Chapter Four
Espie
The window is dark when I wake, and for one stupid, terrifying second I think Wallace has moved me again. Then the softness under me registers. The warmth. The absence of restraints.
I surface from something that might have been sleep or might have been the kind of exhaustion that shuts your brain down. Time is slippery, sliding through my fingers before I can grasp it.
The fever is worse. My skin burns against the sheets, and the tremors have settled into a constant vibration in my muscles. It’s hard to focus on anything except the ache in my bones. The emptiness clawing at my stomach.
Sera, the alpha, is in the chair, asleep.
Her head has tipped back against the cushion, her breathing slow, the lines around her eyes smoothed out by unconsciousness.
The scar through her eyebrow is a pale slash against brown skin, barely visible in the dim light.
The silver ring on her right hand glints when she shifts, turning toward me even in sleep.
She's asleep. Guard down. If I could move, if my legs would just work, I could be gone before she even opened her eyes. I could… what—
I can barely lift my head without the room spinning.
My arms are lead weights, my legs useless tangles of muscle that refuse to obey.
I don’t have the strength to get out of bed, let alone walk to the door.
I can’t run. Can’t fight. Can’t do anything except lie here and wait for someone to decide what happens to me next… and—
I can’t breathe. I'm trapped in a body that won't listen to me, dependent on a female I don't trust and owned by whoever holds the keys to this room. Panic is a fist around my lungs, squeezing.
Pathetic. Weak. Useless. Everything they said I was. Everything they made me.
My stomach cramps and growls. I don't remember the last time I ate.
Wallace fed me sometimes. When he remembered.
When it suited his experiments. Days could pass without food, and I learned to ignore the ache.
Acknowledging it only made it worse. Only reminded me that my body had needs I couldn't meet and wouldn't be allowed to meet.
Her eyes snap open and lock onto me. “You’re hungry.”
Heat floods my face and neck. First the slick, announcing my response to her scent like a flag I couldn't take down. Now this, my hunger broadcasting itself to the room. Everything I am is written on my skin for her to read.
Her brow creases deeper. Something flickers across her face, a tightening around her eyes, a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Her scent shifts toward that worried basil again.
“When did you last eat, sweetheart?”
Her fingers curl over her thighs and she shifts her weight in the chair. Words dry in my mouth because asking doesn’t always mean getting.
Her lips press into a straight line as she rises from the chair. “I'm going to get you something to eat.” She's gone through the door before I can respond.
I use the time. The moment she leaves, I try to sit up and prove that I'm not as helpless as I feel. My arms shake. My vision swims. I make it halfway up before collapsing back against the pillows, panting, my heart racing from the effort of a movement that should have been nothing.
Pathetic.
Tears of frustration burn my eyes, and I blink them back. I've done enough crying. I scan the room while she's gone. Exits. Weapons. Anything I could use if she comes back different, if she decides the gentle act isn't working and she needs to try something harder.
Window. Too weak to break it, too weak to climb out, too weak to do anything but stare at it and imagine freedom I can't reach. Door. She went through it, probably unlocked, but I can't walk. A lamp on the bedside table. Heavy enough to hurt someone if I could lift it, which I can't.
When I'm stronger. When I can move. I will get out of here. I will disappear. I will never let anyone find me again.
The smell of food reaches me before she does, and my stomach cramps so hard I whine. Broth, bread, soup. Simple things on a tray she sets on the bed beside me, close enough to reach.
“Would you like me to help you with that? It might be a bit much with the way you’re feeling.”
What's in it? What does she want in return if I accept?
Her face gives me nothing. No tightening around her eyes, no flicker of impatience, no tell I can use to predict what comes next. Just those amber eyes on my face, patient. Waiting. Not pushing.
Impatience I can read, can work with. Patience gives me nothing. I don't know what she wants, and not knowing makes my skin crawl.
The bread sits there. Steam rises from the soup. My stomach twists with want, and I can't reach for it.
But I'm so hungry, and she’s backed away, so...
I reach for the bread before I can stop myself and freeze halfway. My gaze lands on hers. “I’m sorry.”
