26. Ailish
Ailish
The explosion footage loops in my mind before Liam even calls the briefing to order.
I’d seen bomb sites before—burned-out cars, scorched pavement, the metallic sting in the air still echoing—but this one hits differently.
Maybe because I recognize the building instantly. Maybe because I’d been scheduled to walk those halls yesterday before Declan shifted assignments around without explanation.
The group FaceTime call begins with the usual static and juggling of screens, but there’s no small talk today, no sardonic comments from Conor or dry humor from Ronan. Just hard faces, tight jaws, and the faint hum of chaos behind everyone’s microphone.
Liam sits in his home office, the shelves behind him dusted with Italian leather-bound ledgers and framed childhood photos of all of us brothers. His expression is grim but focused. “Ailish,” he says first, spotting me in my little square. “You weren’t near the hub today?”
“No,” I answer. “I was at the compound for the weekly logistics recap. The detonation was all clear of my schedule.”
He nods, but there’s something like guilt flickering behind his eyes. “Good.”
Declan’s face appears a beat later, the overhead light behind him cutting harsh angles across his expression. He looks exhausted, hands braced on what is definitely Liam’s kitchen counter. Conor stands over his shoulder with the look of a man making sure someone doesn’t unhinge again.
I ignore the tightness twisting in my stomach at the sight of Declan. He didn’t want to talk to me when it mattered. He wanted to control things instead.
Liam begins the briefing. “Russians struck the North End hub at ten-oh-nine this morning. Secondary charges were found in the loading bay—meant for first responders, most likely. We neutralized them. Losses are equipment, product, and the warehouse roof itself. No bodies.”
A collective breath releases from the grid of Irish and Italian allies on the call. Finn mutters, “Fucking miracle.”
Declan’s voice cuts in, clipped and controlled. “This wasn’t about product. Or territory. This was about timing. They wanted us rattled before the real play.”
I don’t disagree. I just don’t want to hear him speak with that tone—efficient, detached, all soldier, no heart—because every time he uses it, I’m reminded he compartmentalizes me into the same space when it suits him.
Liam continues. “We’ll need redistribution plans and new routes by the end of the week. Ailish, you take point.”
“Got it,” I say.
“And new layers on internal security,” Liam adds, glancing to the side. “Declan, that means you.”
Declan’s jaw sets. “Already drafting them.”
Our eyes catch—just for a fraction of a second. His look is unreadable. Mine is anything but.
The meeting lasts another twenty minutes. When it ends, I feel wrung out. I close my laptop, and for a moment I just sit there in the quiet of Liam’s side office, listening to the echo of distant footsteps in the compound hallway.
Mackenzie pokes her head inside the doorway. “You okay?”
“No,” I admit.
She nods once, sympathetic but practical. “Self-defense class starts in ten. Nadia’s already stretching. You can walk down with me.”
“Actually,” I say, exhaling, “I need to talk to Declan about the new security layers. Liam said the two of us should coordinate.”
By coordinate, Liam meant: You two need to figure out how to stand in the same room without setting each other on fire.
Mackenzie gives me a gentle, knowing look. “Alright. Be careful. Nadia and I will save you a seat.”
When I step into the hallway, Declan is already there—leaning against the wall opposite the office door as if he materialized out of the concrete. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.
Maybe I should care. But I don’t know how to, not when my chest is still cracked open from the fight in my apartment, from him accusing me of manipulation when I was at my most vulnerable.
I straighten my posture, smoothing my shirt. “We need to talk about the hub bombing and security protocols.”
He nods once, expression impassive. “I know.”
We walk side by side, but the air between us is thick, too silent. Professionals passing through a shared corridor. Except nothing about us has ever been professional, not really.
We reach the glass atrium that separates the offices from the training wing. Natural light spills across the space, illuminating his profile—broad shoulders, the line of his jaw, the faint bruise along his cheekbone from whatever happened between him and Conor last week.
I stop first. “Before we talk business, there’s something else.”
His eyebrow arches. “There always is.”
The words hit like a slap even though his tone is quiet. I inhale slowly, try to steady myself. Don’t rise to it. Not yet. “Liam said you’re pushing for expanded out-of-state contacts. Chicago. Seattle. The new real estate deals.”
“I am.”
“He also said you suggested I should handle the preliminary visits.”
“So?”
I search his face, but he’s shuttered. Masked. Every wall up. “So,” I say, voice deliberately calm, “are you trying to send me away?”
“I’m trying to send you somewhere safe.”
My heartbeat kicks. “Safe from what? You?”
His eyes flash, but his tone stays maddeningly level. “From the Russians. From a war that’s circling you, whether you admit it or not.”
“And instead of talking about what’s actually going on,” I say, “you want to relocate me like a piece on a board.”
“You’re thinking emotionally, Ailish.”
“And you’re avoiding reality.”
His jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to argue—and maybe, for once, he doesn’t trust himself to. This silence says more than words. He thinks sending me across the country fixes what he refuses to face.
“Say it,” I whisper. “Say you don’t want to deal with me. Say it’s easier if I’m gone.”
He remains very still. Too still. “I never said easier. I said safer.”
