Page 9 of The Endless Want

I run a hand through my hair, willing the tension in my mind and body to go. It just won’t. “I don’t even understand why she’s so involved. An assistant is one thing, but it’s like her hands are in everything.”

Conor gives me a wary look. “Nadia’s on lockdown for her safety, Declan. That makes Ailish the best bet for everything. Liam’s got her managing patrols and rerouting territory defenses now. You trained her well.”

There's a smirk buried somewhere in that last bit. I make a fist, feel my nails bite into my palm, and pull out my phone.

Since when does your assistant reroute territory defenses?

Liam

Since I said so.

She isn't trained for a war.

The dots appear, then vanish. Twice. Whatever he types, he decides against sending.

An assistant shouldn't be this deep in it. Shouldn't be this exposed. That's the part I can say out loud. The rest of it stays where it belongs.

Then, I force myself to think about the task at hand. I grab the clipboard from Conor before I do something stupid. “Focus on the docks. I’ll handle Ailish.”

“Handle?” Conor grins. “That’s one word for it.”

“Codes,” I tell him. “Today, not tomorrow.”

He’s already heading for his car, phone against his ear, and I turn toward the warehouses before he can see the expression on my face.

Inside, the security lights hum, flickering. I move between stacks of crates marked imported glassware—the kind of label that fools no one. My boots echo on concrete. Something about the stillness feels wrong.

Halfway down the aisle, I find what I’m looking for: a broken seal on one of the containers. I pry it open. The smell hits first—metal and oil. Then I see them: rifles, Russian-made, wrapped in burlap.

“Son of a⁠—”

A noise behind me. I spin, gun drawn.

“Easy, Declan.”

It’s not a threat. It’s Ailish.

Of course it is.

She steps out from behind a stack of boxes, hands raised slightly. The light catches her hair, damp and loose, making her look softer than she wants to be.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.

She grimaces. “I’m here for Liam. Though, he forwarded me a message that lets me know you won’t like that answer.”

I mutter under my breath but then gesture at the crate. “You recognize this brand?”

Her expression hardens. “Russians.”

“Looks that way.”

She moves closer, eyes scanning the weapon markings. “How did they get through customs?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

She doesn’t answer. Her jaw works, calculating. Then, quietly, “Liam needs to see this.”

“Not yet. We can’t walk in without knowing who’s leaking the manifests.”