A frown deepens between her brows. “What are you sorry for, sweetheart?”
I swallow hard, my hand dropping back to the mattress. “Please, I…” I lick dry lips because she still looks confused. “I don’t know the rules…”
Her face pinches and she swipes a hand through her hair.
Her jaw works before she speaks. “You don’t have to do anything for this.
You were hungry and I should have thought of getting you food sooner.
This is on me, and just so we’re clear, under no circumstances do you need to do anything for food. Or anything else for that matter.”
Words. Just words. She could change them in a second.
But the smell of the soup is climbing into my head and my mouth, and I'm already pushing up on my elbows, testing. Testing what she said. Testing what happens.
My arms shake. I get halfway up and have to stop, breath sawing, the room tilting at the edges.
“Let me—”
I freeze. Every muscle locks.
Sera stops mid-word. Her hand, already half-lifted toward me, goes still in the air. She doesn't close the distance. She sets her hand back down on the mattress, slow, and waits.
My stomach growls. Loud. Embarrassing. A raw, animal sound that gives me away.
The soup smells like salt and something green and my mouth is watering so hard it hurts.
I can't think past it. I can't think past the tray being there and my body being here and the space between us closing if I just reach.
I slide the tray closer. I fumble a toast triangle and it drops to the sheets. Heat floods my face. I try again, get it to my mouth, chew. My stomach clenches around the bite I manage to get down, but I can’t make myself stop. When the toast is gone, I reach for the soup.
The spoon shakes in my grip, broth sloshing over the edges. I spill more than I swallow, liquid dripping down my chin, onto the sheets.
“Sweetheart,” Sera whispers. She looks miserable.
Weak. Disgusting. Can't even feed yourself like an animal.
“I c-can…” When I drop the spoon the second time, she darts in.
I flinch. Hard, violent, jerking back against the pillows. My heart pounds against my sternum, vision tunneling down to her hands.
She freezes. Her scent goes rancid with distress. “Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I just wanted to help you eat, I wasn't going to...”
She trails off, pulls her hands back, sits on them. Actually sits on her own hands, pinning them beneath her thighs like she can't trust to not reach for me again.
Her eyes gleam as she holds my gaze. “I would never hurt you. I know that doesn't mean anything right now. I know words are cheap. But I need to say it anyway. I will never raise a hand to you. I will never force you. I will never...”
She stops. Swallows. When she speaks again, her voice is rough.
“What do you need? Tell me what you need and I'll do it. If you need me to leave, I'll leave. If you need me to stay but not touch you, I can do that. If you need me to sit across the room and not look at you, I'll do that too. Just tell me. Please, I… I need to look after you. That’s all.”
I stare at her. The words don't make sense. They're the wrong shape, like she's speaking a language I used to know. Alphas don't ask. Alphas take. They decide what you need and give it to you whether you want it or not.
“D-don't...” The word scrapes out of my throat like broken glass. “Just... don't...”
I can't finish. Can't string the words together. Don't touch me. Don't come closer. Don't make me need you. But she nods like I said something coherent. Like she understood.
“Okay.” Some of the tension bleeds out of her shoulders. Her scent starts to shift, the burnt edge fading, though the worry remains. “I understand. I won't touch you again. Not until you ask me.”
She wants to fix me. Her scent is a mess, protective fury tangled with anguish and something that might be patience. I can't tell what any of it means. I ignore it. Focus on the soup. On surviving this meal. On getting strong enough to run.
“We're going to figure this out.” She smiles. Small. Sad. Tentative, like she's not sure she's allowed. The worried lines smooth away, the corners of those amber eyes crinkling.
Beautiful.
For one heartbeat, my chest unclenches. The constant brace-for-impact eases, leaving only the warmth in her eyes and the ghost of that smile. Like she might actually mean all the gentle things she keeps saying.
But maybe that’s just biology. The omega part of me twisting hope into something dangerous. Convincing me fate might finally be kind. Convincing me this alpha is who she claims to be.
The fucked up part is that I can’t tell if any of it is real.