Chapter 22
Saoirse
We moved slow.
Ajax was the first to halt, his body stiffening as we crept along a natural ridgeline thick with gorse and pine. His ears twitched. Tail stiff, nose working the air in tight huffs. Something was close. Not prey-alert.
People.
Finn lifted a hand— hold —and I froze mid-step, crouched low behind a root-choked rise. For a long moment, none of us breathed.
Then Finn nodded once. We dropped to our bellies, crawling the last few meters through pine needles and moss.
My palms were scraped, knees sore, heart thundering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I could taste soil on the back of my tongue.
Every inch of me buzzed with anticipation and dread.
Hope was a blade, and I’d carried it so long I couldn’t tell if I was gripping the hilt or the edge.
Please let her be here. Please let her be alive.
We reached the edge together—Ajax low and silent, a ghost in his own skin despite his injuries. Finn nudged a branch aside so we could see through the treeline.
And everything in me locked down.
Because I had not been ready for this.
It wasn’t a smattering of tents. Not some rough-and-ready campsite thrown together by amateurs.
It was a freaking compound.
Muted canvas walls rose in neat lines between trees, every stake driven with precision. Tarps stretched taut over gear racks. Low-slung mesh netting broke up the visual shape of structures. Satellite dishes—three, maybe four—tucked strategically near the treetops, partially screened by foliage.
It was discreet. Non-reflective. Tactical, even to my untrained eye. Nothing to draw attention until it was already too late.
And for all the attempts at subtlety, the whole thing was unmistakably luxurious .
There were collapsible tables by the main fire pit, crafted of metal and dark wood—custom work, not mass market.
I recognized the subtle signs of quality that couldn’t be duplicated.
Quarried stone encircled the fire, arranged not for function, but for aesthetic.
Gear crates stacked beside weatherproof trunks.
Nothing about it said “temporary.” Everything said “money.”
Finn made an indistinct sound in his throat. “This isn’t weekend warrior bullshite. This took planning. And deep pockets.”
I couldn’t speak. I was too busy counting the tents. At least eight, possibly more tucked beyond sight. Guard rotations, too. Armed. Casual. Like they had nothing to fear.
Like they’d done this before.
There was too much. Too many bodies moving around the camp, all in muted gear that blended with the surroundings. Too many high-end tents nestled between trees. Too much expensive camouflage pretending to be simple.
“Left of the fire pit.” Finn’s voice was barely a whisper.
And there she was.
Isla. My Isla. Sitting on the ground near one of the larger tents, wrists zip-tied in front of her. Her ankles too—tethered so she could still hobble but not run. A man sat a few feet away, rifle slung across his chest, watching her as if she were a stray dog he wished he could kick.
Her face was pale, streaked with dirt. One side bruised dark along the cheekbone.
Her hair was greasy, pulled back in a makeshift tie that had half-failed.
She looked exhausted. Starved for sleep.
But her chin was up. Her back straight. She was still her .
Even broken open, she had spine. My girl. Brave and bloodied and still fighting.
I didn’t remember moving, but suddenly I was forward by a few inches, elbow buried in pine needles.
Finn’s hand landed lightly on my shoulder.
I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Because everything inside me was screaming to run to her. To cut through the trees and the men and the rifles and get her out.
I pressed my fist to my mouth and held my breath. If I made a sound, I’d ruin everything. If I moved, I’d run. Because there was no part of me that wouldn’t tear the world apart to get to her.
She was alive.
But she wasn’t safe. Not yet.
I swallowed hard, breathing through the heat rising behind my eyes. And suddenly, I couldn’t feel my hands. My pulse had gone somewhere I couldn’t follow. Only the rage remained, humming under my skin like an electric current about to arc.
Finn’s hand came to rest lightly between my shoulder blades. An anchor when I wanted to fly apart.
And then someone else walked into view.
Victor Sandhurst. He didn’t look like a villain. He looked like a dinner guest. Like someone who would compliment your wine selection while auctioning off a life.
