Page 31 of The Endless Want

Seething, I grab a hold of her wrists, pinning them in front of her with one hand. She can’t break free, especially in the shape she’s in.

I practically drag her to the car, her fight giving up halfway there. I let her climb in the back, knowing she won’t dare sit in the front with me right now. I only spare one glance back at her as she curls into herself and focuses out the window instead of on me before I focus on taking the most roundabout route possible to my secret safehouse.

The safe flat sits in an old brick building wedged between a derelict music shop and an empty storefront with peeling paint. It looks abandoned from the street—intentionally so.

No lights in the windows.

No visible locks.

No movement.

I guide Ailish up the narrow staircase, every instinct on high alert. She stays close, her hand gripping the rail, her breathing shallow. The adrenaline from the alley hasn’t worn off; if anything, the weight of what almost happened has finally settled into her bones. So much so that she has no more fight for me.

My keys hit the lock. The door clicks open. I step inside first.

The flat is small—one room, one bath, nothing more. Bare walls, hardwood floors, battered furniture that never invites company. The air smells faintly of cedar and gun oil.

I clear each corner. Check the windows. Check the closet. Only when I’m certain it’s untouched do I say, “You can come in.”

Ailish steps through the doorway slowly, like she’s afraid the floor might give way beneath her. She pauses in the center of the room, taking it all in.

“This place…” she murmurs. “Declan, it feels like it belongs to someone who never goes home.”

I shrug. “It’s not meant to feel welcoming. It’s meant to keep people alive.”

She lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sigh. “Fitting.” She shrugs out of her damp coat, and I catch the slightest tremble in her fingers. She tries to hide it—always tries—but I see the strain beneath her composure.

“Sit,” I say.

She starts to protest. I give her a look.

Reluctantly, she lowers herself onto the old leather sofa. It creaks under her weight, the sound unusually loud in the quiet space.

I move into the kitchenette and put water on to boil. It’s a simple action, but the normalcy of it seems to ground her. For a moment, she just watches me, eyes following my hands as if memorizing every movement.

Or maybe I just want to think that’s what she’s doing.

When I return with two steaming mugs, she’s sitting straighter, but her shoulders haven’t relaxed.

“Thank you,” she says, taking one.

I sit across from her, elbows on my knees, studying her. She stares into the mug like it contains answers. “I should check in with Liam,” she murmurs.

“You shouldn’t,” I say immediately.

Her head snaps up. “He’ll be worried.”

“He’ll want explanations you can’t give. And he’ll sense you’re rattled. If he hears hesitation in your voice—one flicker of doubt—they’ll use that against you too.”

She swallows slowly. “So I do disappear.”

“You stay alive.”

A beat passes. Then she says quietly, “Declan… I can’t hide forever.”

“I’m not asking you to.” I lean back, folding my arms. “I’m asking you to give me time to figure out who’s pulling the strings and how deep they’ve reached. Once we know that, we can deal with the rest.”

Her gaze drops to her hands. “I don’t like relying on people.”