Page 36 of The Endless Want

“Why would he leave?” I mutter under my breath, annoyance flaring hotter by the second. “Why would he lock everything behind him like I’m an intruder?”

The anger feels steadier than the hurt. Anger gives me spine. Anger keeps me from falling apart in this suffocating silence.

A drawer beside the kitchenette catches my eye. I pull it open. More nothing.

The second drawer holds a stack of black T-shirts, all folded with the kind of precision that seems aggressively male. Impersonal. Uniform-like. But wearable.

I grab the top one. It smells faintly like detergent and steel. But it’s clean and whole, which is more than I can say about my blouse. I pull it on. It hangs long on me, brushing mid-thigh, but I don’t care. It’s better than walking out covered in dried blood and torn seams.

The only other option is one oversized sweatshirt shoved in the back of the drawer, worn to softness, with a frayed cuff. It must be old. Older than the other shirts. Something Declan kept even though it doesn’t match anything else about this flat.

I hesitate. It feels too personal. Too intimate. Too much like acknowledging last night happened. So I stick with the black T-shirt.

Once dressed, I push my hair back, wincing as my fingers brush the tender spots at my scalp where the attacker yanked me by the roots. I swallow down the memory, force my breath slow, and move to the door.

Declan’s gone. Fine. If he doesn’t trust me enough to stay, then there’s no reason for me to hide in his safehouse. I’ll find my own way.

Call Liam. Call Kellan. Hell—call a taxi and get home before the next shadow tries to pull me off the street.

I unlock the door and step directly into the chest of a man built like a brick wall. I stumble back. “What the⁠—?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even take a step. His expression doesn’t change from the impassive guard neutrality I’ve seen a hundred times in Liam’s house.

“Ms. Ailish,” he says, voice flat and formal. “You’re not permitted to leave.”

The words hit me like a slap. “I’m sorry—what?”

He doesn’t blink. “Orders are that you remain inside.”

Cold irritation slides through me. “Whose orders?”

“Declan’s.”

A hot, painful flush rises up my throat. He didn’t trust me. Not even enough to leave me unmonitored. Not enough to assume I wouldn’t run straight back to Liam or blow the location or make some emotionally compromised mistake.

So he stationed a guard outside the door. Like I’m a flight risk. Like I’m a liability. Like I’m someone who needs to be contained. The humiliation is so sharp it borders on nausea.

“I’m not your prisoner,” I say.

“You’re under protection,” he replies evenly.

“Funny,” I snap, “that’s not what it feels like.”

He doesn’t respond. That stoicism—maybe loyalty—had always made me respect Declan’s men before. But now it makes me want to scream.

I look over the man’s shoulder. The hallway is empty. The stairs are three steps to the right. Freedom so close I could reach for it⁠—

“I wouldn’t recommend trying,” the guard says quietly. “Declan will know.”

I freeze. I don’t ask how. I look up instead, and it takes me four seconds to find it. The smoke detector at the end of the hall has a lens where the test button should be, and the housing is a shade too clean for a building like this.

It isn’t new. It has been there a lot longer than I have.

“Does it record, or just alert?”

The guard’s eyes don’t move off the middle distance. “I couldn’t say, ma’am.”

My stomach drops. The humiliation deepens into something harsher. Something like betrayal.