Chapter 8 #2
“It’s research,” he finally said. “Doctor Albertson is using your blood to conduct very specific research that will benefit other Omegas. There are things about Omega science we still don’t understand. Fertility issues, designation-specific therapies, blood-borne illnesses.”
I scooted to the edge of the seat and sat up straighter. “I didn’t consent to—”
“You are my daughter,” he barked. His voice cracked through the room like a firework, and his fist slammed onto his desk so hard everything rattled.
I flinched, baring my throat as soft whine forced its way out.
I hated myself for it.
“You live under my roof. Eat my food. Drink my water,” he listed off each item like I had a choice in any of them. “You wear my clothes and read my books. I give you every advantage in life. Access to care, knowledge, as well as my protection as your father.”
I nearly scoffed. Protection? From what, the mice in the walls?
He certainly wasn’t protecting me from Alexander if he was considering handing me off to him.
“All I ask,” he spat, leaning over his desk, hands planted firmly on the surface, “is that you cooperate when your blood can serve a greater purpose.”
I swallowed thickly, then sat up, realizing I pushed myself all the way to the back of the chair. “I deserve to know what’s being done with my blood.”
He scoffed, cruel amusement in his eyes. It was there and gone so quickly I nearly missed it. Then that calm, collected mask appeared, hiding the monster from view.
Slowly, Father stood from his chair. The way he moved—like a predator preparing to attack—had my instincts screaming at me to run.
He rounded his desk with measured, sure steps. His gate was leisurely, like he was enjoying himself.
He stopped directly in front of me. He was close. Too close. He towered over me, forcing me to crane my neck back in order to see his face. I could smell his Alpha scent—overpowering and burnt with irritation.
“Stand up,” he demanded quietly.
I stood. My legs trembled, and I prayed he wouldn’t notice. Even standing, he was so much taller than me.
I hated it. It made me feel weak and small.
It made me feel like I might have made a huge mistake.
His hand reached for my face, and I flinched. But instead of striking me, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
It would have been a loving gesture coming from anyone else.
“You look so much like your mother,” he muttered. The way he said it—wistful, but proprietary, made my stomach drop. His fingers ran down my cheek and lingered on my jaw, tilting my face further so I had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“You have the same eyes. The same streak of stubbornness. It’s the only thing I haven’t been able to eradicate from you both completely.”
I felt my heart stutter in my chest. I wanted to close my eyes, look away, do anything but hold my father’s gaze in that moment.
“Your mother thought she should have autonomy as well, did you know that?” His thumb brushed across my cheekbone tenderly, and I had to choke back a whine. I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. I could hardly even breathe.
“Do you know what happened to her?”
Tears stung my eyes, and it took everything in me not to let them fall.
Father leaned down until his face was mere inches from mine. So close our noses nearly touched. So close, I could feel his warm breath on my skin.
“Your mother learned that in this house, I decide what happens. To everyone. Including you.” He tilted his head. “I only had to put your mother in the basement once before she started to obey. I thought once would be enough for you, as well. Was I wrong?”
His hand dropped, and he took a step back. I was still trying to remember how to breathe as he pivoted and stalked around his desk, retaking his seat as though the last three minutes hadn’t happened.
“If you’re asking for control over your body, daughter, you may have it.”
I gasped. My chest tightened, hope blooming beneath the warmth of that small, stubborn flame.
“However, autonomy has consequences.”
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and peeled it off, slinging it over the back of his chair.
“You want control? Then you’ll manage your own needs.
No meals from the kitchen, no nesting materials, no trips to my library.
I’ll have Mara collect the books and clothes from your room, so you won’t be tempted to use things that don’t belong to you. ”
I should have seen this coming. This cruelty was my real father, beneath the mask of propriety he wore outside the house. This was Jonathan Varenthrall, the Alpha. The man who always got what he wanted and would tear down anyone who got in his way.
Including me.
“But I—”
“You may use my things again when you’re ready to return to being my obedient daughter,” he interrupted. When he met my eyes I found myself searching desperately for something I would never find. Humanity, maybe? A soul?
His stoicism cracked and he smiled. It was taunting smile and victory glinted in his eyes as he added, “Until you remember your place in this house, I do hope you enjoy your… independence.”
He looked away, picking up another report and effectively dismissing me. I stood frozen, stunned, my mouth parted in shock.
What just happened? How did that go so wrong so fast?
With numb, jerky movements, I retreated. Right as I wrapped my hand around the door handle, he spoke.
“Oh, and daughter?”
I stilled, fear making my breaths stutter. He waited until I glanced at him over my shoulder before continuing.
“There are others who wouldn’t be nearly as patient with you as I have been. I’ve been putting them off, but—” He shrugged, scribbling a note on his paper. “My patience wears thin.”
I fled.
That afternoon, our housekeeper returned. She scurried in, refusing to meet my eyes while she gathered what little remained to me and packed it away in a cardboard box. Books, clothing, my mother’s hair ribbons—all of it went into the box while I watched, unable to protest.
