Page 216 of Caged

Daxen still hasn’t answered, and when my instincts start to fill with hope, and that hope begins to work its way between all my broken pieces, I want to scream.

Just like I knew he would, Daxen crushes it like a bug under his shoe.

“You’ll live.”

The words are dismissive. They feel like a punch to the gut, and my Omega curls into a tight ball.

I wish I could join her.

Licking chapped lips, I try asking for something else. Something he might actually give. “May I please have something to drink?”

I feel so defeated. So heavy. My limbs aren’t working.

Something is wrong. I feel the truth of it in my bones. I’ve gone from being exhausted, hungry, and in pain, to feeling like I’ve been run over in a matter of hours.

The desire to nest is eating at me.

I rub my shirt between my thumb and forefinger, an attempt to self-soothe I picked up as a child. When I first learned that softness is something to be earned, not freely given.

Tell him, Idril. Tell him you’re hurt. Tell him you thought it was just a small injury, but something is very wrong.

I part my lips to do just that, but I press my lips into a thin line at one glance at the male in front of me. I already tried to tell him. He was completely indifferent. Am I supposed to beg for help?

Begging won’t do anything.

I can’t look Daxen in the eyes while I wait for his reply. Instead, I train my unfocused gaze on his shirt. I don’t know how long I let it linger there. My brain is foggy, and my eyes want to close. By the time he speaks, my mind has started to drift.

“I’ll have Cage bring you a bottle of water.”

“No!” The denial is pure survival instinct.

“No?” He echoes indignantly.

“Not…” I lick my cracked lips. Can I really afford to be picky?

A wet cough rattles in my lungs. Again, the sticky copper taste of blood fills the back of my throat. I turn to the side to subtly choke it down, hoping he won’t notice. Hoping my panic isn’t showing on my face.

“Not Cage, please,” I mutter.

I don’t trust Cage not to tamper with anything he’s ordered to give me.

Daxen either doesn’t hear me or isn’t paying attention. His eyes are locked on my face.

No.

Not my face. He’s looking at my mouth.

His eyes narrow in suspicion. I know that look. He’s running through probabilities. Calculating if what he’s seeing is real, or if I’m somehow manipulating him by being an Omega.

By being alive.

“Are you sick?” He sounds like he doesn’t actually want to know, but his brain is forcing him to ask.

“No.” The lie tumbles out, but I don’t take it back.

He hums. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He stalks to the area I was working at before the lights went out. Where piles of cataloged possessions are stacked neatly in a half circle.

With each step toward the satchel, he kicks over another pile I organized. Trinkets scatter across the floor. They roll under boxes and between cracks in the cement.