Chapter 8
Idril
It’s been three days.
Three days since I stood in my father’s study, trying to be brave.
Three days since I was reminded, once again, that my bravery is pointless.
Three days since my father cut off my food and stripped my room of everything but my mattress, a towel, and two changes of clothes.
That isn’t the worst part, though. The worst part is that it’s been three days since I’ve felt that tiny flicker of warmth in my chest. The little flame of courage that my mother used to tell me about in her stories.
I try to remember the taste of bread. Not the stale scraps Mara sometimes brings, but real bread—soft, flaky, warm. The kind I used to make with my mother, that drips butter and honey and is so soft your fingers melt into it.
We only got to make it a few times—when Father would go on business trips and the whole estate became ours for days.
We would bake and dance around the kitchen, belting lyrics to 90’s pop songs at the top of our lungs. My mother’s ice blonde hair always looked like spun gold in the sunlight, and her eyes—light blue, like mine—sparkled when she laughed.
At night, we would curl up in the blanket fort, and she would tell me stories.
It wasn’t until I revisited those storybooks years after her death that I realized she hadn’t been reading them to me at all. She had been making up her own stories.
“The princess had unimaginable power, locked deep in her soul. She could feel its warmth, like a flickering ember,” she’d whisper. “All she had to do to make it burn was fan the flames.”
She’d take my little hands and cup them between hers, guiding our heads to hover over our imaginary fire.
“Like this, see?” She’d blow softly into my palms. I’d giggle and follow her lead, our breath swirling together in the space between us. Then she’d pull me close and press a kiss to my hair, still holding my child’s hands in her more elegant ones.
“Very good, my sweet girl,” she’d whisper. “Just like that. Let it burn.”
Saturday morning, for the first time, I thought I felt a flicker of that flame.
I was wrong, and now I’m paying for it.
That morning, I woke to pale sunlight streaming in through my windows. My body still ached, and my ribs especially screamed every time I moved, but after listening to my father’s conversation with Alexander the night before, my first thoughts weren’t of my pain.
They were thoughts full of anger and indignation, instead.
I’d been lying there, staring at the ceiling and trying to come up with ways to avoid whatever plans my father had in store for me, when our housekeeper knocked on my door.
I couldn’t open it from my side. The lock on the outside was another part of my punishment for trying to run away. Mara must have realized the same thing because a few moments later, I heard the sound of the lock clicking open.
“Miss Idril,” she peeked around the edge of the door and gave me a soft smile, but I could tell something was wrong when it didn’t meet her eyes.
“Your father wants you to meet him in the foyer in fifteen minutes. You have a doctor’s appointment.”
Something inside of me recoiled instinctively.
We had just visited his office two weeks ago. He’d drawn so much blood I could barely stand afterward.
Why would we be going back? Had he been running tests?
A terrible thought started to work its way into my mind, taking root and making me nauseous with the possibility.
Was I sick?
Mara couldn’t give me any answers. Her only direction was to tell me to wait in the foyer for my father after I was ready.
I stood there for far too long after she left, staring at the door. Possibilities circled like poison until the anxiety was a living, breathing thing. If my father wanted me to go back to the Doctor so soon, then there must be something wrong. Seriously wrong.
Why would he keep me in the dark? If something was wrong with me, didn’t I deserve to know?
That broke me out of my spiral, and indignation flared, snaking through my fear and forcing my body to move.
Wrapping my courage around myself like a cloak, I’d flung open my bedroom doors and made my way downstairs. I was headed to the west wing, where my father’s offices were located, and I was, for the first time in living memory, angry enough to confront him.
Making my way from my wing to his reminded me just how much I hate this house. It’s gaudy and sterile and nothing like how Mother decorated it when she was alive.
The estate has been in my father’s family for generations.
They all died years ago, but our home reflects their legacy.
It’s huge. Ostentatious. Full of velvet drapes and patterned furniture no one actually sits on.
It feels like living in a curated museum, and I’m always nervous I’ll get yelled at if I touch anything.
The closer I got to Father’s study, the darker and more suffocating the house became.