Father stood in the doorway the whole time, making sure I understood the cost of my defiance.
I only found the courage to move when she grabbed my baby blanket.
I snatched it out of her hands, I turned to my father, begging him to let me keep it.
It was small. No larger than a small towel, but it was soft, and my mother embroidered little flowers, flames, water droplets, and swirling patterns on it for me.
Outside of her pendant—which I never took off—it was all I had left of her.
“Please,” I begged, hands shaking and eyes blurred with tears. Mara stood between us awkwardly with eyes full of pity.
He directed his answer to Mara with a cruel smile.
“All of it, Mara.”
Shaking, I reluctantly handed it over, knowing if I fought, my punishment would be worse. Mara folded it gently, and placed it with the rest, mouthing ‘I’m sorry,” as she sealed the box and left.
Now, the only piece of furniture left besides my bed—a mattress on the floor with a bath towel in place of a blanket—is a small desk, sitting in the corner.
My room looks like it was abandoned. Like one of those liminal spaces you aren’t quite sure exist in real life.
It hurts, seeing how awful things have become. I used to have a beautiful room, filled with furniture and pretty, whimsical decorations.
There were rugs on the floors, and framed photos hung on the walls. My bed even had a dropped canopy with fairy lights my mother helped me hang when I was eight.
Little by little, Father’s stripped it all away until nothing remains except my mattress, my desk, and me.
Well… the cat is here too, but I know Father will take him if he finds out. I can’t let that happen.
I’ve started calling him Shade because of the way his sleek black coat seems to absorb light. Every so often he cracks one bright yellow eye open and looks around.
I get the feeling he’s just pretending to sleep.
Now, he’s my only comfort. If I knew the meal Mara brought me three nights ago would be my last for a while, I would’ve asked for more.
Father’s only kept food from me this long once before.
In the basement.
No. I can’t think about the basement. Not now. Not ever, if I can help it.
I try so hard to black out those memories. For the most part, I succeed. Except no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget the hunger. I can’t forget the way my stomach felt like it was caving in, like my body was eating itself. An empty hole I was sure would never be filled again.
It hasn’t gotten that bad yet, but I can feel the cramps starting. My limbs feel weighted down with exhaustion and lack of energy. Breathing feels like a chore, each inhale more shallow than the last.
I have nothing to do but think and sleep, and every day my anxiety increases as the reality of my uncertain future cements itself with every passing hour.
I miss my mother.
I miss our long afternoons together and all the ways she turned every day into an adventure.
Father never let us go anywhere without bodyguards shadowing our every move. Even alone in the house, someone was always watching, either in person or through the cameras placed strategically throughout the house.
She always made sure to reminded me that we weren’t ever truly alone.
Even bundled together inside our blanket fort, she’d raise a finger to her lips and whisper, “Quiet, little ember. Don’t forget, our words can be snatched from the air, carried away on the wind.
We must be careful. We must keep our stories safe. ”
My mother was beautiful. The only light in my otherwise dark world. And yet, there was always a sense of melancholy lurking under her smiles. The ones she wore just for me. I remember the way the scent of fear clung to her like it was a permanent part of her Omega perfume.
Even terrified, she somehow managed to be strong for me. When Father wasn’t poisoning every corner of our home with his presence, she was working diligently to fill it with stories and laughter and hope.
I remember how she used to hold my hands and swing me around and around, her laughter full of anticipating and love. Then, when I least expected it, she would let go and send me soaring through the air to land safely in a pile of pillows and cushions. The dizzy joy of it had been addicting.
It felt like flying—the rush of air, the weightlessness, the freedom.
“One day, my sweet girl,” she promised. “One day, you will soar.”
I wish I still had the same belief in her promises as I had when I was young. My hope feels like it’s dying, shrinking to nothing under the gnawing hunger in my belly and the furious injustice in my heart.
I’m not mad at my mother, though. I’m mad at myself.
How many years have I allowed myself to be shackled like this?
My mother was who taught me to be submissive around my father, but somewhere along the way I’ve forgotten all our private, happy moments.
I watch the shadows move across my bedroom wall as the sun sets on another day, and will myself not to think about the cold and hunger. I haven’t moved out of bed all day except to use the bathroom and refill my water. I can’t. Each time I stand, the room tilts and spins around me.
This life, it isn’t sustainable.
I have to do something. I can’t just lay here and wait for death or worse. I can’t let all the years my mother spent hoping for a better life for me die without even trying to fight for it.
Enough wallowing in the past. It’s time to start thinking of the future.
I’m going find a way out of this house. Out of this life.
Neither are enough for me any longer. I don’t want to simply exist in the background, playing a small role in someone else’s story. I don’t want my father to decide my future—a future I know would be hell, no matter what choice he makes.
I’m starting to realize that Alexander is most likely only one in a long list of terrible options Father has planned for me.
I want my life to matter.
I want to be the main character.
Change is coming. I don’t know when, but it is. Even if I have to make it.
And when it does, I’m going to be ready for it.