Ailish
The echo of bodies hitting the mats travels through the training hall long before any of us actually step inside.
It’s a strange, cavernous room beneath Liam’s main compound—newly refinished floors, padded walls, rows of gear that still smell like clean rubber and leather.
The Italians insisted on doubling security starting today, and their presence is impossible to ignore. Two stand at the entrance, another pair by the far wall, and a few more posted outside the double doors. All of them carry the kind of silent alertness that makes every breath feel watched.
I arrive early, mostly because I didn’t sleep.
Some of that is nerves, some work-related anxiety, and some…
something else entirely that’s been following me for weeks like a shadow I can’t kick loose.
I take a place near the far wall, arms crossed, trying to blend in despite the fact that everyone in this session knows why we’re here.
Why I’m here. Why Declan fought so hard to get these sessions implemented. Why I can no longer pretend this world won’t come for me again.
The others file in slowly. Mackenzie first, hair in a high ponytail, rolling her shoulders like she’s been looking forward to punching something.
Nadia arrives last, a flicker of restlessness in her stride, a hunger for movement that makes her look almost predatory in the low lighting.
She doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes, staring instead at the mats as if they’re a test she already knows she’ll pass.
Then Ronan steps inside.
Even standing still, he commands the room.
Taller than most men I’ve ever met, built like someone carved him out of stone, Ronan has the kind of presence that quiets a room without a word.
He’s in a simple black shirt and athletic pants, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the group like he’s tallying weaknesses already.
“All right,” he says, voice low but not unkind. “I’ve been told to run every one of you through the same drills. Some of you are going to be bored.” His gaze stops on Nadia for exactly as long as it takes to make a point. “The bored ones can help me.”
My stomach tightens at that. Maybe because it’s too close to the truth of what nearly happened.
Maybe because I still feel Declan’s hands on me from that night—not the violent ones from the alley, but the ones after.
The ones I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, no matter how angry I’ve been. No matter how abandoned I feel now.
It isn’t the alley that follows me around. I’ve had worse from people who wanted less. It’s that they were already there when I turned the corner, which means someone told them which corner.
Ronan continues. “This is not meant to scare you. It’s meant to build you. And if you can get through even half the shit I’m going to show you over the next few months, you’ll walk into every room knowing you can defend your life if you have to. Understand?”
“Mackenzie nods. Nadia lifts her chin, eager. I force my head to dip once.”
“Good,” Ronan says. “Then let’s begin.”
The Italians shift along the edges of the room like shadows, watching every angle while Ronan directs us into a loose semicircle.
He demonstrates each move slowly at first—stances, strikes, escapes—and his patience is surprising for a man with his reputation.
When he corrects posture or footwork, he is precise but gentle, adjusting an elbow or a knee with a featherlight touch.
But he doesn’t let anyone coast.
When Mackenzie’s punch lands soft, he steps close, holds her fist in place, and says quietly, “Your life is more important than his ribs. Hit like you want to stay alive.”
When I overextend on a kick, he taps my ankle. “Power comes from control, not rage.”
When Nadia slips into muscle memory—dangerously fast, scarily sharp—he tells her, “Good. But don’t forget these are defensive drills, not executions.” She only smiles faintly, something dark in her eyes that makes one of the Italian guards flinch.
And me? Ronan works me harder than anyone. He puts me on the mat three times in the first twenty minutes, and each time he watches how fast I get up instead of whether I do.
The fourth time, he offers a hand. “You’ve done this before.”
It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer it.
“You went for his eyes in that alley,” he says, pulling me up. “Nobody taught you that last week.” He steps back into stance. “So the problem isn’t your hands. The problem is you’ve decided that getting grabbed makes you someone who gets grabbed. Lose that. It’ll kill you faster than they will.”
I push harder.
By the end of the session, sweat clings to every inch of me. My hair is stuck to my forehead. My hands tremble slightly from adrenaline and exhaustion, but for the first time in weeks, it feels like the trembling belongs to me and not something that was done to me.
Ronan claps his hands once, loud enough to reverberate. “Good work. Eat something, and don’t sleep in a room with the window unlatched. Same time tomorrow.”
