Chapter 5
Idril
Ilet the cat inside.
It was stupid. I know it was stupid. But after I came in and shut the balcony doors, I couldn’t stop picturing it sitting out there, alone and curled up against the cold.
Logically, I knew it was fine. It’s covered in fur and fat. For gods’ sake, it lives outside.
Then I’d close my eyes and imagine my father catching it sulking around the yard. He’d get that cruel look in his eyes and immediately begin plotting the fastest way to end its life.
Happy animals don’t exist at the Varenthrall estate.
So I gave in. I chose to do something I never would have done before.
When I opened the door and saw its furry black face and huge yellow eyes staring back at me, it startled a laugh out of me that was so loud I worried someone would hear it.
It sauntered in, curled around my legs once, and jumped on the end of my bed, where it began bathing itself with smug indifference.
I shake out the nervous energy in my hands, reminding myself that I’ll hear Father coming long before he makes it to my room. And if last night is any indication, the cat will as well.
He rarely comes to this side of the house. He doesn’t care about you enough to check up regularly.
Wincing, I press a hand to my bruised ribs and gingerly crawl onto my mattress.
That may have been true before my escape attempt two days ago, but not anymore.
After forcing me downstairs to see Alexander off, Father followed me back to my room. He didn’t speak the entire walk from the foyer to my wing of the estate, and when we arrived at my room he calmly shut the door behind him
Then proceeded to use his belt to ‘teach me a lesson.’
As usual, I didn’t fight back. I curled into a ball on the floor, doing my best to protect my face and head from his strikes.
That was stupid, in hindsight. I should have been protecting my stomach.
He wasn’t going to leave bruises or marks on my face.
I’m no stranger to corporal punishment, but there was a moment last night when I truly thought he might not stop.
I can still hear the ringing slap of the leather hitting my flesh. Over and over and over again.
My back, my arms, my side. Everything was fair game to him.
The scariest part was how relaxed he was. While I bit back whimpers and keening whines, he stayed calm. Methodical. I was covered in tears and sweat, and he wasn’t even breathing hard.
When it was finally over, he threaded it back through his belt loops, buckled it, and crouched down, looming over my head.
I didn’t move. Didn’t even dare to open my eyes.
“The next time you try to run,” he warned, brushing a limp strand of hair away from my tear-soaked face, “it will be worse.”
Looking back, that’s probably why I let the cat inside, mere hours after falling asleep to finally escape the burning, throbbing pain.
I suppose some part of me figured that even if I couldn’t save myself, I could at least try to save the cat.
Not that he needs saving.
The first time I saw him was a week ago. Father was gone, and I was taking advantage of the quiet to spend the afternoon reading on the balcony.
A dark blur had zoomed across the yard, weaving in and out of my mother’s old Dahlias. Not ten seconds later, a very insistent mewling came from directly below me.
When I stood to investigate, there was already a huge black ball of fur pulling itself up onto my second-story balcony with an unreal amount of determination.
He spent the day with me, lounging in the sun.
When I went back inside, he scurried down the trellis with the same gusto he exhibited climbing up and ran off into the forest.
Now, he’s in my bed, giving himself a bath with all the self-importance of royalty.
“You can’t pee in here,” I tell him in my sternest voice, as if he’ll actually understand the nuances of my tone. “I don’t have a litter box.”
He looks up, cocks his head, and gives me a slow blink before refocusing on his bath.
I shrug. Good enough.
Situating myself at the head of my bed and trying to ignore the burst of pain as I move, I mentally replay the evening.
Maybe it was the lingering tension of knowing Alexander was in my home, but swear I could feel someone’s eyes on me yesterday evening.
Part of me knew I was probably being ridiculous.
While my father is absolutely the kind of mane to allow a monster inside our home, there’s no way he’d suffer some random person sulking around outside.
It didn’t matter how often I tried to tell myself there was no one out there, the feeling only intensified as the night wore on.
Weirdly, I wasn’t afraid. Only curious. There was a weight attached to the invisible eyes, like being wrapped in a soft blanket on a story night.
Secure. Protected.
It took me a minute to recognize that, for the first time in years, I felt safe.
Memories of lazy days in a fort made of blankets and pillows, surrounded by my mother’s scent of lilies and vanilla, slammed into me. I closed my eyes, basking in the memory of those long afternoons.
