Ailish
I found out about the car three days later, and only because Mackenzie made it her business to find out.
A grey sedan picked me up leaving the compound. It never got as far as where I was going, because Declan had two cars on it inside of ten minutes and ran it off the access road by the container yard. Nobody was hurt. The men in it were paid locals who couldn't name who'd hired them.
That's the part that matters, and I've turned it over more times than I want to admit. They lost me at the second light. Whatever they were paid to find out, they didn't find it out.
Declan never told me any of it. He never mentioned it. He simply moved through it and out the other side, and left me to find out from someone else.
Two more weeks pass, and in the strange, wavering quiet that settles around my life, I begin to understand just how much chaos a single man can leave behind even when he’s not speaking to me.
Declan has become… disciplined. Almost ruthlessly efficient.
He oversees the speakeasy expansion with a level of commitment that makes the Italians glow with pride and relief.
Liam even pulls me aside one morning to murmur, “He’s finally behaving like the Declan I used to know.
” A statement so loaded with history and warning that I couldn’t fully respond.
All I could do was nod and bury myself back in spreadsheets and security schedules.
He thrives under pressure, under expectation, under the heavy gravity of responsibility. Which would be easier to admire if he wasn’t so determined to pretend I no longer exist.
He doesn’t look at me unless forced. He doesn’t speak unless it’s strictly professional. And not once in these painfully long weeks has he stepped outside the rigid boundary he’s drawn between us.
It should help. It should make everything easier. Instead, it makes me feel like there’s a soft bruise blooming under my ribs every time I walk into a room he’s just walked out of.
But business is smooth. Safer, somehow. And I cling to that because I have to cling to something right now. Especially with the ultrasound appointment Mackenzie keeps reminding me about and with the fact I can’t keep avoiding the decision looming over me—what to do about Declan.
The girls’ self-defense session ends with a round of heavy breathing, scuffed mats, and the surprising sound of laughter. Ronan stands at the center of the studio, arms folded, watching us like a schoolmaster who doesn’t want to admit he’s proud.
“You’re getting faster,” he announces. “Still easy to kill, but less embarrassingly so.”
Nadia flips him off. “We love you too, Ronan.”
By the time Ronan dismisses us, my arms ache, my ribs ache, and my patience is worn thin—but there’s a surprising lightness in the air. For once, it isn’t dread or tension or paranoia. It’s accomplishment. The kind that comes from surviving something you thought you’d fail at.
Nadia flops onto the gym mat beside me with a groan that shouldn’t be funny but somehow is. “If he tells me to block that chokehold one more time, I’m stabbing him with the safety knife,” she mutters, wiping sweat from her forehead.
Mackenzie hands her a water bottle. “You almost got it that last round. You’re better than you think.”
Nadia closes her eyes. “I’m better than I’m showing.”
Mackenzie laughs, because she thinks it’s a joke.
“Why not both?” Mackenzie teases, nudging her with her foot. “Irish Mafia Barbie: pirouettes and precision kills.”
Nadia almost chokes laughing, or maybe wheezing—that line between amusement and misery is razor thin today.
The training has been brutal, intense, and honest. Ronan’s version of kindness is telling us exactly how to survive an attacker without sugarcoating our weaknesses. Strangely enough, it helps.
I sit beside her and open my own bottle. “You let Ronan put you down twice.”
“Three times.” She doesn’t open her eyes. “He needs to feel useful.”
Mackenzie looks between the two of us, and I watch her arrive somewhere she hasn’t been before.
Nadia turns bright pink, kicking Mackenzie’s shin lightly. “Shut up.”
We’re still laughing when the heavy door at the far end opens and Liam steps in. He’s dressed in his usual tailored dark shirt and slacks, but there’s a softness around him today that’s rare—something warm and unguarded when his eyes find Nadia.
She sits up straighter without even realizing she’s doing it. He doesn’t say anything to us at first, just walks over and offers Nadia his hand. “Come here, little menace. I heard you nearly broke Ronan’s wrist.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” she sputters, though she takes his hand anyway. “He was just surprised. I’m light on my feet.”
“I know,” Liam murmurs, and his voice has that quiet, possessive pride that makes even me blush. Mackenzie gives me a look that clearly says now is the time, and for once I agree.
I stand, brushing dust off my leggings. “Liam?”
He glances toward me, and though his expression shifts back into something leader-like, the warmth doesn’t vanish entirely. “Yes?”
“I asked you a question at the wedding,” I say. “You never answered it.”
Liam goes still in the particular way he does when he knows exactly which question I mean.
