Page 97 of The Endless Want

Mackenzie stands, brushing off her leggings. “The midwife’s coming at seven. Ronan ran a background check on her that took nine days and he’s still not happy about it.”

“If I survive the day,” I say. “I swear this war room gives me more stress than the Russians do.”

She nudges me lightly with her foot. “That’s because there’s a certain man involved.”

I’m about to respond when the front lock clicks open. Mackenzie freezes first. Then her brows shoot up knowingly. “Well,” she whispers, “speak of the devil, and he shall storm the building.”

Declan steps inside, closing the reinforced door behind him. He’s wearing dark tactical clothes, his shoulders tense, jaw sharper than usual, eyes coiled with something unreadable. He scans the entry, then us, then the room beyond, as if cataloguing threat levels and possible exits, before his gaze comes back to me fully.

It hits me like the first drop of a storm: the air changes, thickens, hums.

“Hey,” Mackenzie says far too casually, lifting her mat. “I’ll let you two… strategize.”

“Mackenzie,” I hiss under my breath. She ignores me entirely, gives Declan a pointed nod meant to warn him against any sudden stupidity, then disappears down the hall toward the back office.

Declan waits until she’s gone before he steps forward.

“You’re early,” I say, pushing myself to my feet slowly. “We weren’t supposed to start until eleven.”

“I know.” His voice is deeper than I remember. Maybe I just forgot. Maybe I tried to. “I wanted to get here before the others.”

“Why?” I smooth my sweater over my belly, suddenly self-conscious.

His eyes dip—just for a second—to the curve beneath the fabric. The smallest flicker crosses his face. Something like awe layered with guilt layered with confusion. Then it’s gone. “Because we need to talk.”

Of course we do. We always do. And we never do it well.

I move to the table where the maps are spread and open the binder Liam left for us—our joint planning assignment. “Then talk.”

He steps closer, but not too close, like he’s trying to respect a boundary neither of us can name. “I’m assigned to the offensive team now. Pipeline disruption. Full direction under Liam.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “He told me.”

“He also told me,” Declan continues, “that you and I have to coordinate the logistics together. All planning. All assessments. All timelines.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why do you look like I’m telling you something catastrophic?”

I shut the binder a little too forcefully. “Maybe because the last time we were alone in a room, you accused me of using our child as leverage.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?” I ask. “You stood in my flat and called me a liar while I was still holding the picture.”

His throat works. “I was angry.”

“I was terrified,” I counter.

The words fill the air between us. Heavy. Raw. He drags a hand through his hair. “I know I handled it badly.”

A bitter laugh rises in my chest. “You think?”

“Don’t,” he snaps—but not cruelly. More like he’s begging me not to open the wound wider. “Don’t turn this into a fight when I’m trying to make it right.”

My jaw tightens. “Then say what you came here to say.”

For the first time in months, he seems… uncertain. “I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he says. “I’m not asking for anything except a chance to be in the same room without ruining everything we touch.”