Corday was talking to the Omega in hushed tones, trying to soothe her, to get her to drop the glass, but nothing seemed to get through her zombie-like expression. "Shh-shh, it's all right, put down the glass. We're Enforcers, and we're going to get you someplace safe, ma'am."

Looking to the youth holding out his hands as if to placate her, her broken voice managed, "They killed my Doug, my baby."

"Please, put down the glass."

Glazed eyes rolled back to the dead men who had chained her up, who had taken her life. There was not even a moment of hesitation. She jammed the bloody weapon so deep into her throat, the gush of blood was immediate.

Corday rushed forward, putting his hands to her neck.

Brigadier Dane knew there was no way to save the female from the gaping slash she'd sliced into her own throat, no matter how hard the frantic Beta tried. But there had been ways to save all the females piled up in that meat locker—had the Enforcers taken notice, had they acted months ago. Instead, they had been too busy mustering, plotting, and doing nothing.

In the hearts of all who watched, all feelings of victory faded, dripped away as that Omega's blood stained the floor. Dane crouched down and closed the dead Omega's eyes as she spoke their prayer.

When the incantation to the Mother Goddess of Omegas was complete, Dane's voice hardened. Orders were barked. The tower of food was disassembled and loaded onto transport. The heat-addled Omegas were carted away.

The bodies had to be left behind. There was nothing that could be done for the dead.

All the drugs were dumped, spilling together, filling the air with noxious fumes—the perfect recipe for the absolution of fire. Corday struck the flame, destroying the counterfeit heat-suppressants, the methamphetamines... the evidence of atrocities and the Enforcers' part in purifying it. But the shell of the building still stood.

Thólos was fireproof.

Tired, Claire stretched her legs out from under warm blankets and pressed her feet to the ground. She felt… off, saturated with the lethargy that comes before illness, and was grateful Shepherd was not in the room to paw at her as he always did when she woke. He had punished her for her resistance, had frightened, then placated, back to his old tricks of trying to warp her mind.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and frowned at the ache in her shoulder. In the room, everything was where it had been the last time she had been locked inside. Except her painting of poppies. It was skewed, the paper less crisp, as if having been handled repeatedly. Denying her impulse to center it, Claire studied the flowers, certain Shepherd had done the same in her absence.