Page 253 of Caged

Idril’s shoulders bunch closer to her ears, but she stays silent. She just keeps writing, her pen scratching across the paper in a flowing, delicate script.

The hours pass in a slow turn of pages and rustle of papers. Idril’s pen never stops, but her progress slows considerably. Her tidy handwriting fills sheet after sheet while I do my best to ignore her, losing myself in fables from Germany.

Mostly stories of Dietrich Von Berg and a few seriously unsettling versions of the Pied Piper that sound more like horror stories than children’s fairy tales.

Who the hell decided these should be told to children before bed?

At some point, Idril moved from the center of the table between Riven and me over to a large leather reading chair tucked into an alcove that has a rotating desk arm that can be adjusted to fit her height. There had been a pillow and a fur-lined blanket on the back of the chair, but before she could sit, Dax strode over and yanked them away, tossing them carelessly onto one of the couches near the fireplace.

The sadness on her face brought back the ache in my chest. It’s not like I’m the one who kept her away from the blanket, so I don’t know what I have to feel guilty over.

No, you just watched it happen. Watched him take the only soft things she had access to. Watched as her face fell in disappointment.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Fight with Dax over a blanket? Tell him to give it back? Tell him he was being unnecessarily cruel?

I can’t do that. That would mean admitting—out loud—that I care.

So I just… let it happen, drowning in self-loathing.

What’s strange, though, is that she didn’t fight him either. In fact, she hasn’t complained about anything.

Not about the clothes we make her wear and the way they’re too big and probably scratchy on her sensitive skin. There’s been no mention of the fact that she sleeps in the attic like a stray. She’s even kept silent about the lack of nesting materials.

She pretends like she’s fine, but I know better, because I’m apparently fucking psychotic now and can’t keep my damn eyes off of her when she’s near.

I clock the way she rubs the only soft material she has—her clothing—in an effort to appease her instincts to nest. I know Dax has noticed, too.

I won’t lie. It’s hard to watch. It makes my stomach swoop and my fingers twitch with desire to soothe her.

I keep telling myself she doesn’t deserve a nest or any other comforts, but the longer she goes without lashing out or making demands, the more I start to worry I might be doing damage that I won’t be able to come back from.

It just makes no sense. This would be so much easier if she were losing her shit. If she whined or demanded or yelled just once. I mean, she’s supposed to be a selfish Omega who lured our brother into a trap and nearly got him killed.

She’s either an amazing actress or I’m making a huge mistake. We all are.

What if we have it all wrong? What if we’re so convinced she’s lying because it makes it easier to have someone to blame?

No. Stop thinking that. Dax has gone over the proof a thousand times. Gav and Silas were there when she admitted her involvement. Your brother is fighting for his life, for Fate’s sake. Don’t get soft!

Dax and Riven are seated on one of the couches, various volumes full of folklore spread across the large coffee table in front of them. Heads close together, voices low, their whispers are the only sounds in the otherwise silent room.

I tune them out. I’m determined to find something, anything, that references a light or a gate or literally anything that points back to Calla and Daniella’s prophesies.

Sure, that’s what you’re doing. You’re totally not spending hours reading fairy tales as an excuse to be near the Omega.

I snort, irritated with my waffling. If Dax could read my mind, he’d lock me in my room until I got my shit straight.

Well, at least if I find something in these books, I’ll at least have something to show for my Alpha’s unwavering, frustrating need to be around the girl.

Silver fucking linings.

Ten minutes later, I realize that I’m—once again—staring at Idril. I can’t even remember making the conscious decision to look at her.

My mind just… wanders. And there she is.

If my thoughts were purely harmless, this would be nothing more than an annoyance. I mean, they started harmless. She flexed her fingers, and I started thinking about how delicate they were, which led to my Alpha snarling over her lack of food intake—like we weren’t purposely keeping her hungry and tired so she’d break faster.

Then my thoughts crept sideways, straight into traitor territory, and all of a sudden I’m thinking ‘I should bring her another sandwich tonight,’ and ‘I bet I could steal some linens from the staff and leave them in her room.’