“For who? Me?” I ask. “Or for a man who can’t be in the same room as the woman he—”
I stop myself. Not here. Not like this.
His voice softens, just barely. “You’re angry. I get that.”
“Angry doesn’t cover it. You haven’t acknowledged the child you say you want safe. You haven’t acknowledged what you said to me, the way you talked to me. You walked out, Declan—again.”
A flicker of something crosses his face—something raw—but it’s gone just as quickly.
He exhales slowly through his nose and glances at the training room door. “We shouldn’t do this here.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this at all,” I say, “but here we are.”
The silence stretches between us before a hand closes gently on my arm.
Nadia.
Her tone is breezy, but her eyes are sharp with understanding. “Time for weapons, princess. Ronan’s in a mood, and I’m not letting you be late.”
I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Declan stands there, watching, shoulders tight. He looks like he wants to reach out but doesn’t trust himself to.
Nadia tugs me toward the door. “Let’s go. Before you two tear each other apart in the hallway and give me and Mackenzie something else to gossip about.”
We step into the training room. The glass door swings shut behind me. I don’t look back, but I feel him standing there until the moment he finally walks away.
The tension unwinds from my shoulders in a slow, painful drag.
The air inside is warmer, humming with the sounds of padded footsteps, low conversation, and the clatter of equipment as Ronan adjusts a weapons rack on the far wall.
It is grounding in a way the rest of the compound rarely is—structured, predictable, a world with rules that don’t fracture under the weight of emotion.
Nadia releases my arm only when she’s sure Declan is no longer hovering on the other side of the glass. She gives me a look, the kind only someone who has survived worse can give—part sympathy, part warning, part get your head straight before you drown.
“You did good,” she murmurs, reaching for a pair of practice knives. “You kept your voice even. That’s a victory with him.”
“It doesn’t feel like one.”
“It never does,” she says, handing me the dulled blade. “But trust me. With Declan? Holding your ground is the only language he actually hears.”
I almost laugh—almost. My voice feels frayed. “I didn’t feel strong out there.”
“You felt honest,” Nadia replies. “Those are one and the same.”
Before I can answer, Ronan claps his hands from the center of the room. “Alright. Blades first.” A chorus of mock groans echoes from the group.
Training begins. It’s the same routine as always, but today it feels like a lifeline. My body knows these movements now—the pivot, the wrist turn, the controlled strike. Even when my mind spirals, my muscles understand what to do, how to react, how to anchor me.
Nadia pairs with me first, her stance relaxed but her eyes alert. She tests me harder than usual, pushing my reactions, making me predict her sweeps before they land.
“You’re distracted,” she says quietly, ducking under my elbow and tapping the blunt edge of her knife against my ribs. “That would’ve gutted you.”
“I know.”
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
“Also true.”
She steps back, twirling her knife in an arc that glints beneath the overhead lights. “What did he want, out there?”
“To send me halfway across the country,” I say, breath catching. “Like distance is a plan.”
Nadia snorts. “Of course he does. That’s the male method. If something scares you, pack it in a suitcase and hurl it off the nearest cliff.”
“That’s not funny.”
“No,” she agrees softly, “but it’s true.”
I lower my blade, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck. “He hasn’t acknowledged the baby. Not really. He barely looks at me. He’s… locked up. And every time I try to reach him, it’s like he’s bracing for a punch.”
Nadia studies me—really studies me—then slides her knife back into its sheath. “Ailish, they don’t have normal emotional instincts. They have survival instincts. Declan’s whole life has been about anticipating danger and removing it before it touches the people he cares about.”
“He doesn’t act like he cares.”
“He does,” she says firmly. “He just thinks caring makes him weak. And weakness gets people killed.”
Something in my chest twists painfully. “That’s not how relationships work.”
“No,” she murmurs, “but it is how trauma works.”
She reaches out and squeezes my forearm. “Be patient with him. Not forever—he doesn’t deserve forever if he keeps being an ass—but for now. He’ll come around. He’s terrified.”
“You’d know,” I say quietly.
Her lips quirk. “I’m married to his brother. Terror runs in the family.”
A laugh breaks out of me, unexpected and grateful. Ronan calls the next rotation, pairing me with Mackenzie. She taps her blade against mine with a crooked grin.
“Ready to stab imaginary Russians together?” she asks.
“More than anything.”
Training becomes a blur of movement—redirecting grips, ducking past strikes, grounding my weight low. Sweat beads along my spine, the familiar ache in my calves grounding me more effectively than any conversation could.
When Ronan dismisses us, Nadia throws a towel around her shoulders and announces, “Liam’s picking me up. We’re grabbing dinner.”
Mackenzie hoists her bag. “And I am stealing Ailish for a post-training snack like civilized criminals.”
Nadia smirks. “Good. Feed her. Keep her upright. And for the love of God, if Declan tries to corner her again, mace him.”
“I’m not carrying mace,” I remind her.
Mackenzie grins. “I am.”
We leave the training room together, exhausted but steady. The adrenaline has eased, replaced by the muted calm that always follows Ronan’s workouts. Mackenzie and I walk toward the compound exit for our snack run, and for a moment, the world feels almost normal.
Almost.