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Ash disappears into one of the suites and rushes out a minute later, chased by a soul-shattering cry, louder than the babies’. The gaunt man in the gray jumpsuit enters with a teacup in hand. He forces the liquid into the woman’s mouth. She puts up a fight in the chains, turning her head side to side, but fingers pry at her jaw with ease. An empty teacup shatters on the floor, shards scattering over marble and blood. The mother’s cries deteriorate into an unnatural hush, her mourning silenced with the elixir.

I’m transfixed on the ruined futures unfolding before me—of a childless mother and a parentless child, of the years of seeking answers that won’t be found. My past and present rushes into the baby. It never had a chance.

I hold back a sob. Milo releases my hand and throws his arm around my back. A thud sounds behind us, barely heard over the constant shrill screams of the infants and the pounding rain. We both flip around, and Eli drops through a smoking hole in the ceiling.

Chapter

Thirty-Three

Eli jumps from the bed and slips a black stone into his pocket as the flame flickers out. He looks down at us, lying on our stomachs with our upper bodies twisted to see him.

“Took you long enough,” Milo says, letting go of me and sitting up against the wall. “How many holes into half naked laboring women’s rooms did you have to burn to find us, or were you lying on the roof waiting?” He signals to the ceiling with a quiet laugh and rests his head back in relief. “Good timing though, they’re all in that room now, busy with some sort of scheme, and nobody can hear a thing with the babies screaming out there.”

Eli’s eyes are only on me. “Get up.”

I sit up in response to the venom in his voice and disguise the pain of him pushing me away with an equally toxic tone. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“On your feet.” He’s soaked, all in black, suspenders gone and fabric clinging to every muscle again. Dammit. It’s as if he plans it. I can’t look away. Rain falls through the hole in the ceiling around him, his personal storm.

I don’t want to. I really don’t want to give in, but I get my feet under me and push up slowly, sore all over.

“Come to me.” Raindrops roll off his chest with each breath. His gaze is merciless, dark eyes shadowed by his brows. He might tear me apart with that look when I reach him, but I take a step forward, and another, pulled by something I can’t see or name or control. A warm breeze passes over my cold nose and cheeks. Another step and I’m in front of him, surrounded by his light aura, rain smacking my face.

Rage coils in his bruised features, and he takes out his knife. His voice is a low, rumbling threat. “Tell me they didn’t fucking hurt you.”

Surprise sends me back a half step, both at the knife and his command, but he brings me close again, sliding his fingers up my neck and through my hair and holding me in place with a tight fist. “Did they put their godsdamn hands on you?”

“Youhave your hands on me.”

He drops my hair, and his freezing wet hand goes to each side of my neck, shoving my head back and forth. He lifts my arms and twists to see every angle.

“What are you doing?” I pull back, but he grabs my hip and turns me around, raising my shirt and exposing my back. His hand rides up over the blitzer scars and back down, inspecting, and I stifle a shout at his cold touch. He turns me and lifts the fabric again, icy fingers on my belly. I squeal and smash my hands down on top of his, trapping it under my shirt.

“You can’t do whatever the fuck you want, Eli.” I hold his hand away from my skin, still wrapped up in the damp black fabric.

The knife hangs between the fingers of his other hand, the blade grazing my arm. “You’re my little prisoner.”

I squeeze the ball of shirt around his fist. “You keep saying that, but it means nothing.”

“It means…” He pulls the hand in my shirt closer, my whole body following until we’re a breath apart, rain streaming down our faces. “That you belong to me.”

His scent. The closeness. His words. My stupid insides blush with want. He stares so damn hard with those eyes, as if he actually sees me. Air is shoved from my lungs, my heart cramping. Then the anger comes, rolling waves mixing with the heat of desire—anger at the rejection, at using Kelt, at the way he dares shatter my illusion of hatred for him. I’m not sure if I want to fuck him or fight him. Maybe both at once.

His reflection glints on the blade as it totters between his distracted fingers. I release his fist, snatch the knife and step back out of the rain, silver blade wobbling, pointed at him. My mind floods with every moment spent with this devastating man—the tug of my ear, my hand in his pocket, the touch of our toes, water up to my neck. Too many tiny moments pulling me into him when I should be running away.

An angsty hand migrates to his ear, and damn him—he smiles, looking me up and down, the knife wavering inches from his heart.

“Go ahead.” He steps forward until the tip snags on his shirt.

My hand is far from stable, the blade scraping chaotic circles over his heart. “I’ll do it.”

He nods, smirking.

“Uh, guys?” Milo clears his throat. “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

“Kind of busy here, Milo.” Eli’s boot taps the growing puddle of rainwater and old blood below us, unheard with the babies’ unending cries.

“You don’t get to say that I belong to you.” Tears prick my eyes. “You don’t get to act like I’msomething. Not now.”