CHAPTER 36
Ailish
Darkness is the first thing I know. Just darkness—thick, muffled, swallowing every shape and every sound except the faint, rhythmic hum of something mechanical far away. My head feels heavy, cotton-stuffed, and when I try to lift it, I realize I can’t move the way I want to.
My hands aren’t bound, but something soft and weighted presses against my temples. A blindfold. Cloth, not tape. Someone tied it tight enough that it feels like it’s become part of my skin.
I draw in a slow breath and smell… nothing distinctive. No mildew, no metal, no gasoline, no sea. Just the faintest trace of fabric softener on the blindfold and a neutral, filtered air conditioning that reminds me of suburban living rooms.
That detail unsettles me more than if I’d woken in some rotting cellar. A normal house means invisibility. It means any neighbor within twenty feet wouldn’t hear me scream. It means these people have thought about every angle.
I shift again, carefully, and the floor beneath me gives just a little—it’s carpeted. Beige, probably. Something bland. Something meant to blend in with a neighborhood where nobody asks questions because nothing ever looks out of place.
I take another breath, steadying myself. Mackenzie’s voice runs through my head the way it did during training, sharp and reassuring like a blade forged for clarity.
“You’re not breakable,” she once told me. “You’re bloody steel.”
I cling to the words like a lifeline as I test my arms and legs. They’re stiff but responsive. Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s bleeding. My belly feels heavy but unharmed; the baby gives a faint flutter as if sensing my awareness.
Relief pulses through me so intensely that I almost choke on it. They haven’t hurt the baby. Not yet. Not until they decide I’m worth more alive than dead, which means they want something. Which means I can work with this. For a time.
A door opens somewhere beyond the darkness. It’s a silent sound—just the shift of air, the faintest whisper of hinges.
Whoever they are, they know how to move quietly. My pulse spikes, but I force myself to inhale through my nose, slow and even. Fear is a scent predators love. I won’t give them the satisfaction.
Footsteps approach, methodical and steady, rubber-soled and soft. A man breathes out above me before he crouches. His presence is compact, controlled. He smells faintly of antiseptic soap and something metallic, maybe a weapon he carried recently or one he’s still holding.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice almost conversational, “the Irishman’s whore wakes.”
The words punch through the dark like a cold needle. I expected something cruel eventually, but hearing it from the first moment strips a piece of humanity away from the space.
I keep my shoulders still, refusing to flinch. “You’re wrong,” I say, and my voice surprises me—steady, level, not small. “But I’m sure that’s a habit for you.”
A low chuckle answers me, soft but devoid of warmth. “You have spirit. Too much, some would say. But I suppose that is why he likes you. Men like him always fancy the ones who fight back.” His voice lowers, curious, almost intrigued. “Though not many carry his child to prove it.”
My hand curls instinctively over my stomach, even though I know he can’t see it through the blindfold. He hears the shift in my breathing, though, and his amusement sharpens.
“Ah. So that part is true. Good. Very good. That means you understand your value.”
I press my lips together and force myself to breathe evenly. “If you think using me will break him, you clearly haven’t met him.”
“I have not met him,” the man agrees, “but I have studied him. I know his habits. His temper. His… attachments.” Something in his voice relaxes, as if he’s settling into a recliner and discussing sports.
“And the moment your convoy changed course, he followed. Predictable. Rash. Emotional. He thinks with his fists, not his mind.”
“You don’t know a thing about him,” I say.
“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.”
The hum in the ceiling pulses again, the way it has every so often, never predictable.
At first, I thought it was ventilation. Then I realize it changes slightly in pitch—either deliberate or coincidental, but unsettling.
Like they want me to feel the air itself reacting to someone else’s decisions.
Eventually, the door opens again. I don’t hear footsteps at first, just the soft shift of air as someone moves inside. Then, slow, deliberate pacing. My chest tightens, but the baby rolls gently in response, grounding me.
“Still alive,” the man murmurs. “Good. I was beginning to wonder.”
I don’t answer. I’m not sure what version of me he’s come for today. The one who snaps? The one who stays silent? The one who asks questions? He’s still testing me, trying to see which thread to pull first.
