Ailish #3
I choke on the words. Everything I’ve been holding back surges forward—the fear, the confusion, the way Declan held me that night, the way he left without a word, the way my body feels foreign now, the way my mind keeps circling the same terrifying possibility like an open wound it can’t stop poking.
“I think I might be…” I swallow, unable to finish the sentence.
Pregnant.
I can’t say it yet.
So I breathe around it. “I’m tired, Mack.
I’m tired and scared, and I can’t tell if my heart is broken or if I’m just done.
” My voice drops, barely audible. “Declan hasn’t contacted me.
Not once. And I don’t know what that means.
I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t know if what happened in that safehouse was a mistake or—or something that meant nothing to him. ”
She exhales sharply. “I’m two floors up. Give me ninety seconds.”
“No.” It comes out too fast. “Mack, there’s a camera on every corridor in this building and two of Liam’s men outside my door. If you come running down here at seven at night, somebody writes it in a log. Somebody always writes it in a log.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Fine. Tomorrow I come down with the training bags, like a woman returning gear. Nobody logs that.” A pause. “And then you tell me the part you’re not saying. You trust me?”
Tears sting my eyes. “Of course I trust you.”
“Then let me handle this,” she says. “We’ll figure it out. And if Declan’s silence is part of the problem, then maybe Liam can shed light on what that bastard is doing. He’s not subtle. If he’s ignoring you, he’s doing it on purpose. And I have a feeling it’s not because he doesn’t care.”
My heart stutters painfully. “It feels like he doesn’t.”
“Yeah, well,” she mutters, “men who almost lose someone don’t think clearly afterward. Especially not Declan. Just… hang on until tomorrow.”
A few more days feels like years. But I nod anyway, even though she can’t see it. “Thank you.”
“Ailish,” she murmurs, voice thickening, “cry if you need to. I won’t tell a soul.”
And for the first time in weeks—not since the alley, not since the safehouse, not since the nausea began swinging me by the throat—I let myself sob properly. Quiet, muffled, shoulders shaking until the weight loosens enough for me to breathe again.
Mackenzie stays on the line the entire time. Not speaking. Not offering platitudes. Just breathing with me. When the tears slow to a halt, I whisper, “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You don’t have to know,” she says. “You just have to keep going. One step at a time.”
“I’m so tired of steps.”
“Then crawl,” she replies. “Just don’t stop.”
I close my eyes, pulling in a shuddering breath. “Okay.”
“Get some rest,” she says. “I’ll handle the politics. You handle you.” She hangs up before I can thank her again.
I sit there in the silence for a long time, the burner phone heavy in my lap. The urge to open that bottom drawer and take the test swells in my chest like a balloon ready to burst.
But not yet. Not tonight. Not when my hands are shaking this badly.
I tuck the phone away, stand slowly, and walk to the small bathroom attached to my office. I splash cold water on my face, stare at my reflection in the mirror—pale, tired, eyes faintly swollen—and force myself to breathe.
The nausea has ebbed for now, but a hollow ache remains, lodged just beneath my heart.
If I’m pregnant… If this is real… Everything changes.
My alliances.
My safety.
My future.
My place in this war.
My place with Declan.
And the worst part? I don’t know whether I want the test to be positive or negative. I don’t know which outcome scares me more.
I return to my desk, sink into my chair, and fold my arms on top of it before lowering my head. The day’s weight settles over me like a blanket of wet wool—heavy, suffocating, impossible to shrug off.
Outside my window, the Italians continue their patrol.
The compound hums faintly with the sounds of distant voices and muted footsteps.
Somewhere above me, Liam and Nadia are likely still arguing about her involvement, her confinement, and her desire to fight.
Their world hasn’t paused for my crisis. It never will.
And Declan—Wherever he is—Hasn’t reached out. I don’t know what that means.
Maybe he’s keeping distance for safety. Maybe he regrets everything. Maybe he’s trying to protect me the only way he knows how.
Or maybe I simply imagined everything meant more than it did.
That thought hurts worst of all.
I close my eyes and let my breathing slow. The exhaustion finally slips through the cracks of my armor, tugging at my limbs with a persistence that feels almost merciful.
Eventually, I drift into a shallow, uneasy sleep in my office chair, surrounded by strategy charts, reports, and the faint lingering scent of training mat rubber still clinging to my clothes.
The pregnancy test waits in the drawer beside me.
Silent.
Small.
Terrifying.
Tomorrow, I’ll face it. Tomorrow, I’ll know. Tomorrow, everything changes.
But for tonight, I sleep with my head resting on my folded arms and my heart caught between fear and hope—caught between a man who saved my life, shared my body, and then vanished, and the future that might already be shaping itself inside me without my permission.