Hours full of love and safety, stories and songs, and freshly baked cookies.
Days without Father. When it was just the two of us in our own world.
Blinking away tears, I gathered what little courage I’d held onto and crept to the balcony doors.
You can do this, I told myself. You face what’s out there. Surely something that invoked memories of safety couldn’t be dangerous.
Taking a fortifying breath, I turned the handles and stepped outside, ready to face what awaited in the night.
The cool breeze wrapped itself around me, the scent of spring wrapping around my senses in the dark. I squinted, searching the shadows beyond.
My mother’s garden was in full bloom. The groundskeepers always made sure to keep it immaculate. Every hedge in the maze was perfectly trimmed, and every flower climbing the trellis looked like something out of a picture book.
Mother used to let the flowers grow wild, only pruning them back when they reached too far.
“It makes no sense to tame something that’s meant to be free,” she’d say, “just to make it fit the way we think it should look.”
Outside of the colorful blooms and soft gurgle of the fountain, there was nothing there.
Of course, there wasn’t. I wanted to laugh at my stupidity, but I was too relieved to do more than lift my face to the moon and exhale my remaining fear.
I loved being outside. I’d live on this balcony if I could. Father kept strict rules, though, and just like everything else, they existed specifically to remind me that I was a captive in this house.
“You are to be inside after dark. No exceptions.”
I decided I wouldn’t stay long. Just long enough to take a breath of fresh air and get my nerves back under control. Father was in a meeting, so the likelihood he’d catch me was slim.
A soft mewling cut through the silence of the night, and I smiled, recognizing the familiar sound. I leaned over the railing, searching for the cat I knew was under the balcony.
That was all the encouragement he needed. He scurried up the trellis, and the moment his paws hit the ground, I picked him up and buried my face in his fur.
I stayed outside for a while, letting myself relax in the one part of the house I felt closest to my mother, watching her flowers glow in the moonlight.
It hit me that for a few seconds before I’d opened those doors, I’d been anticipating the idea of someone being out here. At some moment I couldn’t quite pinpoint, fear had turned into something else.
Excitement, maybe. Or hope.
The idea that someone could be outside my room felt less like a threat and more like an opportunity.
Which was insane, and pathetic, and… true.
Now, lying on my side in bed and watching the cat curl up in a tight ball and fall asleep, I feel like I can’t breathe properly, and not only because of my injuries.
Days like this are the worst. When everything hits at once, and I realize how utterly alone I am. Not a soul knows I’m in this house outside of Father and the staff.
And worse… no one cares.
The only place I’m allowed to go now is when my father takes me to see my doctor.
The visits started once a year after I emerged as an Omega, but lately they’ve increased.
Every month, like clockwork, Father will pack me in the car and drive us to a place that looks more like a movie set than a Doctor’s Office. A wide, echoing lobby that had no receptionist, no waiting room full of patients, no magazines.
It’s cold and clinical, and I hate that my father believes I’m so stupid that I don’t know it isn’t a real Doctor’s office. The one time I questioned the lack of patients and other doctors, Father rolled his eyes, as if my question were outrageous.
“This is the same place I’ve been taking you for years, Idril,” he said. “You’re an Omega, and this is a private facility, not a public hospital. This is where the best doctors work. Off the books, of course.”
That’s the day I realized he would always underestimate me. He will always believe I’m an idiot just because I’m an Omega.
The only normal part of those visits is the Doctor himself. Doctor Albertson is a kind old man, with a bushy beard that’s gone from grey to white as the years passed, and spectacles that are always slipping down the bridge of his nose.
He’s always gentle, handling me like I’m a piece of glass he’s scared to break.
His kind words and soft demeanor never change, but recently, something else has started to shift.
First, it was the questions. Odd but vague.
“Have you had any strange feelings? Any tingling in your limbs or odd sensations in your mind?”
He smiled, acting like these were all perfectly logical things to ask, and I briefly contemplated that I might be reading too much into them.
Then they became more specific.
“Have you noticed any heat in your chest or limbs? What about the air? Have you noticed the temperature dropping quickly? I seem to remember your mother having a lovely garden right outside your room. How have those blooms been performing?”