Ailish
I sit in that coffee shop again the next morning, trying not to purge my breakfast and watching all the normal people go by. Mackenzie is with me once more, glad I’m trying to do something for my nerves rather than cry and overwork.
In my hand is the ultrasound picture. “I don’t know how to tell him anymore,” I say, staring at the tiny, blurred shape. “I don’t even know if I should anymore with the way he keeps pushing me away.”
“That’s why you asked for the meeting with Liam.”
I nod. Tomorrow was the only time he said he had. I don’t want to interrupt what little time he gets with Nadia by saying it’s an emergency, so that’s when Liam will learn the truth and decide what to do with it.
“You should eventually,” Mack adds softly. “Tell Declan, I mean. But only when you feel safe. And when he’s stable enough not to set the city on fire hearing it.”
“That’s the problem,” I whisper. “Stability is not his strong suit.”
“No,” she sighs. “But neither is pretending you don’t love him.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” Her tone is gentle, not mocking. “And he loves you,” she adds. “In his twisted, violent, Declan way. You know he does.”
My throat tightens. “We can’t keep dancing like this. We’re going to burn each other alive.”
“So talk to him,” she says. “Or… if he blows up in your face again, talk to him in front of Liam. There’s no shame in asking for protection. Or structure.”
I nod, wiping my eyes.
We finish our coffees. We walk back toward my apartment, and the car that has followed me everywhere for six weeks idles at the corner while Liam's man walks the stairwell ahead of me, the way he does every time, and comes back down to tell me it's clear.
Mackenzie peels off toward her car with a hug and a promise to call me before bed. The man takes up his post in the lobby, where he'll stay until the night shift replaces him at ten.
I climb the stairs slowly, tired but strangely hopeful.
Maybe Declan will hear me this time with Liam’s help. Maybe—
I reach my apartment door, and there's an envelope on the floor. Cream paper. No markings. No return address.
He walked this stairwell four minutes ago and told me it was clear. I make myself look at that fact straight on. Either it wasn't there and someone came up behind him, or it was there and he stepped over it.
My stomach drops.
Very slowly, I pick it up, unlock the door, and step inside. I close the door. My hands tremble as I slide a finger under the flap.
A photograph. That’s what’s inside. The ultrasound printout from the clinic. The one that has not left my jacket pocket since yesterday afternoon.
My blood turns to ice. I flip it over. A note is scrawled across the back in neat, angled handwriting.
Does he know?
My knees nearly give out. I stumble backward until my hip hits the entryway table. My heart slams against my ribs so violently it hurts. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t—
Someone was there. At the clinic. Someone followed us. Someone took the photograph. Someone knows.
My pulse roars in my ears. Declan can’t know—not like this, not from someone else, not twisted into a weapon. I can’t let them push him into violence. I can’t let them push me into panic.
My hands shake so badly the note flutters to the floor. I reach for my phone, but before I can even unlock the screen a hard knock rattles the door.
I freeze. Another knock. Firmer. Controlled. Familiar. My heart lurches.
I take one step toward the door, another, as if pulled by some invisible thread. I open it. Declan stands there.
There’s readable tension in every line of his body. Eyes dark as night, calm—too calm. A kind of quiet that vibrates with danger. “Ailish,” he says, voice low. “We need to talk.”
I swallow hard. “Declan… now isn’t—” His gaze flicks past me, into the apartment.
“Something’s wrong,” he says. “Tell me what it is.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, too fast.
He tilts his head slightly. It’s a tiny movement, almost nothing, but it chills me. “Ailish,” he says again, quieter this time. “Don’t lie to me.”
I fold my arms protectively over myself. “Declan, please. I just—I need a minute.”
“That envelope on the floor,” he murmurs. “What was in it?”
I step in front of it instinctively, blocking his view. His jaw tightens once. Just once. “Ailish,” he says softly, deadly, “move aside.”
“No,” I whisper, breath breaking. “Please just—just be calm. Let me talk. Let me explain.”
His eyes meet mine. Unblinking. Burning. And for the first time in weeks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Then tell me the truth,” he says. “All of it. Right now.”
My pulse stutters. My hand goes to my stomach before I can stop it. His eyes follow the movement then lift to mine. I draw one breath, one single trembling breath, before speaking the truth I’ve been afraid of for weeks.
“Declan,” I whisper, “please… let me say it before you react.”
The room holds its breath.
So does he.
So do I.