Chapter 37
Cillian
Our armored jolts over another pothole, sending a spike of pain through my still-healing side. I hide my wince, keeping my expression neutral as Logan glances my way. No sense in giving him another reason to regret bringing me along on this expedition.
“How much further?” Maya asks from beside me.
“Not far,” Logan replies, his eyes fixed on the passing landscape beyond the carriage window. “Another mile, perhaps less.”
I study his profile, noting the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows.
He’s been unusually quiet during our journey, offering only vague explanations about why he wanted us to accompany him to one of the recently cleared fertility clinics.
Something about seeing the progress firsthand and assessing the situation together.
But there’s more to it—I can sense it through our bond, a muted anxiety that he’s trying to suppress.
“You still haven’t told us why we’re really here,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “This isn’t just a routine inspection.”
Logan’s golden eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the window. “No,” he admits. “It isn’t.”
“Then what is it?” Maya presses, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been secretive since we left the palace.”
Logan sighs, running a hand through his hair—a rare display of uncertainty from a man who’s made decisiveness his hallmark. “I’d rather show you than try to explain.”
The evasiveness is unlike him. Since claiming the throne, Logan has embraced a new transparency with us—a deliberate rejection of his father’s secretive governance. This reversion to cryptic half-answers sets my teeth on edge.
“Is it dangerous?” I ask, my hand instinctively moving to the knife concealed beneath my jacket. “Should we expect trouble?”
“Not dangerous,” Logan assures me, his expression softening slightly. “Just... difficult.”
Before I can press further, the carriage slows, gravel crunching beneath the wheels as we turn onto what must be the clinic’s access road.
Through the window, I catch my first glimpse of the facility—a sprawling concrete structure surrounded by a high wall topped with razor wire.
Despite the royal banners now flying above the entrance, there’s no disguising its original purpose.
This place was built to contain, not to heal.
We stop before a set of iron gates that stand open, royal guards stationed on either side. Logan steps out first, offering his hand to Maya with a formality that feels out of place given our usual dynamics. I follow, moving carefully to avoid aggravating my injury.
The clinic’s courtyard is eerily silent, absent the bustle of activity I’d expected. A few guards patrol the perimeter, and I spot what appear to be medical staff entering a side building, but the space feels hollow, abandoned.
“This way,” Logan says, leading us toward the main entrance. “The director is expecting us.”
We’re met in the austere lobby by a woman in a crisp white coat, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. She bows deeply to Logan, then straightens, her professional smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“Your Majesty. Welcome to Facility Three. I’m Director Harlow. We’re honored by your presence.”
Logan nods, his royal mask firmly in place. “Director. These are my companions, Maya Tantamount and Cillian Frost. They have my complete confidence and are to be given full access to everything I see.”
The director’s smile falters slightly, her gaze lingering on Maya’s purple hair with poorly disguised curiosity. “Of course, Your Majesty. If you’ll follow me, I’ve prepared a tour of our operations.”
She leads us through sterile corridors that smell of disinfectant and fear.
The walls are institutional green, the floors polished to a high shine that reflects the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Everything is clean, orderly, and profoundly wrong.
My skin crawls with each step deeper into the facility.
“As you requested, we’ve maintained most of the original structure while repurposing the spaces,” Director Harlow explains as we walk. “The examination rooms have been converted to medical offices, and the... processing chambers are being renovated into recovery suites.”
Processing chambers. The clinical euphemism makes my stomach turn. I glance at Maya, finding her face carefully blank, though the slight tremor in her hands betrays her distress. Without thinking, I move closer to her, our shoulders brushing—a silent reminder that she’s not alone here.
“And the test subjects?” Logan asks, his voice carefully neutral. “The women who were held here?”
“Those who were physically able have been relocated to the royal hospital for comprehensive care,” the director replies. “Those requiring more intensive treatment remain here under the supervision of physicians approved by the royal medical council.”
“And how many were there?” Maya asks suddenly, her voice sharp enough to make the director blink in surprise.
“Thirty-seven adults were being held at this facility when your forces liberated it,” Director Harlow answers after a moment’s hesitation. “Twenty-nine have been relocated. Eight remain under our care.”
“Thirty-seven,” Maya repeats, the number hanging in the air between us. So few, and yet each representing a life disrupted, a person violated in the name of the former king’s twisted vision.
But I’m stuck on the emphasis the director placed on the word adults.
We continue through the facility, the director pointing out changes and improvements with the detached efficiency of someone who sees rooms and equipment rather than the suffering they once contained.
Logan asks appropriate questions, his royal mask never slipping, but I can feel his anger simmering beneath the surface, a low burn that matches my own.
“And here,” Director Harlow says as we approach a set of double doors at the end of a long corridor, “is what I believe you came to see, Your Majesty.”
She pushes open the doors, revealing a large, brightly lit room that stands in stark contrast to the institutional sterility of the rest of the facility.
