Page 72 of The Endless Want

“It’s true.” His jaw tightens. “So say what you came to say, or don’t.”

Pain slices through me—quick, hot, humiliating. He’s pushing me away for real this time. I step back. “Fine. If that’s how you want to be, then⁠—”

“Ailish.”

He says my name like a curse. Or a plea. I can’t tell. But the damage is already cracking through me.

He looks away first.

I stand there for a moment, the music swelling into the hollow left between us. My hand tightens around the ultrasound picture in my pocket, and for the first time since the appointment… I think I might break.

I turn on my heel. I walk toward the exit. His voice doesn’t follow. He doesn’t come after me.

Not this time.

Mackenzie spots me as soon as I step outside. She’s leaning against the car, arms crossed, scanning the street like a hawk. When she sees my face, she straightens.

“Ailish? What happened?”

I shake my head, swallowing the burn in my throat. “He wouldn’t listen. He shut it down immediately.”

Her jaw tightens. “He’s a stubborn idiot.”

I press a trembling hand to my forehead. “It’s over. I tried. I can’t… I can’t fight him anymore.”

She hesitates. “So you’re telling Liam?”

The streetlights blur slightly. I nod.

“Yes. I need Liam to know what’s happening. For security. For the baby. For everything. I’ll schedule a meeting with him in the morning.”

Mackenzie’s expression softens. “He’ll support you. He always does.”

A gust of cold wind sweeps through the alley. I pull my jacket tighter around me.

“Let’s go,” I murmur.

She opens the passenger door for me, but before I can climb in, I pause. Something compels me to look back. Through the narrow basement window of the speakeasy, I see the faint shape of Declan. Standing exactly where I left him and staring at the exit.

I press my palms to my eyes and step into the car. As Mackenzie drives, one truth sinks deep into my bones:

Whatever happens next… Declan and I are reaching the edge of something irreversible.

And now, the next step belongs to me.

CHAPTER 21

Declan

The tail appears on a Thursday. I’m standing outside the back entrance of the speakeasy, rolling my shoulders after a night that ran too late and ended too early, when a flicker catches at the edge of my vision.

A shadow where it shouldn’t be. A figure who pretends he isn’t watching me.

Whoever this is, he’s new. Too eager, too taut around the edges. Not subtle enough to be Italian, too rigid to be Irish. So when he crosses the street and pretends he’s looking at the shuttered bakery window, I feel every muscle in my spine settle into a cold, deliberate line.

Russian. I walk. He follows, which is a bold move. Unless they think I might be meeting Ailish.

I don’t speed up. I don’t slow down. I give him time to settle into the rhythm of pursuit, time to believe he’s unspooling me. And every step I take conjures the memory of Ailish’s scream, the bruises on her ribs, the way she looked at me afterward—shaken, small, then furious. The way she’s been avoiding me since. The way she’s been breaking and pretending she isn’t.