Isaac shut his eyes, and when he did open them the next second, Esme's mouth slackened even more when she saw the startling clarity and decision there.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't hesitation. It was resolve, and it made her stomach drop.
She shriveled like a leaf in autumn, her shoulders caving as a wave of dizziness hit, panic flooding her veins so fast she thought she might faint.
This was not the plan.
This was not what they had promised.
She looked at her father, desperate, searching, but he wouldn't meet her gaze.
His eyes slid away, fixed on nothing in particular, and in that moment she knew—knew with terrifying certainty—that she was in the dark about something, and for that ignorance she was going to die for it.
The black cells. Her thoughts latched onto the words like a curse. She was really going to die, wasn't she?
Because the black cells meant death.
