15. Declan
Declan
Avoidance shouldn’t be something Ailish is good at.
Somehow she slips around corners just before I reach them, finishes meetings the minute I arrive, vanishes behind a door with Ronan right when I think I finally have a moment to force a damn conversation.
And it’s getting to me—more than it should, more than I’d ever admit aloud.
I know this because I’ve started showing up everywhere: meetings I normally delegate, self-defense sessions I’m not supposed to hover over, warehouse run-throughs I already trained the men for, and even a private war council meeting Liam holds with the Italians.
A meeting I absolutely should not be attending.
But she’s there. And so, apparently, am I.
When I stride into the room and find her seated at the long conference table, pen poised above a notebook, her spine goes rigid for a fraction of a second. A flinch no one else sees but me. As if my presence is an unexpected blow. I feel it like one.
Conor mutters under his breath, “Jesus Christ, you’re worse than a bloodhound.”
I don’t dignify it with a reply.
The Italians raise their brows. Liam lifts his head at me with a look that says, Really? Now? Ailish keeps her eyes fixed on her notes, refusing to acknowledge me.
I take a seat anyway, folding my arms across my chest, ignoring Liam’s simmering irritation and Ailish’s frozen posture.
I tell myself it’s strategic, that I’m here because whatever the Italians are proposing has implications on security, territory, and shipments—all of which are my responsibilities.
And yet, the longer I watch her working—her quiet focus, the soft crease between her brows, the practiced efficiency in her handwriting—the more apparent it becomes that I’m lying to myself.
I’m here because she’s here. And the fact that she’s pretending I’m invisible makes something jagged grind in my chest.
Halfway through the meeting, she shifts in her seat. Just the smallest adjustment, but my eyes snap to her like a reflex. She notices. Her jaw tightens. She writes faster.
When I shift my attention back to the table, Liam is watching me. Not subtly. Not kindly.
After the meeting, he corners me in the hallway before I can stalk after her like some kind of lunatic. “What the hell was that?” he demands.
I shrug. “Staying informed.”
“Bullshit.” He’s in my space before I can blink, voice low, dangerous. “Get your head on straight, Declan. I need you sharp, not chasing shadows. Or women.”
The last word tightens every muscle in my body. “Careful,” I warn.
“No. You be careful.” His voice dips even lower. “You’re unraveling, and I can’t afford that. We can’t afford that.”
He has no idea how right he is. Or how wrong. But instead of arguing, I grit my teeth and press out, “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” He takes a breath, visibly fighting the urge to shake me. “Nadia’s getting restless. She wants to help. I need time with her, to keep her grounded, and right now that means you’re taking my place meeting with the Italians.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. “You want me handling their business operations?”
“Yes,” he snaps. “Maybe keeping you busy will stop you from stalking Ailish like a bloody storm cloud.”
I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck. “I’m not stalking her.”
“You’re everywhere she is,” Liam fires back. “You think the Italians didn’t notice? You think she didn’t?”
I exhale sharply, hating how close to the mark he is.
Liam’s voice softens. Barely. “Whatever is going on between you two, sort it out. But do not let it compromise this alliance. Or this family.”
He starts to walk away, but pauses. “And Declan?” he adds without turning. “If you keep acting like a man hunting something he can’t name, the Italians will think you’re unstable. I won’t let that become a weakness.”
The worst part is, I know he’s right. The second worst part is, I can’t fix it. Not when Ailish keeps slipping through my hands like a ghost.
The next day, the Italians throw me into their version of operational hell: budget projections, staff lists, renovation delays, liquor licensing complications, security camera placements, and two brothers who can’t stop insulting each other in Italian while I stand between them like a referee with a migraine.
Ailish is assigned to the same partnership team.
Of course she is.
She barely looks at me when we’re sitting around the same table, but the heat between us simmers like a live wire. Every time she pushes her hair behind her ear, every time she tugs her sweater straight, every time she exhales in frustration, I feel it.
She’s close enough to touch, but she doesn’t look at me. That burns more than I expected.
At one point, she passes me a stack of financial reports without a word. Our fingers brush. She snatches her hand back like she’s been scorched. Snippy doesn’t even begin to describe it. “You could at least pretend to be civil,” I mutter.
She doesn’t even glance up. “I’m being professional. Try it sometime.”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. “I’m not your enemy, Ailish.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“We need to talk.”
She laughs—short, hollow, sharp. “Oh, now you want to talk? After weeks of avoiding me and then inserting yourself everywhere I go like you have a tracking device shoved up your—”
“Enough,” I snap.
She looks at me then. Really looks. And God, it’s a mistake, because she’s exhausted and furious and so beautiful I forget how to breathe for a second.
We don’t finish the argument. We can’t. There are too many eyes on us. Too many Italians watching with a mixture of amusement and worry, like they’re waiting to see whether we’ll explode or implode.
Over the next days, the tension doesn’t fade. But the work… The work thrives.
Apparently, when I’m being forced to be useful instead of brooding and drinking myself stupid, I’m impressive enough for the Italians to stop whispering about my instability.
I excel at logistics, negotiations, and pressure—those things have always come naturally.
And once Ailish stops biting my head off every time I open my mouth, our team actually functions.
More than functions. We dominate.
Her analytical brain and my tactical instinct balance each other. She sees the numbers; I see the threats. She spots the cracks; I patch them before they break. The Italians keep exchanging glances like they’re watching a miracle unfold.
By the end of the week, they’re practically glowing. “Your man is sharp,” Lorenzo tells Liam one afternoon.
“Not my man,” Liam mutters. “Not anyone’s man.” But there’s pride in his voice.
Ailish still avoids me outside meetings. Still rushes out of rooms. Still answers me only when professionalism demands it. But I don’t spiral. Not like before. I’ve found purpose again.
I’ll never admit it to my damn brother, but Liam was right about this.
Yet the obsession hasn’t faded—it’s simply buried under a thicker layer of denial. Because every night, no matter how productive I’ve been, no matter how many Italians shake my hand and praise my work, no matter how many fires I put out… I end up thinking about her.
Her fear she doesn’t show anyone but me. The way she holds herself now—tense, fragile, like a woman carrying more weight than she should. And I don’t know why it hooks into me the way it does.
Conor calls it obsession. I call it surveillance. The truth is, it’s probably both.
All I know is this: If she ever needed me—really needed me—I would burn half the city down just to take one fear off her shoulders.
And the worst part? I don’t even know why.