Now she looks at me. Her eyes are pale and sharp, taking me in with unsettling focus. Not curious. Evaluating.
“She’s exhausted,” the woman says, glancing down at Lily. “You both are.”
“Give her to me,” I say. “Now.”
For a moment, I think she won’t.
Then she lowers Lily toward me.
The second Lily is in my arms, she clings to me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. I wrap myself around her, shaking, burying my face in her hair. She sobs into my shoulder, tiny fingers knotted into my shirt.
Behind me, I feel the woman straighten. “Good,” she says softly. “That’s exactly where she belongs.”
I turn on her, fury and terror colliding. “Who are you?”
She studies me for a long moment before answering. “Someone who has been looking for you.”
My throat tightens. “Why?”
“Because you made yourself difficult to find.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
She gives a faint smile. “That’s rarely the reason people are hunted.”
“What do you want?” I ask, barely holding myself together.
The woman smooths her coat, unbothered by the wrecked door, the chaos. “I want you to stop running.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You already tried that,” she says calmly.
I shake my head. “You don’t get to decide my life.”
“No,” she agrees. “But I do get to decide how long you survive in his world.”
My heart stutters. What the hell does she want?
She steps aside, gesturing toward the door. “Get what you need. Just essentials. We’re leaving.”
“I said no.”
She meets my eyes, expression unreadable. “And yet, here we are.”
I look down at Lily, still trembling in my arms, and realize with a sick certainty—there’s no getting out of this mess easy.
14
ALEKSANDER
We ridethe elevator in silence, Nikolai at my side, hands in his jacket but eyes scanning everything. The hallway is long and faded, quiet except for the distant sounds of a TV from somewhere down the line. Maya’s apartment is at the end, 402. The number is crooked, the paint peeling. I stop outside the door, my heart thudding hard in my chest.
This is it.
I don’t knock. I press my palm to the door and immediately feel it—the wood is splintered, the frame loose. The lock has been busted clean through, the chain hanging broken, screws wrenched out of the molding.
The place is a mess—chairs knocked over, the bedroom door hanging off its hinges, a lamp shattered on the floor. I spot a pink sneaker wedged under the couch. My chest goes cold.
