arches. “There always is.”

The words hit like a slap even though his tone is quiet. I inhale slowly, try to steady myself. Don’t rise to it. Not yet. “Liam said you’re pushing for expanded out-of-state contacts. Chicago. Seattle. The new real estate deals.”

“I am.”

“He also said you suggested I should handle the preliminary visits.”

“So?”

I search his face, but he’s shuttered. Masked. Every wall up. “So,” I say, voice deliberately calm, “are you trying to send me away?”

“I’m trying to send you somewhere safe.”

My heartbeat kicks. “Safe from what? You?”

His eyes flash, but his tone stays maddeningly level. “From the Russians. From a war that’s circling you, whether you admit it or not.”

“And instead of talking about what’s actually going on,” I say, “you want to relocate me like a piece on a board.”

“You’re thinking emotionally, Ailish.”

“And you’re avoiding reality.”

His jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to argue—and maybe, for once, he doesn’t trust himself to. This silence says more than words. He thinks sending me across the country fixes what he refuses to face.

“Say it,” I whisper. “Say you don’t want to deal with me. Say it’s easier if I’m gone.”