For forty-eight hours, the bunker had been a battlefield for Cane. I had watched Cane’s body seize, his muscles rippling in spasms as his natural healing factor fought the serum my father had engineered.
By the second night, the sweating struggle subsided. The swelling in Cane’s chest receded, and the deep lacerations began to heal, leaving behind silver-white scars that looked like lightning bolts engraved into his tan skin.
He sat up on the workbench, his breathing finally deep and rhythmic. He looked like a predator waking from a long, forced hibernation.
"We need to move," Cane said, his voice regaining that low, gravelly authority that made my pulse jump.
"My blood is screaming, Eloise. I can feel the others. It’s like a phantom limb that’s being burned. They’re in pain."
I stoo
