Page 121 of The Endless Want

The shaking in my hands has stopped.

The panic has burned itself into something colder, sharper, lethal.

“They’re not keeping her,” I say. “Not for an hour longer than it takes me to find them.”

Liam claps a hand on my shoulder. “Then let’s go.”

We move as one—Irish, Italians, loyalists, shadows, and soldiers alike—toward the vehicles waiting outside. Engines turn over. Weapons load. Radios buzz with coordinates.

And as I step into the night, the only thought in my mind is a promise I’ve never spoken aloud but feel down to the marrow:

I’m coming for you, Ailish. And God help anyone who stands between us.

CHAPTER 36

Ailish

Darkness is the first thing I know. Just darkness—thick, muffled, swallowing every shape and every sound except the faint, rhythmic hum of something mechanical far away. My head feels heavy, cotton-stuffed, and when I try to lift it, I realize I can’t move the way I want to.

My hands aren’t bound, but something soft and weighted presses against my temples. A blindfold. Cloth, not tape. Someone tied it tight enough that it feels like it’s become part of my skin.

I draw in a slow breath and smell… nothing distinctive. No mildew, no metal, no gasoline, no sea. Just the faintest trace of fabric softener on the blindfold and a neutral, filtered air conditioning that reminds me of suburban living rooms.

That detail unsettles me more than if I’d woken in some rotting cellar. A normal house means invisibility. It means any neighbor within twenty feet wouldn’t hear me scream. It means these people have thought about every angle.

I shift again, carefully, and the floor beneath me gives just a little—it’s carpeted. Beige, probably. Something bland. Something meant to blend in with a neighborhood where nobody asks questions because nothing ever looks out of place.

I take another breath, steadying myself. Mackenzie’s voice runs through my head the way it did during training, sharp and reassuring like a blade forged for clarity.

“You’re not breakable,” she once told me. “You’re bloody steel.”

I cling to the words like a lifeline as I test my arms and legs. They’re stiff but responsive. Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s bleeding. My belly feels heavy but unharmed; the baby gives a faint flutter as if sensing my awareness.

Relief pulses through me so intensely that I almost choke on it. They haven’t hurt the baby. Not yet. Not until they decide I’m worth more alive than dead, which means they want something. Which means I can work with this. For a time.

A door opens somewhere beyond the darkness. It’s a silent sound—just the shift of air, the faintest whisper of hinges.

Whoever they are, they know how to move quietly. My pulse spikes, but I force myself to inhale through my nose, slow and even. Fear is a scent predators love. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

Footsteps approach, methodical and steady, rubber-soled and soft. A man breathes out above me before he crouches. His presence is compact, controlled. He smells faintly of antiseptic soap and something metallic, maybe a weapon he carried recently or one he’s still holding.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice almost conversational, “the Irishman’s whore wakes.”

The words punch through the dark like a cold needle. I expected something cruel eventually, but hearing it from the first moment strips a piece of humanity away from the space.

I keep my shoulders still, refusing to flinch. “You’re wrong,” I say, and my voice surprises me—steady, level, not small. “But I’m sure that’s a habit for you.”

A low chuckle answers me, soft but devoid of warmth. “You have spirit. Too much, some would say. But I suppose that is why he likes you. Men like him always fancy the ones who fight back.” His voice lowers, curious, almost intrigued. “Though not many carry his child to prove it.”

My hand curls instinctively over my stomach, even though I know he can’t see it through the blindfold. He hears the shift in my breathing, though, and his amusement sharpens.

“Ah. So that part is true. Good. Very good. That means you understand your value.”

I press my lips together and force myself to breathe evenly. “If you think using me will break him, you clearly haven’t met him.”

“I have not met him,” the man agrees, “but I have studied him. I know his habits. His temper. His… attachments.” Something in his voice relaxes, as if he’s settling into a recliner and discussing sports. “And the moment your convoy changed course, he followed. Predictable. Rash. Emotional. He thinks with his fists, not his mind.”

“You don’t know a thing about him,” I say.