Page 122 of The Endless Want

“Don’t I?” he replies. “He killed one of my men. Publicly. You should be flattered. Few men inspire that kind of stupidity.”

The statement slides under my skin like a splinter, but not in the way he expects. It hurts, yes. It terrifies me. But it also ignites something fierce and bright inside me. Declan came. He followed. He didn’t hesitate. That means the second he realized I wasn’t there, he burned the world behind him.

And he’ll keep burning it until he finds me.

The man shifts, and fabric rustles. He stands. I imagine him circling the room, hands clasped behind his back, analyzing me like a specimen under glass.

“You should know,” he says, “I am not here to hurt you. Not if you cooperate. You have information. Access. Influence. And you will share these with us in due time.”

I let out a slow breath. “If you think threatening me will make me betray my own people⁠—”

“Oh no,” he interrupts gently. “We don’t want betrayal. We want honesty. And honesty comes easiest to the frightened.”

I stiffen, bracing myself for blow or touch or some attempt at physical persuasion, but instead there is only the sudden click of a switch. A soft hum begins overhead. A fan? A heater? Something else entirely?

The air changes subtly—still cool, but charged, like static creeping over my skin.

“I find,” the man says quietly, “that silence is far more persuasive than pain to start. Darkness even more so. No screaming. No blood. Just time. Time is the most effective tool. Time breaks the strongest and softens the hardest.”

His voice lowers to a whisper beside my ear. “And you, pregnant or not, will break.”

My breath hitches, but I exhale slowly, deliberately. “You’re wrong.”

“We will see.”

He steps back, and his footsteps fade. A door opens. Then closes. The mechanical hum grows louder, vibrating faintly through the floor and up my spine. And I realize⁠—

This room is soundproof. Not metaphorically. Not partially. Fully.

He could torture a dozen people in here, and the neighbors would hear nothing. He could leave me screaming for hours, and no one would notice. He could pump in noise, or darkness, or cold, or silence until the days blur together.

I swallow hard. Then I straighten my spine as much as the blindfold will allow.

Because survival is not about comfort. It’s not about ease. It’s not about strength. It’s about a decision. And I have made mine.

I am getting out of here.

I put my hand over my stomach and whisper to the child inside me—too softly for anyone to hear, softer than breath. “I’m not breaking. Not for them. Not for fear. Not ever.”

The hum deepens, vibrating the floorboards. I sit taller. I breathe slower. And I wait.

Because Declan is coming.

And because I am Ailish.

And bloody steel doesn’t bend.

Time becomes something shapeless, slipping through my fingers as though it’s water I can’t cup properly between my palms. There is no window. No sun. No clock. Nothing but my breathing, my heartbeat, and the faint hum in the ceiling that turns the air into white noise.

My blindfold blocks out everything except the shifting pressure of cloth and the rare whisper of movement when my captor decides to reappear.

I don’t know if hours or days have passed. My body aches from sitting on carpet that has no padding left, but my muscles still respond when I stretch them carefully. The baby shifts now and then, reminding me that I’m not alone in here—not really.

Every flutter is a tiny protest, a tiny voice telling me that fear is pointless unless it’s something I can use.

I lie on my side for a while, even though the floor is too hard for comfort. It lets me imagine a bed instead—a soft one, with blankets and pillows and the faint scent of lavender or detergent. I picture the safehouse, the one where Declan slept on my couch like a silent sentinel. I try to imagine the baby’s room there. Maybe light green. Maybe soft cream. Something warm. Something gentle. Something the opposite of this blank, soundless cage.

I press my hand to my stomach and try a whispered thought. “We’ll get out. You just have to hold on.”