Did they think she knew where the virus was? Had they been using pharmaceuticals to try and pry it out of her?

Corday had slunk around the building that imprisoned her enough times to know the North Wing was exactly what it claimed to be: a refuge for Omegas who could not protect themselves had they been forced to live with the masses in the Undercroft. So why had they kept him away? And then why had they suddenly given him carte blanche to visit her? The doctors were aware he was gently courting her. In hindsight it seemed almost as if they encouraged it, even the less than congenial Premier Dane.

He’d always assumed it had been beneficial to her recovery.

But that went back to the original question. If she was recovering, then why was she constantly sedated?

After the funeral, he returned underground. Sitting on a worn chair, tucked into the small stone grotto where he slept, Corday stared into space, distracted by the injustice of the situation.

Something was very wrong. Why did he feel like everyone, including Dane, was lying to him?

He waited until nightfall before sneaking into the Premier’s Sector.

He cornered Dane alone in her office, and put a knife to her throat. “What did you do to her?”

Even as he threatened her life, the Alpha had looked somewhat impressed. “You saw for yourself, we were only trying to help Claire.”

In the months he’d had access to the Omega, he’d been blinded by his own joy, had stopped asking questions and stirring up the people underground. He could see it now—that’s why Dane had let him near her.

He let the blade dig in until a line of blood dripped along the sharp edge. “You’ve lied to me enough.”

“You were the one who unleashed Svana on us, who pointed Shepherd’s men at our resistance.” Hissing, trying to pull her neck away from the blade, Premier Dane growled, “You cannot be trusted, Corday. Be glad that I let you live, allowed you to continue work as an Enforcer, and that no one knows what your part really was in the suffering of our people.”

The words cut him deeper than his knife pricked her throat. “You know the circumstance, the reasons, for why I did what I did.”

“Yes.” Dane did not say more.

“I want to see pictures of Claire’s body. I want proof she’s dead.”

Continuing to appear unperturbed by Corday’s threat, Dane gestured to her desk’s COMscreen. “Patient file 142.”