CHAPTER 34 #2
“It’s an order,” he adds. He curses under his breath, something harsh in Irish, something I’ve heard him mutter only when he’s two breaths from losing his grip.
I step closer, touch his wrist lightly—an anchor, a reminder he’s not alone in this. “Declan,” I murmur. “I’ll be alright.”
He looks down at my hand, then at me, like he’s memorizing something important. Like he doesn’t trust the world to keep me intact if he blinks too long. “Promise me you won’t take unnecessary risks.”
“I promise.”
“Promise you’ll stay behind cover. Do what the lieutenant says. Don’t improvise.” His voice tightens. “And if anything feels off—anything at all—you walk. You pull back. You run.”
The way he says run makes my throat tighten. He’s not imagining me bolting from danger. He’s imagining losing me. Losing us. I swallow. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I know you do.” His voice cracks on the edge of restraint. “That’s what scares me.”
Something in my chest shatters—quietly, deeply. But I can’t fall apart now. Not in front of him. Not when I finally feel strong again.
Mackenzie clears her throat gently. “We should go. Italians don’t like to wait.”
Nadia steps forward and pulls me into a quick hug. “Be safe. And if that’s Dara… we’ll handle it. Together.”
I squeeze her back. “We will.”
Declan still hasn’t moved. He watches me like the world is tilting. Like he’s trying not to chase after me, drag me into a locked room, and keep me there until the war is over.
I step toward him anyway.
He doesn’t expect it—not the proximity, not the suddenness. I look up into his eyes, see the worry cracked open raw beneath the anger, and I lean in without thinking.
Not a desperate kiss. Just… something real.
My lips press softly to his—light, warm, honest. His breath catches. His hand rises halfway, as if he wants to cradle my face but isn’t sure if he should. When I pull back, his eyes are wide. Unsteady. Almost wrecked.
“That wasn’t goodbye,” I whisper. “That was… later.”
He swallows hard, throat working visibly, but he doesn’t chase the kiss. He lets me go. He trusts me enough to. Or maybe he’s learning to.
Mackenzie gestures for me to follow, and I start down the hall. My heart is pounding—not with fear, but with something like hope. Something like belonging. Something like—for the first time in a long time—coming home to myself.
Before we turn the corner, I glance back. Declan is still standing where I left him, watching me like I’ve taken the only piece of him that was ever unbreakable.
When our eyes meet one last time, he doesn’t speak. He only nods.
I turn, lift my chin, and head toward whatever waits next.
The hallway outside the war room feels colder than it should, like the air hasn’t caught up with the decision I just made.
Mackenzie keeps pace beside me, her stride long and sure, the way of someone who has lived through enough chaos to carry calm like armor.
I match her step for step, trying to let the rhythm settle my nerves.
“That kiss was brave,” she says quietly, not looking at me.
I huff out a breath. “It was… necessary.”
“Still brave,” she repeats, and her mouth flicks into a faint grin. “He almost died on the spot, though.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing. I’m saying: that man is whipped. Utterly, devastatingly whipped.”
I feel heat rise in my face, but it’s not embarrassment—it’s something softer, something afraid to claim itself but finally ready to try.
“He’s scared,” I murmur.
Mackenzie gives a thoughtful hum. “Maybe. But he’s also choosing you anyway. That’s the difference.”
I don’t respond because I can’t trust my voice. The elevator doors open, and we step inside. I rest my hand on the rail as the doors slide shut with a metallic sigh.
For a moment, everything is quiet.
Then the elevator begins to descend, and my stomach follows.
When we exit into the courtyard, a black SUV idles near the back gate. Pietro stands beside it, smoking lazily, looking every bit like a man who does not rush for anyone. His suit is immaculate. His hair is slicked back with just enough arrogance to be considered cultural.
He spots us and drops the cigarette, stepping it out. “Ladies,” he calls. “We ready?”
“Born ready,” Mackenzie answers, clapping me gently on the shoulder as we walk over.
I tuck my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting.
Pietro opens the passenger door for me with a courtly little bow that I might have found charming if I weren’t already on high alert.
His dark eyes scan me quickly, checking for nervous tells, maybe evaluating how much trouble I might be for him today.
“You good to go?” he asks softly.
“I am,” I say. “Thanks for having me on this one.”
He smirks. “We all had bets on whether you’d show.”
I raise a brow. “And?”
He taps the top of the car. “I said you would.”
I slide into the seat before my smile gives me away, and Mackenzie climbs in behind me with two of the Italian grunts. Pietro takes the wheel. As soon as the doors thunk shut, the SUV fills with that mix of leather, cologne, and quiet tension that always precedes recon.
The engine hums, and we pull out of the courtyard.
I place a hand over my stomach, subtle but grounding, and close my eyes for a moment. I breathe. The baby feels like a pulse of purpose against my palm. A reminder that I have two wars to fight—one outside, one inside myself—and neither can be won by hiding.
Declan’s kiss still lingers on my lips. So does the look in his eyes when he watched me walk away.