17. Ailish
Ailish
My knees loosen. My breath snags. The room tilts, and a thin crack splits through whatever fragile interior scaffolding I’ve been using to hold myself upright.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and fold forward until my elbows touch my thighs, my fingers tightening against my skull as if I’m trying to keep everything inside from spilling out. My chest rises and falls in useless, shallow presses, the kind that never pull in enough air.
Declan’s anger still hangs in the space he left behind, thick and electric, like cordite after a gunshot.
And I don’t know what hurts more—that he stormed in like some furious avenging force, or that the second he saw me shaken and pale, something in him softened… only for him to turn vicious again, scolding me like I’d gone out begging to be attacked.
I don’t even realize my breathing’s gone ragged until a cool hand touches my shoulder. “Ailish,” Mackenzie murmurs, lowering herself in front of me. “Hey. Look at me.”
I lift my eyes only when she gently pulls my hands away from my head, her expression softening as soon as she sees my face. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says quietly. “You’ve had enough for three lifetimes this month.”
That’s all it takes. The first tear slips down my cheek without permission, then another, and then the rest come in a slow, humiliating leak I can’t stop.
Mackenzie doesn’t try to rush me. She sits with me through it, one hand on my knee, the other keeping my fingers from curling into fists against my own clothes. When my breathing finally settles into something steadier, she says, just above a whisper, “I think you should leave town for a bit.”
The words hit me like a blow. “No,” I say immediately, sitting upright even as the room feels like it’s still swaying. “Absolutely not.”
“Ailish—”
“No,” I repeat, sharper this time, heat filling my throat. “I’m not running. I’m not leaving Liam. I’m not abandoning the Irish. I’m not abandoning everything we’ve built.”
Mackenzie studies my face. She doesn’t argue—not at first—but her eyes trace every exhaustion line, every bruise, every place where adrenaline has left me shaking. When she finally speaks, her voice is gentle, almost too gentle. “You can’t protect anyone if you’re falling apart.”
I swallow hard. “I’m not falling apart.”
“Then what’s this?”
I open my mouth… and close it again. She has a point, but admitting it would make it real.
Instead, I press my palms against my thighs and force steel into my spine.
“I want to stay,” I say. “For Liam. For the alliances. For the whole operation. And…” My hand drifts unconsciously toward my abdomen, stopping just above where the waist of my pants sits.
Mackenzie’s gaze follows the movement. She doesn’t comment—not yet—but understanding flickers across her features. “And for the baby?” she asks softly.
I nod, throat tightening. “If I decide to keep it,” I manage. “I… I need to know I can protect it. I can’t do that halfway across the world hiding like a coward.”
“You wouldn’t be a coward,” she says. “You’d be safe.”
“I don’t want safe,” I whisper. “I want ready.”
Mackenzie squeezes my hand. “Then first, we confirm what’s going on. You need a doctor—someone who won’t send reports to the wrong ears.”
My pulse jumps. “You know someone?”
“Yes,” she says. “Underground. Discreet. No questions asked.”
A moment later, we’re gathering my things. It’s early, the kind of early where the sky hasn’t decided what color it’s going to be yet. Mackenzie keeps a steadying hand on my elbow as we navigate the hallway, past security who pretend not to notice the state I’m in.
The drive is quiet except for the hum of the tires on wet pavement. I stare out the window, trying not to think of how Declan’s voice shook when he yelled at me. He wasn’t wrong—he never is when it comes to danger—but his delivery was cruel, and I’m tired of cruelty.
The clinic is beneath an old apothecary shop, hidden behind shelves of herbal tinctures that smell faintly medicinal and earthy.
The doctor is a wiry woman with silver hair and deliberate hands.
She doesn’t ask names. She doesn’t comment on the bruises.
She simply gestures for me to follow her and performs the exam with quiet efficiency.
Ten minutes later, she confirms it.
Seven weeks.
The number does the only arithmetic that matters. It lands on a night with rain against a safehouse window and his hand shaking against my jaw, and there is nothing to wonder about and no one to wonder about, and I am not sure whether that makes it better or worse.
The words don’t land all at once. They seep into me like cold water sinking into cloth, heavy and disorienting. Mackenzie watches me carefully, her expression unreadable as we step back into the car. Only once the doors close does she speak.
“You okay?”
I nod mechanically. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“You can cry,” she says. “Or scream. Or sit in silence. Whatever you need.”
“I don’t know what I need.” My voice cracks. “Except… not telling him. Not right now.”
“That’s reasonable,” she says. “There’s still a little time.”
Relief sweeps through me so sharply I shut my eyes.
When I finally arrive at Liam’s estate for the next self-defense session, the parking lot is buzzing with activity.
Ronan stands at the far end of the training room, arms crossed, watching as the women gather.
His posture is calm but firm, the way a man posts himself when he knows every woman in the room is a potential target.
Nadia spots me. She walks forward with a pace too measured to be casual. Her eyes sweep over me, studying every inch of my face, my shoulders, the way I’m holding myself.
“You’ve been strange lately,” she says quietly. “Different.”
I swallow once, twice. “It’s been a hard month.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Her gaze sharpens with something that looks uncomfortably like suspicion. “I think you’re keeping something from us.”
The hair on the back of my neck pricks. “Nadia, I—”
“You’re treating your pregnancy like a secret,” she says suddenly, voice low. “Because the baby is Liam’s?”
Shock slams into me so hard I nearly stumble backward. It’s the same conclusion Declan has jumped to many times over. “No,” I breathe. “No. Absolutely not. Liam and I have never been together. Ever. Not even close. That’s not who we are.”
She blinks, thrown for a moment. “Then why hide it? Why act like you’re ashamed?”
“I’m overwhelmed,” I admit. “And scared. And I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’m not hiding it because of Liam. I would never—ever—betray you like that.”
Nadia’s rigid posture falters, her shoulders sagging a fraction. “I’ve never been jealous before,” she confesses quietly, almost ashamed. “It’s… new. Liam brings it out in me. I struggled with his PA too; she was obsessed with him. I hated it.”
My heart softens. “That makes sense. When you love someone that deeply… everything around them feels like a threat.”
She lets out a long breath. “I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to hurt the people I trust.”
“You’re not hurting me,” I say gently. “You’re scared. We all are.”
Nadia nods slowly, eyes glimmering with apology. “Maybe it’s time you do something about Declan.”
Something inside me twists as she guesses the father right this time—fear, longing, resentment, exhaustion all at once. “I know,” I say softly. “I just… need a plan.”
Her hand squeezes mine. “Whatever you decide, you won’t face it alone.”
I inhale deeply as Ronan calls us to attention.
My ribs still ache. My mind still spirals. And somewhere in all that mess, a future—however uncertain—waits for me to choose it.
But for now, I breathe. I steady myself. I lift my chin and step forward into the training circle.
If I am going to face everything that’s coming—Declan, the Russians, the pregnancy, the alliances, the fractures, the danger—I need to become the woman who survives it.