Lady Kantor threw her arms around Corday, hugging him hard. It all felt so staged, nothing like the warmth that he’d found in Claire’s embrace.

It felt as cold as the air outside the Dome.

Five days were left before Shepherd would face the fire. The Citadel would be burned to ash, a great many citizens’ lives lost while they huddled in homes crushed by falling debris. Buildings would collapse, panic would ensue. The survivors would have to take responsibility for rebuilding their future together or they would freeze and starve.

The woman standing elegantly before him, the way she spoke of sacrifice, saw in herself only a hero. The surviving masses would cheer her, a savior who led them out of the dark. Little would they understand, Leslie’s plan may very well doom the Dome. The culpability was his, as were the lies, the desperation.

Enforcer Samuel Corday would be remembered as a monster, and he knew it. He was going to assassinate the woman he smiled at; he was going to allow her to carry out her plan.

There were no other options.

Lady Kantor’s rebels remained on a tight schedule, the last bombs being assembled that very morning. In forty-eight hours they would be strapped to the bodies of twelve of the chosen, and then an attack organized to exacting detail would be unleashed in the midst of the afternoon—right when the Citadel was most crowded, when the causeways were full, when the highest probability of casualties would be likely.

Shepherd was going to die in those first fiery seconds, a great deal of his men were going to die.

Anyone within the blast radius was going to die.

There were not enough medics under the Dome to save even a portion of the civilians who would be wounded. And while their people suffered, armed rebels would be climbing over their charred bodies, bringing war upon all Followers yet unclaimed by the flames.

When their embrace ended, Corday took Lady Kantor’s hand, made a point of doing so before the rebels gathered in the halls. He smiled his lopsided grin and thanked her. “To your victory.”

Leslie placed her other hand atop his, wrapping his fingers in her hold. “To our victory, dear friend.”

“For a man who is supposed to be some kind of scary soldier, you certainly fidget a lot when posing,” Claire complained, dipping the brush in blue.

“I have better things to do, Miss O’Donnell, than stand around so that I can amuse you.”

She could not stop her snicker at Jules’ petulance. He hated every moment of her painting him, yet submitted to having her do it when asked... which meant the Beta had his own agenda. Looking up from the half-finished work, Claire looked to those unfeeling, but vibrantly colored, blue eyes.

Lifeless was easy to paint.