A second guard grunted, his breath catching in his throat before he, too, went quiet.

“Rowan!” Tessa cried out. “Stop him! Shoot him!”

“We can’t see, ma’am!” a voice yelled from the doorway.

A match flared in the corner, throwing long, distorted shadows across the white walls of the nursery.

The small flame illuminated Rowan’s face.

His jaw was set, his eyes hard and focused as he shattered the glass casing of the nursery door with the butt of a guard’s seized flashlight.

He didn’t look at Tessa, who was shrinking back against the wall, her hands raised.

The match flickered out, plunging us back into the dark.

“Maren, grab her blanket,” Rowan’s voice came from the darkness, low and steady.

I scrambled forward, my hands scraping against the metal frame of the incubator.

My fingers found the soft, familiar wool of Clara’s blanket.

I pulled it free, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it made my chest ache.

“I have it,” I whispered.

“Step back,” Rowan said.

I heard the heavy click of a physical latch being forced.