Page 257 of Caged

He scrubs his palms over his face, then levels the two of us with a look. “You might want to sit down for this,” he suggests.

“Oh, Fates, just tell us what you found. I can’t take the unnecessary suspense.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Riven dismisses him with a flick of the wrist. “Can I get a glass of whiskey at least? Where’s Ford’s good shit?”

Riven looks genuinely rattled, and that, more than anything, makes me nervous.

“Omega,” Dax snaps, startling me. “Bring the whiskey and some glasses.”

I hate how he orders her around like a dog.

I hate myself even more for caring.

She doesn’t argue. She stands, wincing like her joints are causing her pain. Head down, she crosses the room toward the whiskey cart.

Why would she complain? You told her to smile and do what she’s told to do. Now you’re irritated that she’s following orders?

I scowl at her bare feet, pissed all over again that she doesn’t have anything to protect her thin skin from the cold of the stone.

We need to get some nice, thick, soft rugs in here.

When she turns back around, her eyes are trained on the floor like they always are. But even without seeing her face, I quickly notice that something’s off. Her face is pale, and her lips are so red from biting them that it makes me wince in sympathy.

As she sets the bottle and glasses on the table, I speak before I can stop myself. “What’s wrong with you?”

I don’t mean to sound accusatory, but based on the way she jumps, my tone is harsher than I mean for it to be.

Her eyes quickly skitter to the side, and I realize she’d been eyeing the original Gaelic version of the story Riven’s translating.

Is she trying to read it?

No. No chance. There’s no way she can read Gaelic.

I stomp down the voice in my head reminding me that we don’t really know jack shit about her.

“Nothing, just tired.” She replies.

Except for something about her voice makes it sound like a bullshit excuse.

My instincts snap to a feral kind of attention. I have to lock down the muscles in my arms to stop myself from pulling her into my lap.

I imagine holding her face to my neck, where my scent is the strongest, and watching her eyes dilate as they had earlier. I wonder if she’s ever had whiskey before. I want to offer her some. Want to watch her eyes as she takes her first sip then steal the taste from her tongue.

Fuck.

I grab my glass and throw it all back in one go, praying Dax can’t feel all my guilt and self-loathing through the Bond.

Or worse, my raging white-hot lust.

As soon as Idril’s back in her seat across the room, bending over her work, Dax turns to Riven. “Tell us what it says.”

Riven flips the sheet over. He’s scrawled more verses with their translations underneath. They’ve been crossed out, rewritten, and crossed out again. It’s sloppy, and the writing is chaotic.

“‘Is í a hamhrán an solas.’” He begins, “Which roughly means, ‘her song will be the light.’ The light, Dax.”

Dax snorts contemptuously, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I get it. But that doesn’t mean anything. There are a million stories out there about girls with light. There’s no copyright on it, for fucks sake.”

Riven glares at him. “‘A músclaíonn geata na rochtaí codlata.’” When Dax gives him nothing more than a slow blink, he huffs in frustration.