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But Lux’s disclosure is like a thousand new nicks in my intuitions. I’m consoled but concerned to see the concurring glints in Emma’s gaze—especially as I state the frightening obviousness here. “Those are Spanish words, aren’t they?” I funnel the force of the question, and the electric accusation of my stare, at both the girls. “They mean…”

“Anger.” The answer is supplied by a new arrival in the hallway: a woman as striking as the twins but with distinct differences. The girls are so beautiful, I keep wondering if they’re computer generated, but this woman is definitely flesh and blood. She could nearly be a Kardashian, though her features bear the wideset eyes, classic nose, and lush lips of someone directly from Eastern Europe. “And misery.” The four syllables bear out my hunch. She’s definitely from someplace between Russia and Italy. “And I am Aliz.”

A discomfiting pause drags by. What the hell now? I’ve only been uncomfortable about meeting a pretty girl one other time in my life, and I wound up marrying that one. But what the hell am I supposed to say at this point? Great to meet you, Aliz. How’s it hangin’? And while you’re at it, care to enlighten me about what the hell you’re doing down here, keeping a couple of little girls hostage in your bizarro bunker?

Thank fuck Emma’s got her act together more than me. “Hi, Aliz.” She steps forward, right hand extended. “I’m Emmalina. And this is Lux. And this is—”

“I know who you are.” Aliz’s statement is like her focus on me. Direct, determined, undaunted. But beneath the steel of her voice, there’s a softer cushion. Something shielding the armor around her exterior from permeating the flesh of her heart. “Reece Richards. Oh, yes. I know exactly who you are.”

I shift my weight and avert my gaze. Meeting hers has become a trip to what-the-hell central. It’s not the fact that the woman recognizes me. That’s happened to me everywhere from airports and traffic lights to beaches and bathrooms since I was sixteen. It’s how she phrases the salutation. As if the lining I just imagined across her heart is frayed and thin and getting worse by the day.

A feeling I understand in abundance.

A comprehension that threatens to burst my own heart from the inside out. Yes, even now. Yes, especially now.

“Okay.” I draw out the syllables, hoping the woman will pick up on my valiant try for levity. She doesn’t. “A lot of people know who I am.” I nod toward Emma. “And her too, actually.”

Am I fond of the blatant confrontation to which I’ve switched? Of course not, but Princess Mysterious here isn’t offering much of a choice. If humor won’t loosen her up, maybe a direct throwdown will.

“I imagine they do.” The queenly demeanor isn’t fast enough to hide how she twists her fingers in front of her stomach and purses her lips as if she’s being presented at court. I mean a real court, with judgmental rules and strict rituals. Lots and lots of those. “At least she says they do.”

And just like that, I toss aside the need to compare her with all of Henry the Eighth’s wives plus their handmaids. I throw out every assumption and impression I’ve gathered about the woman, with the exception of one thing. The one word she’s uttered that gives away all the information I need to know about her.

And damn it, everything I don’t want to know, as well.

She.

The she who’s being invoked like a demon that won’t go away. The she who’s likely banished this woman to this cage as much as the twins. The monstress who’s been invoked by a person regal and graceful enough to be her fucking queen. Who might have been just that to Faline, in another world. A reality far different from this.

Whatever the hell this is.

But don’t I already know that answer?

No. No.

I turn away. Slam my eyes shut against the ensuing images in my mind. Bright-red blood. Searing, burning pain. The hopeless acceptance of captivity.

The same sad futility I recognize in Aliz’s gaze.

Fuck. Fuck.

I force my eyes back open. Work my hands against themselves, furling and then unfurling my sparking fists. I force moisture down my throat, despite how the damn thing has closed to the width of a pinprick. Fitting comparison, since my senses have turned the same texture.

Still, I order myself to peer around again.

To really look this time…

But instantly damning myself for it. In at least a thousand different ways.

Stark walls. Antiseptic smells. Emotionless light. Empty echoes.

Nuclear blasts of memory.

Assaulting. Incinerating. Frying me. Trapping me.

Alpha Two. Alpha Two. Alpha Two…

No.