"No!" I shouted and flung his hands off.

He grabbed me again, harder this time. I fought, baring my teeth and scratching any part of him I could reach.

"Stop the car," I shouted.

The Explorer slowed to half speed, but no more, as if Antonio was deciding what to do.

"Keep going," Jeremy said. "She's delirious. Keep going."

Nick struggled to keep me in my seat, his face hardening with resolve. I heard a sound in the front. Over Nick's shoulder, I saw Jeremy getting up from his seat, reaching back to restrain me. I gathered all my strength and control, drew back my fist, and punched Jeremy in the stomach. His eyes went wide and he doubled over. Some deep part of me was horrified, but I didn't care. The fever in my brain incinerated any pangs of conscience. I had to get out. I was late. Nothing else mattered.

I shoved Nick away and flung myself past him toward the opposite door. Grabbing the handle, I thrust it open and looked down. Gravel flew by in a gray blur. Nick shouted. The brakes squealed. The Explorer veered right. I tensed to jump. Two sets of hands grabbed me, one by the back, the other by the shoulders, and yanked me inside. I felt Jeremy's hands go around my neck, then pressure on the side of my throat, then blackness again.

I awoke in a memory. Every part of my body ached. I'd Changed last night. The recollection was dim, a montage of images-pain, fear, rage, disbelief. Yet I hadn't been running through New York State. I'd Changed in a 8' X 6' cell, manacled hand and foot. My seventh Change. Seven weeks since I'd come to this place. I had no idea what day it was, but I knew how many times I'd gone through hell and marked the time by that. When I awoke, I was still in the cage. I'd been in it for five weeks now, five Changes since the man gave up trying to keep me in a bedroom upstairs. I knew his name: Jeremy, but I never used it, not to his face, not even when I thought of him. To his face, I called him nothing. I refused to speak to him. In my mind, he was simply "he" or "the man," a designation devoid of thought and emotion.

I awoke feeling the scratchy fabric of a mattress beneath me. There had been sheets once, soft flannel sheets and a comforter. Then he caught me tearing them into strips and thought I was planning to hang myself. I wasn't. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me dead. I'd torn up the sheets for the same reason I'd destroyed the magazines and clothing he'd brought for me, and the pretty pictures he'd affixed to the stone cage walls. I wanted nothing from him. I would accept nothing meant to make this cage seem like anything other than the hellhole it was. The only offering I accepted was food and I ate that only because I had to keep my strength up for when I escaped. That was what kept me going, the thought of escape. Soon I would get away, back to the city, to people who could help me, heal me.

I opened my eyes to see a figure on the chair outside the cage. At first I thought it was him. He sat there most of the day, watching me and talking to me, trying to brainwash me with the insanity that spilled from his lips. When my eyes focused, the figure became clearer, bent over, elbows on knees, gold curls shining in the artificial light. The one person I hated more than the man. Quickly, I closed my eyes and feigned sleep, but it was too late. He'd seen me. He got to his feet and started to talk. I wanted to stop up my ears, but it would do no good. I could hear too well now. Even if I could block his words, I knew what he'd be saying. He said the same things every time he came, sneaking in when the man was out. He tried to explain what he'd done, why he'd done it. He apologized. He pleaded with me to obey the man so that I could get out of the cage. He wanted me to talk to the man, to ask that his banishment be revoked so he could come back and help me. But there was only one way he could help me. Each time he came, each time he swore he'd do anything to make it up to me, I told him the same thing. The only words I'd speak to him. Fix me. Undo what you did.

"Clay."

The sound of my voice woke me from my memories. I was on my back, staring up at a naked lightbulb on a whitewashed cement ceiling. I turned my head and saw solid stone walls. No windows. No ornaments. Beneath me, I felt the scratchy twin-size mattress. The cage.

"No," I whispered. "No."

I turned my head and saw the bars. Beyond them, someone was sitting on the chair. My heart leapt. Then the figure stood, black eyes meeting mine.

"No," I whispered again, sitting up. "Damn you, no."

"I had to, Elena," Jeremy said. "I was afraid you'd hurt yourself. Now, if you're feeling better-"

I threw myself at the bars. Jeremy stepped out of arm's reach, cautious but not surprised.

"Let me out of here!" I shouted.

"Elena, if you'd-"

"You don't understand!"

"Yes, I do. Daniel has Clay. He took him in Toronto. He wanted you to show up at the hotel at ten today. You were talking in your sleep on the way back."

"You-" I stopped and swallowed. "You know?"

"Yes, I-"

"You know and you're keeping me in here? How could you?!" I grabbed the bars and strained against them. "You knew Clay's life was in danger and you put me in here?"

"What do you think Daniel planned to do, Elena? Take you and let Clay go? Of course not. If you went there, we'd lose you both."

"I don't care!"

Jeremy rubbed a hand over his face. "You do care, Elena. You're just too upset to think about this logically-"

"Logically? Logically? Are you really that cold? You raised him. You mean the world to him. He's spent his life protecting you. He's risked his life protecting you, risks it constantly for you. You'd sit back, logically assess the situation and decide it's not worth the gamble to save him?"

"Elena-"

"If he's dead, it's your fault."

"Elena!"

"It's my fault. If he's dead because I didn't get there on time-"

Jeremy grabbed my arm through the bars, fingers cutting to the bone. "Stop it, Elena! He's not dead. I know you're upset, but if you'd calm down-"

"Calm down? Are you saying I'm hysterical?"

"-calm down and think about it, you'll know Clay isn't dead. Think about it. Daniel knows how important Clayton is to the Pack. To you. To me. He's too valuable as a hostage."

"But Daniel doesn't know why I didn't show up. Maybe he thinks we don't care, that we've abandoned Clay, given him up for dead."

"Daniel would know better. To be sure, I've sent him a note. Last week he gave me a post office box to contact him through. Antonio and Nick dropped off a letter saying that we weren't letting you make that appointment, but that I'm willing to negotiate so long as Clay's not harmed. I'm sure Daniel already knows that, but I wanted to make it clear. I'm not taking any chances with Clay's life, Elena."

On some level I knew Jeremy was right. It didn't help. I kept thinking, What if he's wrong? What if Clay had never even made it back to New York? What if he'd woken up and they'd fought and he was lying in a Dumpster in Toronto? What if Daniel couldn't resist the opportunity to destroy his lifelong enemy while he was drugged and powerless? Even if Daniel managed to keep it together, what about LeBlanc? He'd already proven he didn't give a damn what Daniel wanted. If Clay angered LeBlanc, he'd kill him. Even if Clay didn't do anything to LeBlanc, he might kill him just because he could. As all the possibilities ran through my mind, my aching legs surrendered and I slumped to the floor, still clutching the bars.

"You didn't warn me," I said.

Jeremy crouched down, putting one hand over mine. "I didn't warn you about what, sweetheart?" he asked softly.

"I didn't think. I should have known."