Page 129 of The Endless Want

Roise leads me across the pavement quickly, weaving between shadows. “My boss’s car is on the far side,” she says. “It’ll get you out of state. He’d kill me for this, but he won’t find out until it’s too late.”

“Who is your boss now?” I manage.

She flinches slightly. “I’ll explain later, I promise. But he’s not with them. Just… in orbit around their chaos.” She shakes her head. “Right now, all that matters is getting you safe.”

The car is a black sedan with tinted windows. Sleek. Expensive. Out of place in a place like this. She opens the back door for me.

“Ailish,” she says, meeting my eyes with a brief, fierce look, “whatever they told you, whatever they said about you, about the Irish, about Liam—don’t believe any of it. And don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

“Him?” I ask, breathless.

Her lips press into a thin line. “Just—stay alive. I’ll find you if I can.”

I squeeze her hand. “Thank you,” I whisper. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes,” she says softly, “I did.”

She helps me into the back seat, and a driver—an older man with a steady gaze—nods at me through the mirror. “Hold on,” he murmurs, and then the car glides forward, pulling away from the estate without hesitation.

I lie back against the seat, trembling. My hands curl over my belly again as the adrenaline fades. The baby moves faintly, reacting to my heartbeat or the motion of the car or maybe just the strange mix of relief and fear exploding inside me.

It hits me suddenly, a rush so sharp it steals my breath.

I’m free.

And then, even faster—I’m not safe.

The driver doesn’t speak, but he follows a route that is clearly well-planned. He avoids main roads, turns off his headlights when passing certain intersections, checks the mirrors with professional precision.

He’s not new to this. Whoever Roise works for, they know how to avoid attention.

After what feels like an hour, the car pulls into the back entrance of a quiet hospital. No lights. No ambulances rushing in. Just a sleepy receptionist and a single security guard who barely glances up as the driver escorts me inside under a false name.

A nurse leads me to a small examination room, speaking in hushed tones as if I’m fragile glass. “Let’s check you and the baby, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “We’ll make sure everything’s okay.”

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. When the monitor’s gel touches my skin, cold and slick, I close my eyes. The sound of the fetal heartbeat fills the room—soft, steady, alive. Something inside me cracks open, and tears spill over before I can stop them. All the fear, all the pain, all the days in darkness—they hit me at once.

When the nurse steps out to arrange paperwork, I pull the burner phone from the pocket of the sweatpants they gave me. My hands shake so violently I almost drop it.

I scroll to the only number burned into my mind, the one I’ve whispered to myself every day since I was taken.

Declan.

I press call and lift the phone to my ear.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

On the fourth, he answers.

“Ailish?”

His voice is raw, unsteady, shattered at the edges. I choke on a sob I didn’t see coming. “Declan⁠—”

“Ailish, where are you? Tell me where you are.” His breathing breaks. “Jesus Christ, you’re alive⁠—”