Old oil paintings lined the walls, sconces flickered dimly, and created oddly shaped shadows across the floors. Closed doors pressed in like silent sentries on each side of me.
By the time I reached the correct door, my hands were sweating, my heart was racing, and my breaths were coming in jagged pants.
I was terrified, but I’d come this far. I wasn’t about to walk away. If there was something wrong with my health, then I should be allowed to make my own decisions about my body. My fear had morphed to anger by the time I raised my hand to knock on the door.
“Enter.” My father’s command was almost a bark, and I cringed. He was already mad.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
I’d cracked the door, peering in just far enough to see him sitting behind the huge desk that took up the majority of the room.
Books lined the walls, and I was fairly sure most of the spines on them had never even been cracked.
A large picture window was situated behind him, the golden glow of the morning’s rays filtering in, bathing my father in their light.
Jonathan Varenthrall was, like most Alphas, a large man. He had a powerful build with a broad chest, narrow waist, and long limbs. Even sitting behind his desk, he easily towered over my short frame.
The thirteen-inch height difference always felt imposing, but that day it felt like a direct threat as he sat reading, refusing to even acknowledge my presence in the room.
Objectively, my father was a good-looking man, but looks were meaningless. A strong jaw and tailored suit couldn’t mask the rotten core inside, and in the last few months, he’d let me see beneath the mask more and more often.
Then, the night he’d sent me to the basement, he’d ripped it off completely.
No. You will not think about that right now.
I squared my shoulders. There was nothing my father respected more than power, and with that in mind, I lifted my chin and took a step into the room.
“Idril.” A sneer pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I told Mara you were to meet me in the foyer in fifteen minutes. Is there a reason you’re not where you were told to be?”
I took a slow, deep breath, as the words I wanted to speak clawed at the back of my throat.
I could do this.
“Yes. Father, I—” I had to stop, swallow, then try again.
“I came to ask why we were going back to the Doctor’s. We were just there a few weeks ago.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
“If there’s something wrong,” I continued, taking another small step toward his desk, “I want to know what it is.”
I so desperately wanted to meet his eyes. Just once, I wanted to feel the warmth and concern I always hoped my father felt for me.
But like always, I was disappointed. He placed the paper he was reading face down. I studied his expression, eyes flitting across his face, tracing every flicker of movement.
It was like I wasn’t even in the room.
“Am I sick?” The question came out more like a demand, and I instinctively cringed back, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands and working the soft, worn material between my fingers.
Finally, Father leaned back in his chair, placing his clasped hands on his stomach, and lifted his eyes to meet mine. The cruelty swimming there made me take another step back. There was nothing but open hostility. Disgust.
“No, Idril.” His lips twitched, like he was suppressing a smile, the anger morphing into condescension. “You are not sick.”
A breath rushed out of my lungs, and my shoulders slumped. I hadn’t realized just how deeply that fear had dug in its claws.
He waved a hand toward the chair across from him. “Sit down, daughter.”
I eyed him warily, but sat.
I felt like I was drowning in the overlarge chair. It was clearly built for an Alpha, the leather cold and stiff.
“We are going to Dr. Albertson’s because he needs more of your blood,” Father replied, as if it were obvious.
“Not that I owe you an explanation, but I’d hate for your…
” he frowned, flicking his fingers like he could just as easily flick away my designation, “Omega sensibilities to cause unnecessary anxiety. That would interfere with the process.”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry.
“I don’t understand,” I croaked. “What process? Why would he draw more blood if I’m not sick?”
He was out of his mind if he thought I was just going to let him take my blood without consent. Without explanation.
He leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin, and leveled me with a flat stare.
“Because I said so, Idril. You will do as I say. Albertson needs more blood samples, and you will comply.”
It was just that simple for him.
“Those aren’t samples, Father.” I spat, my anger gaining traction. The flicker of heat in my chest flared brighter. “Samples would imply one or two vials. Not so much that your daughter nearly passes out.”
He studied me like I was an insect under a microscope. Then he tilted his head to the side and exhaled a small sigh.