Page 5 of The Endless Want

So he is working. And he’s still better at this than anyone.

I should feel relief. Instead, I feel a punch of something else—guilt, maybe. Or the reminder that no matter how much he hates me, he still cares enough to fix my mistakes.

“Infuriating bastard,” I whisper, but the corners of my mouth betray me.

I decide it’s time to put away the drinking and sad memories and go to bed. It’s not like I won’t dream of him anyway.

The rain hasn’t stopped the next morning; only softened into a gray drizzle. I head to the docks early to check on the new security setup before Liam arrives. Work keeps my hands busy, my thoughts mostly clean.

The air smells of salt and diesel. Men in reflective vests shout over the sound of cranes. I move through them easily, clipboard in hand, invisible in plain sight.

I’m reviewing camera placements when a familiar voice cuts through the noise behind me.

“You missed a blind spot.”

I turn. Declan stands there with an umbrella hanging half furled at his side, doing him no good at all. Hair damp, coat collar turned up. The sight of him hits harder than it should.

“You fixed it,” I say.

He shrugs. “Didn’t want the Russians sneaking up on your shiny new project.”

“That’s considerate of you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

His tone’s casual, but there’s something in his eyes—sleep deprivation, regret, maybe both.

“Liam will be here soon,” I warn. “If you’re planning to start another argument, make it quick.”

“Relax, princess.” His mouth quirks. “I’m just here to check my work.”

“I’m not a princess, Declan.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You sure bark orders like one.”

I inhale slowly through my nose. “You ever get tired of acting like an ass?”

“Hasn’t happened yet.”

The urge to throw my clipboard at him passes almost as quickly as it arrives. Instead, I step closer, matching his height with the defiance he hates so much.

“Why send me the plans anonymously?” I ask. “Too proud to admit you still give a damn?”

His jaw tightens. “I give a damn about not getting us all killed.”

“Right. The noble martyr routine.”

He opens his mouth to fire back, then stops. For a heartbeat, there’s silence except for the rain tapping metal. We just stand there, staring, the ghosts of old arguments flickering between us.

“You used to trust me,” he says finally, so low I almost miss it.

“I used to have a reason to.”

That lands. I see it in the twitch of his jaw, the flicker of pain he hides behind sarcasm. He steps closer, too close, and snaps the umbrella open over us both. It isn't big enough for two. Rain runs down the back of my neck anyway.

“Careful, Ailish,” he murmurs. “You’re standing awfully close for someone who picked a side.”

I should step back. I don’t. The rain has soaked through my collar and I can feel the heat coming off him, and neither of those facts is doing anything useful for my judgment.