25. Declan
Declan
Rory talks too much when he’s nervous, and tonight he won’t shut up. He’s pacing behind the speakeasy bar, checking bottles, counting crates, muttering numbers to himself like if he says them fast enough they’ll stop being wrong.
They’re not wrong. Everything is fine. Business is fine. The flow of cash is better than it has been in months. The place is thriving and humming and alive.
And I’m losing my goddamn mind.
I lean against the edge of the polished walnut bar, pretending to scan the week’s profit summaries, but I haven’t actually read a line.
The columns keep swimming. The figures blur.
My head has been a wreckage site for weeks now, but after last night—after Ailish looked me in the eye and told me I was going to be a father—there’s no silence left anywhere inside me. Just noise, teeth, and panic.
She told me. I ruined it. She threw me out. And now she won’t see me. Won’t speak to me. Every word passes through Liam as if I’m a contagion everyone’s afraid she’ll catch.
I can’t breathe around it.
Rory sets down another stack of invoices. “You hearing any of this, man? We need to approve a double shipment next weekend. Italians want confirmation before midnight.”
I nod without hearing myself do it.
He sighs, heavy. “Christ, you’re useless tonight.”
He’s not wrong. I’m here because Liam insisted I work, insisted I keep busy, insisted I anchor myself to something practical before I burn down half the city by obsessing over Ailish.
And I tried. I fucking tried. But every bottle on the shelf looks like a countdown. Every shadow in the room looks like a threat getting closer to her. Every moment she isn’t in the building feels like another failure I can’t undo.
She should be here. She normally is. But she made it clear to Liam—very clear—that she doesn’t want to risk ‘crossing paths’ tonight.
I drag a hand down my face, trying to ground myself, but the edges of the world keep tilting. The memory of her voice fractures through me, sharp as glass—I’m pregnant, Declan. It’s yours.
The floor doesn’t feel steady anymore. Hasn’t since her words hollowed out my chest and left something violent in its place.
Rory catches me zoning out again and mutters a curse. “Okay, that’s it. Sit your ass down before you knock something over. You look like you’re about to break.”
I go to snap at him, but the back door slams open before I can get the words out.
Conor walks in like he owns the place—and maybe he does, in the sense that Liam sent him here as my handler, my guard, my goddamn babysitter.
He sees us, takes in my posture, my expression, the untouched whiskey glass sitting in front of me, and a grimace of disappointment drags across his face. “Figured,” he says. “I knew you’d be spiraling.”
“Did Liam send you to check on me?”
“No,” Conor says, hanging his jacket on a hook. “He sent me to keep you from lighting a match in a room full of explosives.”
Rory snorts. “He’s already halfway there.” I shoot him a murderous look, and he scurries to the stockroom.
Conor walks over, drags a stool next to mine, and sits. “She doesn’t want to see you,” he says, blunt as a knife to the sternum. “And if you keep drinking yourself stupid, you’re going to make this worse.”
I bristle, jaw ticking. “I had one drink.”
“You poured one drink. Big difference.” He nudges the glass away with two fingers. “Talk.”
“No.”
“Declan.”
“I said no.”
He lets out a low exhale and rests his elbows on his knees. “She told Liam it’s because she needs space.”
That slices deeper than it should. “She shouldn’t be telling Liam anything before she tells me.”
“Well, she did. And I don’t blame her. The way you lashed out…” He shakes his head. “You scared her. Not physically. Just—emotionally. You turned everything into a war strategy.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
“So fix it.”
“It’s not that easy, Conor.” My voice comes out rough. “Every time I step near her, something in me cracks. She looks at me, and I can’t—fuck, I can’t get words out that don’t hurt her. I don’t know how to… be around her.”
“Because you never got over her,” Conor says quietly.
I don’t answer that. There’s nothing left in the drawer to answer it with.
Conor lets the quiet sit for a while. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Say what you’re afraid of.”
“I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up like I fuck everything else up.
” I pace away from him, run a shaking hand through my hair.
Every confession presses against the inside of my throat like it’s trying to claw free.
“How am I supposed to be a father,” I grit out, “when I don’t even know how to love her without destroying her? ”
Conor’s face softens—not pity, but something closer to brotherhood. “There it is,” he says. “Finally.”
I slam my hand against the bar, not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to feel the pain. “She thinks I’m a monster.”
“She thinks you’re hurting,” he counters. “And she’s hurting too. But you’re too wrapped up in your own fear to see it.”
I glare at him. “You think this is easy for me?”
“No. I think you’re terrified.” Conor stands, steps toward me with the same steady calm he uses on men mid-breakdown. “And I think if you don’t figure out how to talk to her, you’re going to lose her. And the baby. For good.”
My throat locks. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
When I don’t respond, Conor exhales sharply and grips my shoulder. “Come on.”
“What now?”
“You’re sobering up.”
“I’m sober.”
Conor doesn’t waste time—he punches me. Not hard enough to knock me out. Just hard enough to snap something into alignment inside my skull.
I stagger, grab the edge of the bar, and stare at him in stunned fury. “The fuck was that for?”
“To wake you up,” Conor says, cracking his knuckles. “You go dark when you drink. And when you go dark, you think the worst of yourself. And when you think the worst of yourself, you burn bridges that shouldn’t even be touched.”
I breathe hard, blood roaring in my ears.
He studies me for a long moment. Then he steps closer and speaks in a low, unwavering voice. “You have two choices now. Learn how to love them properly—or lose them both. No middle ground. No halfway. No hiding behind rage or guilt or excuses. Decide who the hell you want to be.”
Everything inside me goes still.
“Declan,” Conor finishes, “the war is coming. The Russians are circling. Ailish is pregnant. You don’t get to run from this. You step up, or you let her walk away. Those are the only terms.”
I drag in a breath. “I don’t want to lose her.”
“Then stop acting like a man determined to.”
I sit heavily on the barstool, elbows on my thighs, head bowed as the truth settles inside me. Finally, I lift my head. “I need… time.”
“You don’t have time,” he says quietly. “You need action.”
“I can’t just walk up to her tomorrow and pretend everything’s fine.”
“No one said pretend.” He folds his arms. “Start small. Show her you’re steady. Show her you can think clearly. Show her you can put her before your pride.”
My jaw clenches. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Then learn,” he repeats. “Because that woman? And that child? They’re going to need the version of you that isn’t a weapon.”
The words land deep. Somewhere in the back of my mind—beneath the anger, beneath the fear, beneath the fractured edges of everything I’ve been since she said I’m pregnant—a single truth takes root. If I don’t change, I’ll lose them.
Forever.
And the terrifying part is… losing them feels worse than anything else I’ve survived. I nod, barely. A vow forming in the quiet.
Conor claps my shoulder once. “Good. Now get your shit together. Liam’s expecting an update on the shipment numbers.”
“Tell him they’re fine.”
“I’ll tell him you’ll be by tomorrow morning.”
I glare. “Don’t push me.”
“Declan,” he says with a smirk, “I’m just getting started.”
He turns toward the door, calling back over his shoulder. “And sober up before you see her next. If she smells whiskey on you, she’ll bury you alive.”
I huff out a breath. When he’s gone, I look down at the glass of whiskey still sitting on the counter. Slowly, I slide it away.
My hands still shake. My head still feels like it’s made of splintered metal. But for the first time in a long time, there’s a sliver of direction. A path. A choice.
Conor is right. If I don’t learn how to love her without destroying her, I’ll lose everything. And I’m done losing.