Page 60 of The Endless Want

That’s all it takes. The first tear slips down my cheek without permission, then another, and then the rest come in a slow, humiliating leak I can’t stop.

Mackenzie doesn’t try to rush me. She sits with me through it, one hand on my knee, the other keeping my fingers from curling into fists against my own clothes. When my breathing finally settles into something steadier, she says, just above a whisper, “I think you should leave town for a bit.”

The words hit me like a blow. “No,” I say immediately, sitting upright even as the room feels like it’s still swaying. “Absolutely not.”

“Ailish—”

“No,” I repeat, sharper this time, heat filling my throat. “I’m not running. I’m not leaving Liam. I’m not abandoning the Irish. I’m not abandoning everything we’ve built.”

Mackenzie studies my face. She doesn’t argue—not at first—but her eyes trace every exhaustion line, every bruise, every place where adrenaline has left me shaking. When she finally speaks, her voice is gentle, almost too gentle. “You can’t protect anyone if you’re falling apart.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not falling apart.”

“Then what’s this?”

I open my mouth… and close it again. She has a point, but admitting it would make it real. Instead, I press my palms against my thighs and force steel into my spine. “I want to stay,” I say. “For Liam. For the alliances. For the whole operation. And…” My hand drifts unconsciously toward my abdomen, stopping just above where the waist of my pants sits.

Mackenzie’s gaze follows the movement. She doesn’t comment—not yet—but understanding flickers across her features. “And for the baby?” she asks softly.

I nod, throat tightening. “If I decide to keep it,” I manage. “I… I need to know I can protect it. I can’t do that halfway across the world hiding like a coward.”

“You wouldn’t be a coward,” she says. “You’d be safe.”

“I don’t want safe,” I whisper. “I want ready.”

Mackenzie squeezes my hand. “Then first, we confirm what’s going on. You need a doctor—someone who won’t send reports to the wrong ears.”

My pulse jumps. “You know someone?”

“Yes,” she says. “Underground. Discreet. No questions asked.”

A moment later, we’re gathering my things. It’s early, the kind of early where the sky hasn’t decided what color it’s going to be yet. Mackenzie keeps a steadying hand on my elbow as we navigate the hallway, past security who pretend not to notice the state I’m in.

The drive is quiet except for the hum of the tires on wet pavement. I stare out the window, trying not to think of how Declan’s voice shook when he yelled at me. He wasn’t wrong—he never is when it comes to danger—but his delivery was cruel, and I’m tired of cruelty.

The clinic is beneath an old apothecary shop, hidden behind shelves of herbal tinctures that smell faintly medicinal and earthy. The doctor is a wiry woman with silver hair and deliberate hands. She doesn’t ask names. She doesn’t comment on the bruises. She simply gestures for me to follow her and performs the exam with quiet efficiency.

Ten minutes later, she confirms it.

Seven weeks.

The number does the only arithmetic that matters. It lands on a night with rain against a safehouse window and his hand shaking against my jaw, and there is nothing to wonder about and no one to wonder about, and I am not sure whether that makes it better or worse.

The words don’t land all at once. They seep into me like cold water sinking into cloth, heavy and disorienting. Mackenzie watches me carefully, her expression unreadable as we step back into the car. Only once the doors close does she speak.

“You okay?”

I nod mechanically. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“You can cry,” she says. “Or scream. Or sit in silence. Whatever you need.”

“I don’t know what I need.” My voice cracks. “Except… not telling him. Not right now.”

“That’s reasonable,” she says. “There’s still a little time.”

Relief sweeps through me so sharply I shut my eyes.

When I finally arrive at Liam’s estate for the next self-defense session, the parking lot is buzzing with activity. Ronan stands at the far end of the training room, arms crossed, watching as the women gather. His posture is calm but firm, the way a man posts himself when he knows every woman in the room is a potential target.