Page 130 of The Endless Want

“I’m safe,” I manage, though the word feels too big for the moment. “I—someone helped me. I’m at a hospital and the baby—” My voice splinters. “The baby’s okay. I’m okay. Just—please⁠—”

“Ailish,” he whispers, and in that single word I hear everything he’s been holding back—fear, rage, relief, and something too big to name. “I’m coming. Right now. Don’t move. Don’t let anyone near you. I’m coming.”

I press a hand to my mouth, shaking as the tears fall harder. “Declan—hurry.”

He breathes out, not steady, not calm—the opposite. “I’m already on my way.”

The line goes dead, but the warmth of his voice lingers like a hand on my spine, a reminder that I’m not alone. That someone is coming. That someone will always come.

CHAPTER 39

Declan

The hospital she gave me is tucked between two office buildings, so forgettable it may as well be invisible. I slam the car door, take the stairs two at a time, shove past a startled security guard, and don’t stop until my hands collide with the door marked Exam Room 3.

I don’t knock. I rip it open.

Ailish is sitting on the bed, propped against pillows, pale under the fluorescent lights. Her hair is mussed, her cheeks blotchy from crying, her clothes hospital-issued. My heart—this thing I’ve treated like an annoyance for most of my life—goes to its knees.

She looks up. And relief flashes across her face so fast, so bright, it knocks the breath out of me. “You’re here,” she whispers.

I cross the room in three strides and cup her face in both hands, lowering my forehead to hers. She’s warm. Real. Breathing. My voice comes out rough. “Jesus, Ailish—what the hell did they do to you?”

Her lips tremble. “Nothing. Not really. Just—threats. And fear. And⁠—”

Her voice breaks again. I force myself to breathe evenly because if I fall apart now she will too, and she deserves steadiness. She deserves peace. She deserves every shelter I never built fast enough.

A nurse slips inside the room then, clearing her throat gently. “We need to talk.”

I do not remove my hand from Ailish. “Say it.”

“There were signs of early labor,” the nurse says softly. “It has been stopped for now with medication. But she needs strict rest. Stress reduction. Close monitoring.” Her eyes meet mine. “She—and the baby—were very close to danger.”

Every muscle in my body locks. “But they’re both okay?”

“For now.”

The words hit me like a bullet to the sternum.

My hand slides to Ailish’s belly instinctively. She flinches, not from pain, but emotion. I glance at her, reading the panic she’s trying to hide. She’s trembling. She’s exhausted. And she’s trying to seem stronger than she feels.

I swallow hard. “We’re leaving.”

The nurse opens her mouth. Closes it. Nods. There’s no point arguing.

Ten minutes later, I’m carrying Ailish out the back door, one arm under her legs, the other around her back. She protests weakly once, saying, “Declan, put me down, I’m fine,” but she wraps her arms around my neck anyway.

“You nearly went into labor,” I growl. “You’re not walking anywhere.”

She presses her forehead into my collarbone. I feel her breath against my skin, uneven but steady.

I do not let go of her the entire drive.

The safehouse Liam arranged is halfway to the border, a place run by old allies. They’re waiting outside when we pull up, two of them shifting awkwardly when they see Ailish in my arms.

“She needs a bed,” I say flatly. “And privacy.”

They step aside immediately.