16. Ailish
Ailish
I feel Liam watching me long before he says anything.
It happens near the end of the day when the compound finally quiets, and the corridors lose the electric buzz of constant movement.
The afternoon meetings are done, the Italians gone, and most of the Irish men have drifted outside for a smoke or tapped out for dinner.
I’m gathering a stack of updated route papers and trying to will my heartbeat into something normal when his voice comes from behind me.
“Ailish. Walk with me.”
The words aren’t harsh, but they aren’t casual either. Liam only uses that tone when he’s worried, or when something in his gut tells him a storm is forming before the clouds even show.
I fall into step beside him, matching his stride down the hallway lined with old, framed maps of territories long since absorbed. His hands are in his pockets, expression drawn in the way it gets when he’s thinking ten moves ahead.
“You’ve been off,” he says finally, still looking straight forward. “Unfocused. Distracted. That’s not like you.”
A quiet breath leaves me, fogging the cold air of the corridor for a second. “I’m fine,” I answer, though the flatness in my voice betrays me. “Just tired.”
“Tired doesn’t reroute a meeting so you don’t have to sit across from someone,” he replies. “Tired doesn’t hand a report to Ronan at four in the afternoon so it lands on my brother’s desk without you in the room.”
Heat rushes up my neck, and I pull my coat tighter around myself. “I’m not avoiding him,” I say, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing.
He cuts me a knowing look. “Ailish.”
I stop walking. So does he. The stillness feels enormous for a moment, like the air itself waits to see what I’ll say.
“Alright,” I breathe. “Yes. I’m avoiding him. I don’t know what else to do, Liam. Everything between us is… messy. And I can’t tell if it’s getting better or if I’m just getting used to the ache of it.”
His expression softens, which is rare for him—especially these days when he feels the weight of leadership like a hand closing around his throat. He leans a shoulder against the wall and crosses his arms, studying me with that older-brother gaze he rarely lets himself show.
“You’re overwhelmed,” he says gently. “And I should’ve asked sooner.”
The kindness nearly breaks me in half. I swallow, hard. “I hate that you’ve been looking at me like…” I trail off, struggling to find the right words. “Like you’re waiting for me to make a mistake.”
Liam’s face shifts, surprise flickering across it. “Is that what you think? That I don’t trust you?”
“You’ve been distant,” I say softly. “Colder. I… I assumed it meant something.”
He pushes off the wall and steps closer, his voice lowering. “Look at me.”
I do.
“I trust you,” he says quietly. “Completely.” His eyes soften further, a rare show of emotion.
“But leaders don’t get to look trusting, Ailish.
Not to enemies. Not even to allies. I have to appear firm, cautious, in control.
If I don’t, every other family watching us will think they can shove us around. ”
The tight knot in my chest loosens, just a little. “So it wasn’t me.”
“It was never you.” He gives me a small, warm smile—the kind that reached his eyes before the Russians made all of us harder. “If anything, I’ve been relying on you more than ever. You’re my anchor in this.”
My throat burns suddenly, and I have to look away before he notices the shine in my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Really.”
He nods, satisfied. “Now. Tell me what’s going on with Declan.”
My stomach drops. I knew this was coming, but it still feels like someone turned a key inside my ribs. “It’s complicated,” I say, which is the understatement of the century.
“It always is with him,” Liam replies, lips quirking. “But I need to make sure you’re safe. That whatever’s happening isn’t distracting you from keeping your head clear. You’re too important right now.”
The words scrape at something raw inside me. Important. If he knew the truth—if he knew I was pregnant—would that still be the word he used? Or would it become something else? Liability. Weak point. Fool.
The confession rises up my throat like a bubble breaking the surface. Liam, I’m pregnant.
My mouth actually opens.
But the words don’t come.
Because I see it right there—his stress, his fear, the weight he’s carrying for all of us. If I hand him one more worry tonight, he might break under it. And if Declan finds out from anyone except me… No. I can’t do it like this.
“Everything between us just feels… delicate,” I say instead, choosing half-truths over the full catastrophe. “There’s too much history. Too much hurt.”
“I know,” Liam replies, voice gentle. “But you don’t have to sort it all out tonight. Or alone.”
Another piece of me softens toward him. “Thank you. Really.”
He nods once, as though satisfied he’s done what he can. “Go home. Get some sleep.”
