Chapter 283
“Mr. Holloway has authorized a visitation. Thirty minutes.”
Cailin didn’t wait. She pushed past him, her hand going instinctively to her abdomen as a sharp pain lanced through her. She ignored it and moved quickly down the hall toward the East Wing — a determined, deliberate limp.
The medical suite was sterile, white, and silent.
Through the glass wall, she saw her.
Elia lay in a hospital bed that looked far too large for her small frame. Monitors beeped steadily around her, but the blue tint was gone from her lips.
Cailin scrubbed her hands, threw on a gown, and pushed through the door.
“Elia,” she choked out.
She dropped into the chair beside the bed and took Elia’s small hand in both of hers. It was warm. Thank God — it was warm.
Elia’s eyelids fluttered and slowly opened, revealing groggy, unfocused eyes.
“Mommy?” she rasped. “Are we home?”
Cailin pressed her forehead against Elia’s hand to hide the tears.
“Soon, baby,” she whispered. “We’re going home soon.”
But looking around at the high-tech prison Hilliard had built around them, she knew “home” was still a lie. And she would have to fight a war to make it true.
“Time is up, Mrs. Holloway.”
The bodyguard’s voice was a flat drone.
Cailin didn’t move. She was smoothing Elia’s hair, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. Elia had drifted back to sleep minutes ago.
“I said, time is up.”
“I’m staying,” Cailin whispered. “I’m her mother. I’m sleeping here.”
“Mr. Holloway’s orders were specific. Rest for the patient. Rest for you.”
The guard stepped forward and put a hand on her arm.
Cailin jerked away. “Don’t touch me!”
A second guard appeared. They didn’t hurt her, but they were immovable. They escorted — dragged — her out of the sterile room and back into the corridor.
“Let me go!” Cailin shouted, fighting against their grip.
They released her in the main hallway.
Hilliard stood at the far end, adjusting his cufflinks. He was dressed for war in a charcoal suit.
Cailin saw red.
“Hilliard!” She surged toward him in a staggering, desperate gait, the stitches in her side screaming in protest with every step. “Who do you think you are? Limiting my time with my own daughter?”
Hilliard raised a hand and dismissed the guards without a word. They dissolved into the shadows.
“You need rest,” he said, studying her pale face. “You look like a ghost, Cailin.”
“I don’t need your concern. I need my freedom.”
She tried to sidestep him, aiming for the main staircase.
Hilliard moved faster than a man his size had any right to. He caught her wrist, spun her around, and backed her into the wall. His hands slammed onto the wallpaper on either side of her head, caging her between his arms.
“Freedom?” He stepped closer, his body pressing against hers. “In this house, I am the law.”
Cailin glared up at him, her chest rising and falling hard against his.
“You’re a tyrant.”
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