Page 10 of The Endless Want

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

She looks up at me then—really looks—and something shifts between us, that same dangerous current from the other night. “You always have to be right,” she says.

“Someone has to be.”

“Even if it gets you killed?”

“Better me than someone else.”

Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t argue. For a second, we’re just standing there, surrounded by the ghosts of every fight we never finished.

Outside, a car engine revs and cuts off. We both freeze. Ailish whispers, “You expecting backup?”

I shake my head. Footsteps. Two sets. Heavy, deliberate.

I motion for her to move behind the crates. She hesitates only a heartbeat before slipping into the shadows beside me.

Two men enter—broad, unmarked jackets, Eastern European accents drifting through their low conversation. They head straight for the open container.

One curses softly in Russian. The other answers, voice rough. “He was here. Seal’s broken.”

My pulse steadies into the rhythm of muscle memory. One step left, two down, gun up.

Ailish’s fingers brush my sleeve—a warning, or maybe grounding. She shakes her head, mouthing not yet.

The men finish their inspection and move toward the exit. I let them go. When the sound of their boots fades, I lower the gun. “You should’ve let me take the shot. I can’t believe Liam is letting you play queen.”

“And start a war we’re not ready for?” she snaps back. Her voice trembles, but not from fear. “We need to be smarter than that, Declan.”

“Smarter?” I step closer. “They’re already inside our docks. How much smarter do you want to be before we fight back?”

“Enough to win.”

The words hang there, too sharp, too honest. For a second, I see the same fire that used to burn in her before politics drowned it. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch.

“Fine,” I say finally. “But if the Russians are back, we do it my way.”

“And what way is that?”

“Quietly.”

We make our way out through a side door, rain slicking the pavement. Ailish keeps pace beside me, chin lifted against the wind.

“You’re bleeding,” she says suddenly.

I glance down. A shallow cut across my forearm—probably from the crate latch. I hadn’t noticed.

She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket, steps in close, and wraps it around my arm. The simple motion feels too intimate. Her fingers linger a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“You don’t have to play medic,” I say.

“Someone has to,” she murmurs, echoing my earlier words. “Besides, I thought it was queen I was playing.”

We lock eyes. The rain keeps falling, a steady percussion around us.

When it’s over—whatever that was—we stand there in the rain, pretending we’re just two soldiers comparing wounds.