My jaw tightens.
We need to get off this island.
We need to get to her.
We need time, resources, movement.
But Seytan has turned her body subtly toward the door.
Blocking.
Her eyes flick toward Valentine as he ends the call. “There are protocols. Approvals. You don’t get to commandeer a helicopter because you’re?—”
“Desperate?” I snap. “Because she’s pregnant with my?—”
“Enough.” Her voice cracks like a whip. “Your delusions of ownership don’t entitle you to tear apart my facility.”
Heat roars through me. “She carries my child?—”
“And that child,” she says, stepping forward, “belongs to the asylum. Just like you. Just like her.”
It is a deliberate cruelty. A deliberate provocation. A claim meant to cut.
And it does.
For one heartbeat, everything inside me goes utterly still.
Then lightning forks through my vision.
“You think you can keep me from her?” My voice is a quiet, murderous thing.
“I know I can,” she breathes. “Until I decide otherwise.”
Valentine stiffens. Even he recognises the stupidity of antagonising me now. But Seytan is not stupid; she is strategic. She wants me off balance. She wants the power dynamic claimed early.
She wants to slow me down.
“Valentine,” she says, gaze not leaving mine, “secure the facility. Full lockdown. No departures until I say so.”
A rupture of silence follows.
Lockdown.
No departures.
Deliberate obstruction.
And that – more than anything – tells me she knows far more than she’s admitting.
“I’m leaving this island,” I say softly.
Seytan smiles. “No, Nightshade. You’re not.”
My vision edges with white. “Move. Or I’ll remove you.”
But she’s already turning her back – dismissal sharp as a slap. “You are an asset. Assets don’t leave the premises during a security breach.”
Asset.
