He moved through the house at an unhurried pace, peering into rooms as he passed—measured, methodical, like a man already certain of what he would find.
Dominic paused near the end of the hall.
His gaze dropped.
At the foot of the wardrobe lay my crumpled nightgown.
He bent and lifted it between two fingers.
“This isn’t yours,” he said mildly.
Andre’s shoulders went tight.
Before he could respond, Mia moved.
She slipped free of his hand, padded over, and took hold of the hem of the nightgown. She tugged it once, then pressed it against her chest.
Dominic looked down at her.
She didn’t speak.
She simply pointed down the hall—toward the closed door of her mother’s room—then wrapped her arms around herself, mimicking a shiver.
“Mia likes to hold my mother’s clothes,” Andre said quietly. “They make her feel safe.”
Dominic watched them both for a long moment, eyes unreadable.
“I see.”
“Sir!”
The shout came from farther down the hall.
I heard muffled cursing—panicked, abrupt.
Then the screaming started. It cut through the house, raw and terrified.
Andre’s head snapped toward the sound. He saw the open doorway at the end of the hall and went deathly pale.
“No,” he whispered. Then, louder—raw. “No!”
“Feral!” Aiden shouted.
Soldiers surged into the house, boots pounding, weapons raised. Someone slammed into Andre, shoving him hard back against the wall. Mia was dragged with him, crushed to his side.
“Don’t!” Andre fought them, wild now. “Don’t kill her—please! It’s not her fault!”
Metal clicked.
Orders barked.
Mia made a sound I’d never heard from her before—a sharp, broken gasp that tore out of her chest, halfway between a sob and a scream.
It sliced straight through me.
I shoved back against the interior wall. The air thickened, heavy and wrong—like the light itself was being dragged away.
Then the chains broke.
