Ailish
I’m still sorting through the morning’s logistics—shipment discrepancies flagged by Kellan, a request from the Italians for updated route timing—when a folder drops onto the papers in front of me.
“You’re done with these for now,” Liam says.
I blink up at him. “Done? I haven’t even started the second half.”
“And you won’t.” He taps the folder with two fingers, avoiding my eyes. “I need you to run supplies to Nadia and check in on her. She’s getting restless. Make sure she has what she needs.”
I sit back slowly. “Lots of others could do that.”
“They’re busy.” His jaw tightens the way it does when he’s picking his battles. “You’re more familiar with what comforts Nadia needs. And she’ll talk more openly with you.”
It’s a decent excuse. It’s also a deflection. “Liam,” I say carefully, “I can handle the logistics. You trusted me with them last week.”
"Yes." He finally meets my gaze. "But things have escalated."
"Then you know what's on my car." I keep my voice level. "You want me driving it across the city to the one address that can't be found."
"I want you doing what I asked."
There it is—that tightening grip of doubt around my responsibilities. The slow, creeping erosion of trust. My stomach hollows with the realization that he’s sliding me back into the safe, harmless tasks again. Pretty errands wrapped in soft concern.
“I’m not incompetent,” I murmur.
“I never said you were,” he replies. “But this is not the week to test how many fires we can juggle.”
He grabs his coat and leaves before I can argue. The finality in his retreat stings more than it should.
I gather the supplies—groceries, toiletries, a few things I know Nadia likes—and head out before irritation bleeds into something under my skin.
The car ride over is quiet, the city washed pale by morning light.
I try not to think about how easily Liam can shift me from strategist to delivery girl when fear creeps in.
I'm halfway there before the other read arrives, and once it does I can't unsee it. He didn't hand me an errand. He handed me the one piece of information in this family worth stealing, and told me to carry it across the city in a marked car.
If the address holds, I'm clean.
If it doesn't, he has his answer and Nadia has a week to hate me for it.
I keep driving.
Nadia’s temporary safehouse this time is a modest apartment tucked behind a row of faded brick storefronts. It’s secure and clean, and absolutely not where she wants to be. But it’s better than the last place in more ways than one.
I knock twice, pause, knock once more. She opens the door with a heavy sigh.
“Prison commissary delivery?” she deadpans.
“Don’t start,” I reply, stepping inside. The place smells faintly of the disinfectant Liam insisted be used during the prep.
Nadia crosses her arms. She looks better than the day in the stairwell, but her eyes still carry that frayed, restless edge. “If I stare at these walls any longer, I’m going to start alphabetizing my trauma.”
I nearly laugh, but she’s too tense. I set the bags on the counter. “Brought food. Toiletries. New books. Liam insisted on half of it.”
She snorts. “He’s sweet when he’s worried. Annoying, but sweet.”
I unpack the items while she watches, her foot tapping a restless rhythm against the floor. “You resent me,” I say quietly, not accusing—just naming it.
Nadia stiffens, then looks away. “Not resent. Just… jealous, maybe. You get to work. You get to move. To breathe. I’m stuck here waiting for Liam to decide I exist again.” Her voice softens. “It’s not your fault. Just the lack of freedom getting to me.”
“We’re in this together,” I remind her, turning toward her fully. “Even if our roles shift, the goal is the same.”
She nods, but the movement is more exhaustion than agreement.
“You want me to tell Liam to let you out more?” I ask gently. “Or assign someone to stay with you who isn’t… me?”
She lets out a tiny laugh. “Oh God, no. He’d assign Kellan, and I’d end up murdering him out of boredom. Or he’d assign Declan, and I’d have to take tranquilizers to deal with the intensity.”
I smile despite myself. “I could ask Liam to spend more time here with you, you know. Or at least stop treating you like radioactive material.”
That strikes a nerve; Nadia’s shoulders drop. “He’s avoiding me because he knows I’m tied to all this. It’s easier for him not to look at me and remember how deep the Russians had their hooks in.” Her throat tightens. “I worry Dara is in deeper than we realized. She would never leave marks unless—”
“Unless she was ordered to,” I finish.