He crouches again, and the carpet creaks softly. The blindfold is adjusted just enough that I feel his knuckles near my jaw. I fight every instinct telling me to jerk away. Showing fear gives him data. I won’t.
“You’ve been quiet,” he observes. “More than most.”
“I don’t talk to men who hide behind blindfolds,” I say.
He laughs, soft and amused. “Bold. But foolish.”
I shift my hands, resting them protectively over my stomach. He hears the movement, of course. Everything in here is amplified because it’s all I can hear.
“Interesting,” he says. “You protect the child before protecting yourself.”
“That’s what parents do.”
“Is that what he plans to be? A parent?” His tone curls with disdain. “Your Declan?”
My pulse stutters. Not because he knows Declan’s name—everyone in this world does. But because of the way he says it, like it’s not a name at all but a fault line he intends to crack.
“He’s not mine,” I say carefully. “And I’m not his.”
“But you carry his heir,” he says thoughtfully. “That makes you something. Maybe not to him. But to the people hunting him.”
I stiffen. “If you touch this baby—”
“Oh, hush,” he snaps, impatient. “You think we want to harm the child? There are easier ways to break a man. A child is leverage. If Declan wants you or the baby back, we negotiate. If he does not…” He shrugs. “You will still be useful.”
I swallow hard. “Leverage for what?”
“That is not something you need to know yet.” He straightens. His voice shifts from almost human curiosity to businesslike cold. “Have you reconsidered your position?”
“What position?”
“Your willingness to help us.”
I lift my chin. “I’m not betraying anyone.”
A patient sigh. “You keep using that word. Betray. As though it applies to you.”
“It does.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “Betrayal requires loyalty to break. Do you know what I see when I look at you? A woman caught between men who either underestimate her or misuse her. A woman who fights for a place that sees her as replaceable. A woman whose value has only just been recognized because she carries a child.”
His voice drops, sharp as a blade. “They only care about you now because of what is growing inside you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” he challenges.
It hits a nerve—an ugly one I don’t want to acknowledge. One born of Declan’s uncertainty and Liam’s strategic thinking and the way the entire war room shifted its posture around me as my belly started to show. People see babies as shields or burdens or prizes. Rarely people.
I tighten my jaw. “You don’t know anything about them.”
“No? Then why were you not protected properly? Why were you sent out on a recon mission when you should have been hidden away like a treasure? Why was your convoy so small? Why did they let you get taken?”
The room feels colder, even though I know it’s just the panic rising under my ribs.
“That wasn’t their fault,” I choke out.
“No,” he agrees lightly. “It was yours. For trusting men who treat you as a pawn and not a partner.”
The words echo in the darkness. He wants me to question everything—my loyalty, my judgment, Declan’s flaws, Liam’s decisions. It’s a psychological squeeze, not a physical one. But sometimes the invisible cages are harder to break.
“You’re trying to twist me,” I say.
“I’m offering clarity.”
“You’re lying.”
He pauses. Then he crouches again so close I can feel his breath on my cheek.
“We have all the time in the world, Ailish.” His voice softens, coaxing instead of cruel. “And you are not steel. Not yet.”
He stands and steps away. The door opens. His footsteps fade. Then the door closes, locking me into silence again.
I exhale shakily.
He’s wrong.
I am steel.
But even steel can be shaped if the pressure is applied slowly enough, carefully enough, over enough time. And that scares me more than threats or darkness or the blindfold digging into my skin.
I stretch my legs, roll my shoulders, breathe in through my nose. The baby gives a small, reassuring push against my palm. That movement is enough to pull me back from the edge.
I lean my head against the wall behind me and imagine Liam’s face—steady, calculating, furious.
I imagine Mackenzie cursing like the devil while loading a gun.
I imagine Nadia sharpening a knife with the kind of silent, feral devotion only she carries.
And most of all, I imagine Declan’s eyes when he realizes I’m gone.
The raw, unfiltered love he’s too afraid to name.
I breathe with that image in my chest.
And I wait for him to come.
I am steel.
I am steel.
I am steel.
“Declan,” I whisper. “Please. Hurry.”