“We have to move her,” I say, voice flat. The words taste like bile. Moving her means touching her. Means keeping her alive long enough to get answers.
“We will,” Sterling says. “But first…” He kisses me. It’s not gentle. Its teeth and blood and the taste of smoke, a brutal claiming that steals the air from my lungs and brands every inch of me as his. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, our ragged breaths mingling inthe tight space between us. “I’m going to chain your mother in the basement,” he says, almost conversationally.
“Good,” I reply. “I don’t trust her.”
Sterling’s mouth curves against mine—not quite a smile, something sharper, darker, like he’s tasting the same hunger in me. He presses one last hard kiss to my lips, then pulls back fully, eyes locked on mine for a beat longer than necessary.
“And I’m going to find out who she’s reporting to.” The promise leaves my lips like a vow soaked in blood.
Sterling’s eyes darken with approval, that feral gleam flashing bright for a heartbeat before he nods once, sharp and final. He leans in, brushing his lips against my temple. “That’s my girl. And then,” his hand slides down, resting on my stomach, proprietary and heavy, “we’re going to figure out where to go from here...” Sterling exits the truck without another word. He moves to the bed and hauls Mom’s groggy form into his arms. Cam rushes over to help, eyes widening at the sight of my mom. I sit in the driver’s seat for one heartbeat longer, the engine ticking as it cools.
The safe house glows in the dark, a blunt promise of shelter. In the distance, the helicopter still circles, searching. But here, in this ruined truck—Sterling’s blood smeared across the seat—I feel something I haven’t felt since I was eight years old, watching my mother bleed out on the library floor. I feel safe. Not because the danger is over. But because, for the first time in sixteen years, I’m no longer alone in the dark.
Chapter Thirty
My shoulder radiates where the metal created a three-inch cut. I just catalog it—four out of ten, manageable—and move on. The blood has dried along my spine, gluing the tactical shirt to my skin. I watch Kiera from the doorway. She thinks she’s hiding it. The way she braces her hip against the kitchen counter when she thinks no one’s looking or the sharp, silent catch in her breath when she shifts her weight. Her palm presses against her lower abdomen.
“Shoulder.” Cam steps up beside me, waiting to inspect the wound.
“In a minute,” I mutter, eyes still locked on Kiera.
“Now.” He’s already got the med kit open, tweezers sterilizing in the flame of a camping stove. “Before you bleed through the floor and scare the kids worse than they already are.”
I let out a deep exhale, but I don’t argue. Not because he’s right, but because Kiera’s hand is still pressed to her stomach. I need both arms working if I have to carry her out of here. “Fine.” I give in, taking a seat in the chair he’s pulled out.
The cabin feels too small for everything it now holds. Seventeen kids are crammed into the back bedroom, lost in the heavy, fitful sleep that follows the adrenaline and lingering sedatives. And Evelyn…My gaze drifts to the basement door. Chained. Padlocked in a room next to Dr. Reyes is the woman who gave Kiera her eyes, her cheekbones, and her terrifying capacity for violence, down there in the stale dark of the root cellar, wrist bound to a rusted pipe. She’s only alive because she knows things. Alive only because Kiera hasn’t decided she wants her dead yet. “She’s awake down there,” I say, voice flat and monotone. “I can hear her tapping the pipe. Morse code. Dot-dot-dash. Trying to talk to someone.”
Cam’s tweezers dig deep into my shoulder. “Let her tap. No one is going to hear her.” He pulls out a jagged piece of metal about the size of a thumbnail and drops it into the metal tray with a clink. Blood wells fresh behind it. “This is deep, Sterling,” Cam mutters, eyes narrowed. “You need sutures.”
“Later.” I grab his wrist, stopping the needle before it touches skin. “What did you find?”
Cam’s expression shifts, something dark and heavy settling behind his eyes from whatever’s glowing on his laptop screen. “The files we pulled from the Nesting House,” he says quietly, like he’s whispering a secret. “The administrative logs. I’ve been cross-referencing them with the security data.”
“And?” I stare at Cam, waiting.
Cam hesitates, his jaw tight, and turns the laptop slightly so I can see the screen. Spreadsheet chaos. Timestamps. Biometric scans. “Evelyn wasn’t just reporting to someone,” he says. “She wasn’t running half the program from inside the facility. For sixteen years. She’s the one who kept the original pairing data intact. And according to these logs…she’s the one who ordered the final phase activation the day Wade died.” He swallows hard. “She’s not a prisoner down there, Sterling. She’s waiting on someone to extract her.”
I lean forward, ignoring the way my vision darkens around the edges. Weekly timestamps stretch back sixteen years. Like fucking clockwork.
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 00:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 02:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 06:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 03:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 10:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 02:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 05:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 01:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 13:14 hours
E. Hawthorne Level 4 clearance 02:14 hours