I’d seen him once already. But here—now—he was in his element.
Chatting easily with another man in a field jacket that probably cost more than my entire vet school wardrobe.
He laughed at something, gestured with his coffee mug like he was standing on the patio at Muirfield waiting on his tee time, not orchestrating whatever the hell this was.
He didn’t even glance at Isla as he passed her.
Because she was less than furniture to him.
I wanted to reel back from the recognition of the world I’d been raised in.
Not that my life had been this, precisely.
Not everyone from privilege was like this.
But there were plenty who wore this kind of power, this kind of entitlement, like a cloak.
Men who always got what they wanted and saw no reason they shouldn’t.
Men who smiled while stepping on your neck and expected you to thank them for it.
Finn shifted beside me. I felt him looking at me.
“You okay?” His voice was almost subvocal.
I nodded once, too tightly.
His hand pressed slightly firmer against my back, a silent I’ve got you .
And I let it hold me steady. For one moment. Two. Because I couldn’t afford to break. Not yet. Not with Isla still a prisoner.
I didn’t want to move. My body refused, every muscle locked in place, as if sheer focus could act as a shield. Like if I looked away, she’d vanish. If I blinked, they’d hurt her more than they clearly already had.
My fingers dug into the dirt, breath shallow against the loam.
Isla sat so still it scared me more than if she’d been crying.
Despite the defiant angle of her chin, she looked…
folded in on herself. Like someone who’d learned the cost of hope.
It gutted me. Because I remembered that look.
I’d seen it in the mirror the day after my father’s funeral.
That hollow place where faith used to live.
Finn shifted beside me, his voice barely more than breath. “If they were going to kill her, they’d have done it already.”
I wanted to argue. To scream that he couldn’t know that, not really. But I also knew he wasn’t wrong. There was no chaos here. Everything was controlled, measured, and precise.
Isla was alive because they wanted her that way. For now.
Finn spoke again, steady. “We’ll get her. But not like this. Not today.”
His honesty landed like ice water—bracing and awful.
I knew he was right. There was no tactical advantage here. And we were only two people and an injured dog. We didn’t have the upper hand.
But knowing that didn’t make it any easier.
We crawled backward through the underbrush, elbows grinding against roots and pine needles, the weight of what we’d seen pressing harder with every foot of distance.
Ajax moved ahead, low and silent, like smoke through the trees. His ears flicked once, checking for us, and then he disappeared into shadow.
It wasn’t until we were a good two hundred meters out—no voices, no movement in sight—that I let myself collapse back against a tree trunk. The bark bit into my shoulder, scraping through my shirt. I didn’t even flinch.
My mouth tasted like copper and fury.
“He’s not even pretending.” My voice didn’t sound like mine. “Sandhurst. He’s not hiding.”
Finn crouched nearby, eyes on the treeline. “They dinna think they have to.” His voice was flat. Bitter. And he was right. Again.
I let out a breath that cracked something in my chest. “They’re right.
People like that don’t get caught. They never pay.
Not unless we do something about it.” Saying it made my throat burn.
Like daring the universe to prove me wrong.
But I couldn’t stop now. We’d seen too much. And I wasn’t leaving her again.
Finn looked at me and nodded, slow and grim. “Then we will.”
And God help them. Because now it was personal.
Reaching for him wasn’t a decision. It was instinct. As if my body needed something solid to tether to before the ground gave way entirely.
My fingers brushed Finn’s. He curled his hand around mine like it was the most natural thing in the world and pulled me close enough to lay his lips against my brow.
I shuddered at the touch, let the tiny point of softness soak in as a counterpoint to all the horror.
We sat like that for a breath too long, as the forest hushed around us, the ghost of the compound pressing like a bruise at our backs.
Then, softly, Finn said, “Come on.”
I nodded, swallowing hard, and let him help me up.
But I didn’t let go of his hand until the trees had fully swallowed the compound behind us. And even then, I felt the absence of his touch like a tremor in my skin.