Nadia meets my gaze. “You need to be careful. Dara’s methods aren’t like the men’s. She observes before she strikes. She won’t come at you directly. She’ll make your own people suspicious first.”
I swallow. “I’m aware.”
“No, you’re not.” Nadia steps closer. “Declan thinks he can fix it by going rogue. Liam thinks he’s on top of it. Neither of them realizes how long she’s likely been in motion.”
The words sink through me like cold rain. I grip the edge of the counter. “Nadia… don’t mention any of this to Liam. If he thinks I’m more entangled than I already am, he’ll bench me completely. And then Declan and Kellan will be left to manage a crisis Liam can barely handle as it is.”
Her eyes soften, then sharpen. “He’ll kill me if I withhold something important.”
“He won’t,” I say firmly. “He doesn’t want you hurt—not by Dara, not by this clan, not by the walls of this tiny apartment.”
She studies me for a moment and finally nods. “All right. I won’t say anything. But do not underestimate what any Russian is capable of.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
Nadia’s expression turns unexpectedly vulnerable. “Ailish… if Declan gets himself killed trying to protect you—”
“He won’t,” I interrupt, too quickly.
She raises a brow.
“… I won’t let him,” I amend.
Nadia smiles faintly, as if she sees too much in that answer. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Back at headquarters, I return to the logistics Liam abandoned me in the middle of—shipment tallies, inventory discrepancies, cross-referenced routes. I’ve barely started to settle back into the work when I feel a shift in the air behind me.
Declan.
He doesn’t say a word at first, just leans over my shoulder and narrows his eyes at my screen. “You miscalculated the top-line numbers,” he mutters.
My jaw sets. “No, I accounted for the Italian add-ons.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “They changed the order this morning.”
“Well, no one told me.”
“I’m telling you now,” he snaps.
I breathe slowly, refusing to rise to his mood. “Then I’ll update it.”
“You should’ve anticipated it.”
“Declan,” I warn, “don’t start.”
But he does. He points out half a dozen tiny details—some real, some imagined—until irritation burns up my spine.
“I’m trying,” I bite out.
“Try harder.”
Heat flares in my chest. “You don’t get to talk to me like that just because Liam took this off your plate.”
“That’s exactly why I get to talk like that,” he fires back. “Because I actually know how to run this operation.”
“Then go tell Liam,” I snap. “Tell him you want your old job back instead of hovering over me like a guard dog with control issues.”
Declan’s eyes flash, something dark and unguarded. “I’m not hovering.”
“You haven’t stopped criticizing me since you walked in.”
“Because you’re not paying attention.”
“I am paying attention,” I say, standing up and taking a step closer, hands shaking with restrained fury. “I’m paying attention to everything but you. You don’t get to treat me like I’m incompetent just because you’re frustrated.”
“It’s not frustration,” he says through clenched teeth.
“What is it then?”
“It’s that they marked your car and you drove it here anyway.” His voice drops. “It’s that I have counted the exits in every room you have walked into for two years and you have never once noticed me doing it.”
The room goes very quiet. Somewhere below us a door closes.
I should say something professional. I should say something that puts this back where it belongs.
“Declan.”
“Don’t.” He’s closer than he was. I don’t remember either of us moving. “You asked.”
We stand in the narrow space between desks, every unspoken thing between us coiled tight enough to snap. He releases my wrist only to cup the back of my neck, fingers warm, steady, infuriatingly gentle.
I should move. I should stop this. I should—
His mouth finds mine before I finish the thought.
The kiss is sharp, heated, a collision of hurt and want and history that neither of us knows how to contain. My hands fist in his shirt. His fingers slide into my hair.
I break away first, breath unsteady, heart pounding like it’s trying to tear its way out of my ribs.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” I whisper.
I watch his eyes transform into dark storms before he turns and leaves without another word.