When he dismisses us, the women disperse slowly—some chatting, some silent. I start packing away the water bottle I barely touched, trying not to look as drained as I feel, when Ronan steps beside me.
“You did well,” he says.
“Barely.”
“Barely is better than nothing. And you didn’t quit.”
I swallow. “Do people usually quit?”
He studies me for a beat. “The ones who quit are the ones who came in thinking it wouldn’t happen to them.” He nods once. “You’ve never had that problem.”
“Will I?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “You’re built for more than you think.”
Those words shouldn’t hit me as hard as they do. I give a small nod before leaving the room, the Italians’ eyes on us until I step into the hallway.
The weeks blur after that.
Work becomes my anchor. My refuge. My distraction.
I drown myself in it—spreadsheets, reports, strategist briefs, negotiation projections.
Liam sends task after task my way, and instead of feeling burdened, I cling to each one like proof I still have worth in this place, in this war, in a world that feels like it spun off its axis the moment Declan walked away without looking back.
I check my phone more than I care to admit.
Every morning. Every night. Every time it buzzes with something meaningless. Nothing from Declan.
Not a word. Not a message. Not even a sharp, annoyed check-in.
After everything—after the safehouse, after what we did, after the secrets and the blood and the heat of his body over mine—I thought he’d at least call to tell me I was an idiot for trying to leave.
Or to accuse me of something. Or anything.
The silence is worse than anger.
It’s like he picked up the pieces of everything that broke between us… then dropped them again and walked away. And I don’t know what that makes me feel.
Liam stops by my office one afternoon with a thick file under his arm and a tired expression softening the lines of his face. “Ailish,” he says, and for once there’s no command in his tone. Just acknowledgment. Maybe even concern. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’m fine,” I say, because that’s what I’m supposed to say.
He pulls out the chair opposite my desk, sits, and rests his elbows on his knees. “I watched the footage from the session.”
“And?”
“And Ronan put you down three times and you got up faster each time.” He lets that sit. “He also said you fight like someone who’s expecting it from behind.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Hardly.”
“He doesn’t throw around compliments,” Liam says. “Take it.”
The warmth in his voice catches me off guard. Liam isn’t cold, exactly, but he is controlled. Distant. Always thinking three steps ahead, even with the people he loves. I can’t tell whether this is concern or an assessment, and with him it’s usually both.
He studies me for a moment, then adds, “You know, you’re allowed to rest. No one expects you to work yourself into the ground.”
“I’m not—”
“Ailish,” he says, cutting me off softly, “I’m not the enemy here.”
For a split second, I think he knows everything I haven’t said aloud—the night with Declan, the confusion, the ache, the silence. But then his mouth tightens slightly, and I realize his meaning is different.
He’s trying to reassure me. He’s trying to be kind.
Before I can respond, the door bursts open without a knock. Nadia steps inside, expression sharp, movements precise in that way she gets when she’s restless enough to chew through a wall.
“Liam,” she says, “I need to talk to you. Now.”
Liam’s expression shifts instantly—concern, exasperation, affection, all tied into one tangled thread. “Nadia, can this wait five minutes?”
“No,” she says flatly.
He closes the file on my desk. “Ailish, excuse us.”
I stand, gathering my notes, but I can’t stop my eyes from flicking between them. Nadia looks like she’s vibrating with energy. Liam looks like he already knows where this argument is headed. I step toward the door slowly, and before I leave the room, I hear Nadia say, low and urgent:
“I need to go back into the field. You’re wasting me here. I can help—”
“You’re staying put,” Liam snaps.
And then the door shuts behind me.
Tension ripples through the air as I put distance between myself and their argument, and I realize—this isn’t ending. Not today. Not soon. Maybe not ever.
I go back to work, barely noticing when the muffled noises fade. Barely noticing anything until a sudden pain racks my stomach.
I leap up, knowing what this is because it’s happened four mornings in a row now.
By the time I reach the hallway restroom, my stomach churns so violently. I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white. It’s been like this for over a week—waves of nausea that hit me without warning, sharp and sudden, leaving me breathless until they fade.