“What if she does, Honeybee?”
She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, resignation slipping into her body language. There’s probably a healthy dose of relief too.
“Abort primary,” Roman’s voice cuts through my earpiece. He’s annoyed but not surprised. “All units going Bravo.”
I whip my head toward Grant, who shrugs. “We always have a backup plan, V. None of us truly believed you’d let your girl face her monster alone. Move.” He nods toward the tree, and while I should be pissed about their lack of confidence in my ability to stick to the mission, all I am is grateful.
Grateful that they understood the depth of my love even before I did.
Clover opens her eyes, slips her hand back into mine, and then we move silently out of the forest and toward our tree.
I position myself slightly behind Clover, close enough to reach her in half a second. Close enough to pull her behind me if something goes wrong.
Close enough to die for her, if it comes to that.
And then I sink down to a crouch, hiding myself in the shadows, facing the direction we anticipate Terra to emerge from, and wait.
“Seven fifty-five.” Roman’s countdown only ramps up the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The woods are so quiet that my heartbeat sounds like a steel drum.
Clover’s breathing is steady beside me. Too steady. The kind of steady that comes from forcing yourself not to panic. The kind that comes from living your life five seconds at a time.
I want to reach for her hand, pull her close, tell her we can still leave, run?—
“Movement.” Sterling’s voice is unnaturally even. “Northwest corner. Single target. Female. Fifties. Moving slowly.”
My limbs turn to stone.
“Do we have a visual?” Grant asks.
“Negative. Too many trees, and she knows how to stay hidden. Last sighting indicates she’s heading straight for you—our guy is closing in from the north.”
Clover’s breathing falters. Short, harsh pants hit the cool fall air like puffs of smoke.
“It’s her,” she whispers. “I feel it. The fear. It’s alive. It’s her.”
I feel it too.
The air has changed. It’s heavy and cold, like the moment before a storm breaks.
I hear her before I see her.
Her footsteps are slow. Deliberate. Crunching through the leaves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where she’s going. Like someone who wants us to know she’s coming.
Then she steps into the clearing, the moonlight showcasing her features.
Terra Stone.
My incubator, but never a mother.
She looks harsher than her portrait at the compound. She’s older, thinner, and her dark hair is more gray than black. It’s pulled high into a severe bun. She’s wearing dark pants and a dark jacket with boots made for sport. They’re practical clothes for moving through the woods.
“Movement,” Roman whispers in my ear. “Two. Southwest quadrant. Charlie, engage.”
As if she heard Roman’s words, her eyes narrow, and a smug grin tugs at her lips.
It’s her eyes though—cold, calculating and fixed on Clover with a deranged intensity—that makes my skin crawl.
