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“I’m sorry.” His voice roughens with emotion. “I should have stopped them. Should have done something sooner.”

His thumb strokes my forearm, the gentle motion at odds with the fury simmering beneath his words.

“They found her.” A pause. “Elena. Your daughter. They know where she is,” he confirms my worst fears.

No!

My heart monitor spikes, the only external sign of my internal scream.

My daughter. My beautiful girl. Walking straight into their trap.

I push against the paralysis with everything I have. One finger twitches against his palm—a tiny victory that costs immense effort.

Allard’s breath catches. “Lila? Can you hear me?”

Another twitch.

Yes. I’m here. I’m listening.

“Fight, Lila.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Come back. Your daughter needs you.” His voice drops even lower, almost inaudible. “I need you.”

Did he just say that?

I need more than twitching fingers. Need my voice, my strength. Need to warn her, protect her, save her from the fate I’ve spent my life trying to prevent.

Darkness creeps in at the edges of consciousness. I fight it.

Please, God, not now. Not when I’m so close.

“Stay with me.” His hand cradles my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “I know you can do this.”

I focus everything on opening my eyes. Just that. Nothing else matters.

My eyelids flutter. Once. Twice.

Light stabs like daggers. I suck in a breath and flinch away from it, the movement sending fresh pain cascading through my body.

“Easy.” Allard’s face swims into focus, features sharpening slowly. The worry in his eyes softens to relief. “There you are.”

“E-Elena.” Her name scrapes my raw throat, husky. Then I suck in a breath as I realize what I just said.

“It’s fine. You can trust me.” His eyes lock with mine, and God help me, I find that I want to. And what choice do I have?

“Is she…?” I begin.

“She’s okay.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “The Syndicate has eyes on her, but they don’t have their hands on her. Not yet.”

I try to sit up. My body betrays me, muscles refusing to cooperate. Frustration burns hot and useless.

“Careful.” His arm slides behind my shoulders, supporting me as he adjusts the bed. “You’ve been unconscious for four days.”

Four days!

My daughter exposed and vulnerable for four days while I floated in a sea of fire.

“Water,” I croak.

He brings a straw to my lips. The cool liquid soothes my ravaged throat, though swallowing feels like knives.

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