Page 260 of Caged

When I blink back to consciousness, Dax is looking at me like he has no idea who the hell I am.

I nearly snort out loud.

Join the club, brother. Meetings are on Thursdays. It’s basically ninety minutes of me licking paint off a lead wall and muttering ‘This is fine,’ while my Alpha instincts taunt me with increasingly erotic images of my Idril pinned to the nearest flat surface with my teeth lodged in her neck.

Fates. Dax is genuinely going to make me dig my own grave if I don’t get it together.

“How did the story go, ma pichona?” Riven coaxes with that old French term of endearment, I know damn well he’s using to soften her up.

And fuck me, it works. Idril sags, her shoulders relaxing as tension leaves her body.

“My father was gone sometimes. And when he was gone, my mother would make, well…” she pauses, considering. “I suppose, now that I think about it, she was making us a large nest.”

A small smile tugs up the corner of her lips, and it’s like the damn sun coming out from behind a cloud.

As she speaks, the memory softens her voice, and I swear the chill in the room eases.

The whole library feels still, like it’s leaning in to listen.

“She would gather all the pillows and blankets she could find and take the cushions off the couch, then put everything in a big pile in the living room. Then she would put blankets up, hang them from the ceiling with clothespins and stuff, you know?”

She sighs, and Riven rubs slow, gentle circles on her wrist, right over her pulse point.

“We would stay there for days. Hiding away from the world. From my father’s security and all the cameras. We would sleep, have picnics, and watch movies. Mostly, though, she would read to me.”

I can’t stop the lump of emotion forming in my throat.

“Those were my happiest memories with her. Just the two of us, and all her stories. About queens, and people who were stuck in another world. People who could do magic—real magic. Make trees and flowers grow. She said the wind listened to their voices and would carry secrets between friends who were hundreds of miles away from each other.” She peeks up at Riven through her lashes, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Then, her eyes drift over Riven’s shoulder. The moment she notices Daxen, the moment shatters.

Whatever she sees, it has the smile dropping off her face like it was never there at all.

“Adorable,” Dax mocks. “I love how you both hid in your fancy fort while your father terrorized other people’s mothers and daughters. Maybe in the future, you could try a little less selfish hiding and a little more helping others for once in your worthless life.”

Even I flinch at his cruelty.

If I thought I’d seen the Omega devastated before, it’s nothing compared to now. At first, there’s something sharp in her eyes, a glare half-forming on her face. I tense, thinking she might bite back this time. Shout at him. Explode in anger. Tell us we’re all pieces of shit.

But the anger disappears, and her body shrinks like she’s trying to disappear. She pulls her hands from Riven’s and brings them to her oversized shirt, curling them into the fabric.

This isn’t casual fidgeting, though. She does that often enough—I assume it’s a way for her to self-soothe with the closest soft material available.

This is… different.

Her fingers twist in the cotton. She gathers it in her fists and then smooths and straightens it against her stomach and chest, over and over. It’s strangely rhythmic, an almost compulsive set of motions that makes my lungs tighten painfully.

She works the fabric like she’s testing it, searching for something in the feel and texture that might give her what she’s so desperate to find.

Her fingers spasm around the cotton of her shirt before skipping down to her leggings and smoothing those down, as well. Her hands move from thighs to knees to ankles in long, deliberate strokes before retracing her movements.

Back down. Back up again.

The movements are mechanical. As though her body’s taken over and her conscious mind has completely checked out.

I watch her hands, trying to make sense of the frantic movements.

Then it clicks, and my stomach drops all the way to hell.