The walls are painted a soft yellow, the harsh fluorescents replaced with gentler lighting.
And arranged throughout the space are cribs—perhaps two dozen of them, each attended by a nurse in a pale blue uniform.
A nursery. They built a nursery in the heart of this house of horrors.
Logan steps forward, his expression unreadable as he surveys the room. “How many?” he asks, his voice so low I barely catch it.
“Seventeen,” Director Harlow replies, her professional demeanor softening slightly. “That survived, I mean.”
These are the results of the former king’s breeding program—children born to captive Omegas, intended to be raised as a new generation of perfectly controlled subjects.
“The mothers?” Maya asks, her voice tight with suppressed emotion.
“Six mothers will be reunited with their children,” the director says, her clinical tone returning.
“Four women died in childbirth. The others are in no condition to care for an infant or have chosen not to do so. We’ve established a rotation of attendants to ensure the babies receive proper care while we locate suitable placements. ”
Logan moves further into the room, and after a moment’s hesitation, Maya and I follow. The nursery is oddly quiet for a space containing so many infants. A few cry softly, but most lie silent in their cribs, watched over by attendants who move between them with practiced efficiency.
“They’re undernourished,” I observe, noting the thinness of the tiny limbs visible in the nearest crib. “And understimulated.”
“We’re doing the best we can with limited resources,” Director Harlow says defensively. “These children have complex needs, and qualified caregivers are difficult to find given the... unusual circumstances.”
“Unusual circumstances,” Maya echoes, her voice flat. “You mean the fact that they were bred like livestock by a mad king?”
The director flinches visibly. “I merely meant—“
“I know what you meant,” Maya cuts her off, turning away to approach one of the cribs where an attendant is feeding a baby with mechanical precision, no warmth or connection in the interaction.
Logan catches my eye, a silent message passing between us. He knew this is something we would never forgive him for keeping to himself.
I move through the nursery, observing the attendants at work.
They’re competent enough, ensuring the babies are fed, changed, and physically cared for.
But there’s a coldness to their efficiency, a distance that speaks to how they view their charges—not as children deserving of love and attention, but as problems to be managed.
In one corner, a baby wails, red-faced and desperate, while the nearest attendant continues feeding another infant, seemingly deaf to the cries. Without thinking, I change direction, moving toward the distressed child.
The baby—a boy, judging by the blue cap—has kicked free of his swaddling, tiny fists punching the air as he screams. I reach into the crib, my hands remembering motions I haven’t performed in years as I gather him up, supporting his head and bringing him against my chest.
“Shh,” I murmur, rocking gently from side to side. “You’re alright. I hear you.”
The baby hiccups, his cries faltering as he registers the change in position, the warmth of being held. I continue the gentle rocking motion, one hand rubbing small circles on his back. Gradually, his cries subside to whimpers, then to the occasional hiccup as he settles against me.
“You’ve done that before,” Maya says, appearing at my side. Her expression is soft, curious, as she watches me with the baby.
“A lifetime ago,” I reply, memories surfacing that I usually keep firmly buried. “I had younger siblings.”
She doesn’t press for more, which I appreciate. Some stories are too heavy to share, even now.
“They need more than this,” I say instead, nodding toward the clinical efficiency of the nursery. “More contact, more stimulation. More... love.”
“I know,” Maya agrees, her gaze sweeping the room. “They’re alive, but they’re not thriving.”
We stand in silence for a moment, the weight of what we’re witnessing settling between us. Then Maya stiffens beside me, her attention caught by something across the room. Without a word, she moves away, drawn toward a crib in the far corner where no attendant hovers.
I follow her path with my eyes, still rocking the now-quiet baby in my arms. Maya stops at the crib, looking down into it with an expression I can’t quite read from this distance. Something in her posture—a stillness, a focus—calls to me.
Carefully, I return the baby boy to his crib, making sure he’s properly swaddled before stepping away. Then I cross the room to join Maya, curious about what has captured her attention so completely.
She doesn’t look up as I approach, her gaze fixed on the infant in the crib before her. I step beside her, following her line of sight, and find myself staring into a pair of bright purple eyes.
The baby—a girl, perhaps three months old—gazes back at us with an alertness that stands out among the subdued infants we’ve seen.
Her eyes are a startlingly familiar shade of violet, set in a delicate face with skin the color of raw honey.
Unlike the other babies, she’s not crying, not sleeping, but watching us with an intensity that feels almost unnatural in one so young.
It’s very likely a genetic fluke. There is little chance that Maya would have endured an egg harvesting procedure without being aware of it.
The baby kicks her legs, tiny feet pushing against the blanket that covers her. One small hand reaches upward, fingers splaying as if reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
Maya reaches into the crib hesitantly, her fingers brushing against the baby’s outstretched hand. The infant immediately grasps her finger, the reflex strong and sure. Maya inhales sharply at the contact.
And when her gaze rises to mine, I don’t need words to know what she intends to do.