Page 69 of The Endless Want

She doesn’t ask about the father. Doesn’t ask about my life. Doesn’t ask why I’m not walking into a real hospital with real resources. She just greets me with a nod and a slight smile and hands me a cotton gown.

Ten minutes later, I’m on a narrow bed, staring at the ceiling while cold gel spreads across my lower stomach. My heartbeat pulses in my throat.

“Deep breath,” she says, wheeling the monitor closer. Mackenzie stands beside me, hand on my forearm, steady and warm. And then—A flicker. A shape. A little grainy curve that barely looks human.

But the sound—That tiny, fast, fluttering heartbeat—I slap a hand over my mouth.

Mackenzie squeezes my arm. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Ailish.” But something in me breaks open. A quiet, devastating bloom of realization that heats my chest and burns behind my eyes.

That’s my child. My child.

And the timeline is unmistakable. There is no other possibility. Declan’s heartbeat, and mine, tangled into something new. Something whole.

The emotion hits so hard my ribs hurt. Tears spill before I can stop them. Dr. Harrow offers tissues, gives us a respectful nod, and steps out of the room.

Mackenzie brushes hair from my forehead, gentle. “So. What are you thinking?”

I stare at the monitor, swallowing past a lump that refuses to budge. “I’m keeping it,” I whisper.

The words feel both terrifying and true.

Mackenzie doesn’t look surprised. She just sits beside me on the bed. “I thought you’d say that.”

The doctor comes back in before I can say more, handing me a picture from the ultrasound to keep. It feels almost too real between my finger and thumb.

I’m literally holding a life in my hands.

Mackenzie helps me sit up, helps me dress, helps me breathe. She stays close but not smothering. She’s learned exactly how to support without cornering me.

We walk to a café a few blocks away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere normal. Somewhere the outside world looks almost peaceful. Steam drifts from our coffees. People chatter around us. Sunlight presses through the windows.

It’s a nice reprieve. We keep the conversation light. Nothing about the baby, or Declan, or the war. It’s what I need right now before I have to go back to being the overwhelmed version of myself.

But then she pulls me out of the thought.

Mackenzie stirs her drink, watching me carefully. “You haven’t said much.”

“I’m thinking,” I murmur.

“About Declan.”

I nod.

What will I do about Declan?

He deserves to know. But is Declan the kind of man who can handle this?

“Do you want him involved?” she asks gently.

“That’s the problem,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know.”

She leans forward. “You love him.”

I stare into my coffee. “That has never been enough. Not for us. Not with everything between us. Not with the war. And now…”

“And now there’s a baby,” she finishes.

I close my eyes. “I don’t want to tell him when everything that happened with the speakeasy, and the attack, and us—none of it is resolved.”