“She’s the only person in this building who’s run an operation against a Costello and got inside,” I say. “You have her doing escape drills in a basement while the network she came out of is hunting your people. That’s not protection. That’s storage.”
“Ailish.” Quiet. A warning.
“You asked me once what her role was,” Nadia says, not looking up from her water bottle. “Nobody’s written it down yet.”
The silence that follows has weight to it. Mackenzie has the sense to say nothing at all.
Liam looks at Nadia for a long moment. Then at me. And something shifts quietly in the room, a nearly invisible loosening. “Monday,” he says. “You, me, and Conor. We’ll define it properly.”
Nadia lights up. It’s small, but it’s bright.
Before she can say anything, he takes her hand and tugs her toward the exit. “Come on. Breakfast before I drown in meetings.”
She beams at us over her shoulder as she goes. “Save me a snack for later.”
Then the door shuts behind them.
Then Mackenzie exhales dramatically. “Finally. You know how long I’ve been dying for that man to unclench? Nadia’s going to explode from happiness.”
I laugh, but it feels a little fragile. Today has been oddly peaceful—normal, even—and somehow that makes me anxious.
Mackenzie tosses me an apple and grabs her bag. “Speaking of unclenching… you and I have an appointment. Don’t look at me like that. You agreed.”
“I didn’t agree,” I mutter. “I just didn’t fight you.”
“Same thing,” she says, looping her arm with mine. “Let’s go see if your alien parasite has limbs.”
“Mackenzie!”
“What? Humor helps with stress.”
Except it doesn’t. Not entirely. Because beneath all that humor, the truth burns sharp and bright: Today I’m getting my first ultrasound.
Today I’m deciding—for real, for certain—what I’m going to do.
And even though Mackenzie is the only person I can trust with this, my stomach coils like rope.
I’m terrified.
Mackenzie takes us there in a car that isn't hers, by a route that doubles back twice, and neither of us says why.
The underground clinic is small. It smells faintly of antiseptic and lemon cleaner, and the fluorescent lights hum overhead like a swarm of flies.
The doctor Mackenzie knows is discreet, efficient, and so nonjudgmental it almost unnerves me.
She doesn’t ask about the father. Doesn’t ask about my life. Doesn’t ask why I’m not walking into a real hospital with real resources. She just greets me with a nod and a slight smile and hands me a cotton gown.
Ten minutes later, I’m on a narrow bed, staring at the ceiling while cold gel spreads across my lower stomach. My heartbeat pulses in my throat.
“Deep breath,” she says, wheeling the monitor closer. Mackenzie stands beside me, hand on my forearm, steady and warm. And then—A flicker. A shape. A little grainy curve that barely looks human.
But the sound—That tiny, fast, fluttering heartbeat—I slap a hand over my mouth.
Mackenzie squeezes my arm. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Ailish.” But something in me breaks open. A quiet, devastating bloom of realization that heats my chest and burns behind my eyes.
That’s my child. My child.
And the timeline is unmistakable. There is no other possibility. Declan’s heartbeat, and mine, tangled into something new. Something whole.
The emotion hits so hard my ribs hurt. Tears spill before I can stop them. Dr. Harrow offers tissues, gives us a respectful nod, and steps out of the room.
Mackenzie brushes hair from my forehead, gentle. “So. What are you thinking?”
I stare at the monitor, swallowing past a lump that refuses to budge. “I’m keeping it,” I whisper.
The words feel both terrifying and true.
Mackenzie doesn’t look surprised. She just sits beside me on the bed. “I thought you’d say that.”
The doctor comes back in before I can say more, handing me a picture from the ultrasound to keep. It feels almost too real between my finger and thumb.
I’m literally holding a life in my hands.
Mackenzie helps me sit up, helps me dress, helps me breathe. She stays close but not smothering. She’s learned exactly how to support without cornering me.
We walk to a café a few blocks away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere normal. Somewhere the outside world looks almost peaceful. Steam drifts from our coffees. People chatter around us. Sunlight presses through the windows.
It’s a nice reprieve. We keep the conversation light. Nothing about the baby, or Declan, or the war. It’s what I need right now before I have to go back to being the overwhelmed version of myself.
But then she pulls me out of the thought.
Mackenzie stirs her drink, watching me carefully. “You haven’t said much.”
“I’m thinking,” I murmur.
“About Declan.”
I nod.
What will I do about Declan?
He deserves to know. But is Declan the kind of man who can handle this?
“Do you want him involved?” she asks gently.