I leave the compound with my security detail trailing behind me, the night cold enough that each breath feels sharp. When I reach my apartment, it feels eerily still. I shower, dress in soft pajamas, and crawl into bed long before midnight.
I expect sleep to soothe me. It doesn’t. Instead, the nightmare comes.
In the dream, I’m standing in a dim hallway—one I don’t recognize. The walls look damp, slick like something underground. Declan stands at the end of it.
His back is to me at first, shoulders tense beneath his shirt. When he turns, there’s something hollow in his eyes, something unreadable.
“I need to tell you something,” I whisper. My hands shake. I try to still them, but they tremble harder.
He stares at me, face unreadable. “What is it?”
“I’m pregnant,” I say. “It’s yours.”
His expression stays blank, then shifts into something darker. His jaw tightens. His breath hardens. “Ailish,” he says in a voice that sounds like ice cracking. “You should’ve told me sooner.”
“I tried,” I whisper.
“You lied,” he replies. “After everything we’ve been through, you lied again.” The hallway stretches, elongates, darkens. He starts to walk away.
“Declan,” I cry, reaching out, but he dissolves into the shadows, slipping through the dark like he was never there.
I wake up with a cry lodged in my throat, my chest heaving. My sheets are damp with sweat, tangled around my legs. The room is pitch black except for the dim glow of the city pressing through the blinds.
I press a hand to my belly, small and flat and still entirely mine, and whisper into the silence, “I’m so scared.”
It doesn’t help.
At dawn, my alarm cuts through the quiet, and I force myself out of bed. There’s no time to collapse. Liam assigned me to a recon drop this morning—a quick exchange, simple data pickup, neutral territory. A nothing job.
If I screw this up, his trust in me will actually shatter.
I get ready in a hurry and head to the location provided.
It starts with a cold wind slicing through my jacket, rippling across the small dock where I’m supposed to meet our contact.
Mackenzie insisted on staying back because she had early negotiations with an Italian contractor, and I didn’t argue.
Ronan sent me out with one of the junior guards who waits by the car as I walk toward the water.
It should be enough for this.
The sky is a washed-out gray, the sun barely visible behind thick clouds. Fog slips along the river in low sheets, making each breath taste like iron.
The man is already there—hood up, hands shoved into pockets, pacing like someone running late even though I’m early. He looks familiar in the way most of our neutral operatives do: cautious, lean, ex-military posture.
But something is wrong.
His steps are too uneven. His shoulders too tight. And the angle of his head doesn’t match the posture of someone expecting a routine drop.
“Morning,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
He doesn’t look at me. “You Ailish?”
“Yes.”
He hands me a flash drive, small and innocuous. “Routes,” he mutters. “Times. A list of suspected Russian associates. Use it quickly.”
Something sharp twists in my gut. “Why are you nervous?”
He flinches. Before he can answer, the world erupts behind us. A dark blur crashes into the man’s back—a body, fast and brutal. He stumbles forward, and someone else lunges from the right. I barely drop the flash drive in time to throw myself sideways.
“Run!” the operative screams.
But I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I turn, heart slamming, and see two attackers—the man grappling with one, the other charging straight for me, eyes wild beneath a mask.
I whip into motion the way Ronan taught me. I dodge her reach, twisting my torso just enough that her fingers graze my coat instead of my arm. I swing my elbow hard into her ribs. She grunts, stumbling back.
But she’s faster than I am. She lunges again, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me toward the alley between the dockside warehouses. Pain flares across my scalp, stars blurring my vision.
“Let go!” I scream, forcing every lesson into my hands as I claw at her wrist and shove my weight downward. She stumbles again.
My screaming must do it—my voice echoing across the empty dock—because the operative shouts for backup, and the second attacker breaks away from our contact.
I kick the woman directly in the knee. She screams. Her grip loosens enough for me to wrench free, stumbling backward. I fall to one knee, palms scraping along the pavement.
The contact shouts again, pinned by the larger attacker. My guard by the car sees the commotion and bolts toward us, shouting into his radio.
The woman recovers, lunging toward me again. This time I don’t wait—I shove my shoulder into her chest and push off, sprinting toward the street.
My lungs burn. My side aches. I hear footsteps pounding behind me.
She’s following.
The man tackles her from behind, dragging her into the fog so roughly she shrieks. I don’t wait to see more. I run, heart screaming in my chest, until my guard catches my arm and pulls me toward the car.
“Inside!” he barks.
