“I don’t . . . I thought he was. He needed the device, and I wouldn’t give it to him. I didn’t want the Commander to have that much power. But my reasons don’t matter, Eloise. What matters is that I regretted it the moment I did it. I’ve regretted it every day since. If I could go back and do things differently, I would.” My voice breaks, and I clench my teeth against the pain as Eloise rises off the bed and screams like a warrior while Elim yells encouragement.

Seconds later, there’s a wet splotchy sound, and Elim coos gently. Eloise and I grip each other’s hands and stare at Elim as she briskly rubs a clean cloth over the messy bundle lying in her lap.

“A girl,” Elim says, and beams at us both while the baby sucks in a tiny breath and cries. “Let me finish cleaning her up, and you can hold her.”

Eloise eases back against the bed and smiles while tears stream from her eyes. I try to disentangle our fingers, but she clings to me.

“I don’t know how to feel about you,” she says, “but I don’t hate you. Logan was right. Melkin was dead the minute he left for that mission. Anyone who knew about the device was dead. The Commander never meant to leave any survivors.”

I shake my head. No, the Commander never meant to leave any survivors, but his knife wasn’t buried in Melkin’s chest.

Her fingers squeeze mine. “I hate him. I blame him.”

“But I did it,” I say, because the truth needs to be clearly seen. By both of us.

Her eyes find mine, and they burn with a passion that feels as familiar to me as breathing. “Yes, you did. And if you hadn’t, my Melkin would’ve died at the hands of the Commander. Or he would be sitting here instead of you, his mind and spirit broken because he had the blood of an innocent girl on his hands. There are no winners here, but none of this would’ve happened without the Commander.”

Her words taste like truth, and I let them linger. Let the darkness in Melkin’s eyes match the burning fires in Eloise’s and consider that maybe—maybe—the accusation I see isn’t mine to carry alone.

“Here you go,” Elim says, and tucks a tiny, red-faced creature, tightly wrapped in a little yellow blanket, against Eloise’s chest. I move out of the way so Elim can help Eloise sit up and lean against the far wall. She doesn’t even look at us. Every part of her being is focused on looking deep into her daughter’s eyes.

As Elim bustles about cleaning the bed and hauling the dirty linens away, I settle down beside Eloise and stare at the baby. Her lips are pink, puckered things, and she turns her face toward her mother as if she recognizes Eloise’s voice.

“Want to hold her?” Eloise asks me.

Before I can respond, she lifts the baby into my arms, careful to position her on my left side so that my injury remains untouched. I clutch the tiny thing and pray I don’t break her.

“I’m going to name her Melli. He’d like that,” Eloise says, and there’s peace in her voice.

“Melli,” I say softly, and the baby looks at me with unfocused eyes. One tiny fist creeps out of the swaddling and flails. I stroke her hand with my finger, and tears slide down my face and onto the blanket. The guilt burning through me like a live coal sinks slowly beneath the cleansing tide of grief that pours out of the silence and engulfs me. It hurts, but it’s real.

“I’m sorry,” I say, gasping for air around the sobs that shake me. That tear through me until I think there will be nothing left of me when it’s over. “I’m so sorry. You deserve to know your daddy. He should be here now instead of me, but he isn’t, and I’m sorry.”

Melli watches me, her fist bumping against my finger, and I cry until the tears are gone. Until the blood on my hands means less than the baby I now hold. The grief subsides, and in its place is a small fragment of hope.

I can’t bring Melkin back. I can’t make a different choice, and somehow, I’m going to have to find a way to live with that. I’m not sure how to learn to trust myself again, but maybe I don’t have to be so afraid of the fierce instincts that live inside of me. Maybe I have those instincts because while I can’t nurture like Nola, or love everyone like Sylph, or fall easily into motherhood like Eloise, I can do something none of the other girls raised in Baalboden can do.

I can fight.

Chapter Fifty-Two

LOGAN

After talking with Drake, I ask him to find Nola and bring her up to speed. I want to tell Frankie and Ian myself. Willow should be back soon, too, and she’ll need an update. But first, I want to talk to Rachel. I return to her room, and stop when I see Quinn hiding under his blankets, Rachel’s tear-stained face, and Eloise sleeping with a baby—her baby—cradled beside her.

I open my mouth to say something, but I never get the chance.

“Logan? Logan McEntire?”

A tall man with thinning blond hair and pale blue eyes strides into the room.

“Yes?”

“Maxwell Stallings, member of the triumvirate.”

I step toward the man. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Maxwell’s pale eyes bore into mine. “Why didn’t you tell us you were actually from Rowansmark?”

Before I can answer, Darius and Jeremiah hurry in behind him, followed by two women I recognize as Clarissa Vaughn and Portia Rodriguez, the other members of Lankenshire’s triumvirate, who greeted me yesterday in the hospital and assured me they would wait to hold a formal meeting until after my people were out of medical danger. Willow walks in right behind them, nods briefly to me as if to tell me the device is now safely hidden, and then goes to stand beside her brother’s bed. Frankie and Adam crowd in through the doorway as well, just in time to hear Maxwell say, “We’re waiting for an explanation.” Both Frankie and Adam look ready to start a fight.