I collapse into the backseat just as he slams the door. The world blurs into motion.
I don’t remember the drive back. Only the way my hands shake uncontrollably, how my brain keeps replaying the sensation of fingers tangled in my hair, the sound of shoes slamming onto wet pavement, the moment the woman’s masked eyes locked on mine with absolute intent.
By the time we reach the compound, I’m barely breathing.
Mackenzie is there first. And Ronan. They pull open the door before the car fully stops.
“Oh my God,” Mackenzie breathes, reaching for me.
“I’m fine,” I manage, even though I’m trembling so hard the words choke. “Just bruised.”
“Bullshit,” Ronan mutters, voice low but fiercely gentle. “Inside. Now.”
They flank me up the steps like I’m made of glass. And for the first time since joining this world, I don’t feel strong. I feel small. Breakable. Shaken in a way even Nadia’s stories couldn’t prepare me for. Even though I fought back.
Ronan escorts us to Liam’s side room, but I stop him. “Take me home,” I whisper. “I just… I can’t stay here right now.”
I’m so tired. So tired of being a target.
Ronan studies me, eyes narrowing. Mackenzie squeezes my hand. “Alright. Let’s go.”
I must fall asleep on the short trip because I don’t know much else until we pull up to my place. Back at my apartment, the security detail lines the hallway, already waiting for me after this next incident.
Declan’s face crosses my mind, and I will it away. I don’t want to think about how he’ll feel about this.
I allow myself to be ushered inside and fussed over before being taken to my room.
My usual guard stands outside the bedroom door as Mackenzie helps me sit on the edge of the bed. I’m clearly going into shock which isn’t good for the baby. I have to clam down.
She brings a glass of water. Ronan stays in the living room just beyond where I can still see, pacing, muttering about tightening all routes and gutting every Russian contact from here to Dublin.
I try to breathe. I’m shaking too hard. I lie back, staring at the ceiling. The cold in my chest feels like ice cracking with each inhale.
Then the front door slams. Hard. My eyes go wide at the sound as Mackenzie pats me reassuringly.
Voices explode in the living room—shouting, arguing, boots scraping across hardwood.
Then: “Ailish!”
My heart lurches painfully.
Declan. Which would be why Mackenzie isn’t scared. Isn’t reacting.
He bursts into the bedroom like a storm, face flushed, eyes wild, chest heaving.
Liam’s security didn’t even slow him down.
There’s no coat on him, in November, which means he came straight out of wherever he was standing when someone told him.
There’s a scrape across two knuckles that wasn’t there this morning.
He crosses to me before he says anything at all, and his hands come up like he’s going to take my face, and then they stop six inches short and hang there, and he curls them into fists instead.
Something in his expression shatters. Then it seals over, and what comes out is rage.
“What the hell happened?” he demands. His voice is too loud, too sharp. “Why weren’t you being watched? Why weren’t you protected? Why—”
“I’m fine,” I say, though I’m not.
He steps closer, anger trembling beneath his skin. “You nearly got killed. Again.”
His voice cracks on the second word. He hears it. I watch him hate himself for it.
“It wasn’t targeted,” I protest weakly. “I just got caught in the way—”
“You shouldn’t have been anywhere they could reach you!”
The words hit harder than he means them to. I look away. “I did my job, Declan.”
“You were reckless,” he snaps. He isn’t looking at me when he says it. He’s looking at the bruise on my forearm, and he hasn’t looked anywhere else since he came through the door.
The accusation guts me. “I wasn’t reckless. I did everything right.”
“You shouldn’t have been there at all.” His voice rings through the room, and my heart breaks a little more under the weight of it. Something inside me curls inward, afraid he’ll say the next hurtful thing without meaning to.
I almost tell him. I almost say, I’m pregnant. Please don’t yell at me. Please don’t scare me like this. But instead, I lift my chin. “Get out,” I whisper.
He freezes. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Ailish—”
“No.” My voice trembles, but it holds. “If you can’t calm down, if you’re just here to blame me for things I can’t control—get out.”
He stares at me, stunned. And then he backs away, slowly, one hand dragging down his face, and at the doorway he stops with his back to me for the length of a breath, like a man deciding whether to try one more sentence.
He doesn’t have one. He’s too full of rage and fear to speak without setting the whole room on fire.
The door shuts behind Declan so hard the frame rattles, and the moment the sound fades, something in me caves.