Chapter 33 #2
I open my mouth, intending to ask Dax what the hell Riven’s problem is, but the words that tumble out instead are, “Why doesn’t Idril have socks and shoes?”
Pretty sure I look as shocked as Dax does, because that was… not at all what I meant to say.
My packmate glances at the Omega. “Why would she need socks and shoes? She’s not going anywhere, and she’s not here to be comfortable.”
I didn’t think someone as small as Idril could get even smaller, but somehow she does. It takes everything in me not to reach for her and offer what little comfort I can.
My jaw ticks, and I bite my cheek to keep from saying anything stupid—like suggesting she curl up on my lap and let me purr for her.
“What’s she here for, then?” Riven asks, spinning a gold fountain pen in his fingers. “Just curious.”
He flashes Dax a smile full of teeth.
If they weren’t close friends, I’d be worried that Dax might stab him in the throat.
“Ultimately, she’s here to help us bring down her father,” he cuts a disgusted look her way. “If she ever bothers to stop lying through her teeth. And when Caelan wakes up, and we find out what really happened, then she’ll be punished accordingly.”
I’m watching Idril closely—my new standard, apparently—so I don’t miss the way her hands ball into fists under the table or the subtle tick in her jaw when Dax says Caelan’s name.
Riven scoffs, but I interrupt before their Alpha pheromones get even thicker in here. We might have scent neutralizers built into every room, but they’re still overwhelming.
Leaning back, I arch a brow. “So why exactly is the Omega here now? I don’t think we need her help to decode fairytales.”
“We don’t.” Dax agrees. “That’s your job.”
He slides a few heavy books across the table toward me. “The Omega is transcribing historical texts too fragile to scan.”
I push a pulse of curiosity down the Bond. My eyes cut pointedly toward the Omega who’s bent over a sheath of papers, painstakingly copying lines from a loose text.
“She’s already well aware of what her father’s doing,” Dax answers my unspoken question out loud. “There’s nothing we’ll talk about that she’s going to take back to him.”
He catches her eye and gives her a satisfied smile, like they’re playing a game and he just scored a point.
Idril’s shoulders bunch closer to her ears, but she stays silent. She just keeps writing, her pen scratching across the paper in a flowing, delicate script.
The hours pass in a slow turn of pages and rustle of papers. Idril’s pen never stops, but her progress slows considerably. Her tidy handwriting fills sheet after sheet while I do my best to ignore her, losing myself in fables from Germany.
Mostly stories of Dietrich Von Berg and a few seriously unsettling versions of the Pied Piper that sound more like horror stories than children’s fairy tales.
Who the hell decided these should be told to children before bed?
At some point, Idril moved from the center of the table between Riven and me over to a large leather reading chair tucked into an alcove that has a rotating desk arm that can be adjusted to fit her height.
There had been a pillow and a fur-lined blanket on the back of the chair, but before she could sit, Dax strode over and yanked them away, tossing them carelessly onto one of the couches near the fireplace.
The sadness on her face brought back the ache in my chest. It’s not like I’m the one who kept her away from the blanket, so I don’t know what I have to feel guilty over.
No, you just watched it happen. Watched him take the only soft things she had access to. Watched as her face fell in disappointment.
I mean, what was I supposed to do? Fight with Dax over a blanket? Tell him to give it back? Tell him he was being unnecessarily cruel?
I can’t do that. That would mean admitting—out loud—that I care.
So I just… let it happen, drowning in self-loathing.
What’s strange, though, is that she didn’t fight him either. In fact, she hasn’t complained about anything.
Not about the clothes we make her wear and the way they’re too big and probably scratchy on her sensitive skin. There’s been no mention of the fact that she sleeps in the attic like a stray. She’s even kept silent about the lack of nesting materials.
She pretends like she’s fine, but I know better, because I’m apparently fucking psychotic now and can’t keep my damn eyes off of her when she’s near.
I clock the way she rubs the only soft material she has—her clothing—in an effort to appease her instincts to nest. I know Dax has noticed, too.
I won’t lie. It’s hard to watch. It makes my stomach swoop and my fingers twitch with desire to soothe her.
I keep telling myself she doesn’t deserve a nest or any other comforts, but the longer she goes without lashing out or making demands, the more I start to worry I might be doing damage that I won’t be able to come back from.
It just makes no sense. This would be so much easier if she were losing her shit. If she whined or demanded or yelled just once. I mean, she’s supposed to be a selfish Omega who lured our brother into a trap and nearly got him killed.
She’s either an amazing actress or I’m making a huge mistake. We all are.
What if we have it all wrong? What if we’re so convinced she’s lying because it makes it easier to have someone to blame?
No. Stop thinking that. Dax has gone over the proof a thousand times. Gav and Silas were there when she admitted her involvement. Your brother is fighting for his life, for Fate’s sake. Don’t get soft!
Dax and Riven are seated on one of the couches, various volumes full of folklore spread across the large coffee table in front of them. Heads close together, voices low, their whispers are the only sounds in the otherwise silent room.
I tune them out. I’m determined to find something, anything, that references a light or a gate or literally anything that points back to Calla and Daniella’s prophesies.
Sure, that’s what you’re doing. You’re totally not spending hours reading fairy tales as an excuse to be near the Omega.
I snort, irritated with my waffling. If Dax could read my mind, he’d lock me in my room until I got my shit straight.
Well, at least if I find something in these books, I’ll at least have something to show for my Alpha’s unwavering, frustrating need to be around the girl.
Silver fucking linings.
Ten minutes later, I realize that I’m—once again—staring at Idril. I can’t even remember making the conscious decision to look at her.
My mind just… wanders. And there she is.
If my thoughts were purely harmless, this would be nothing more than an annoyance.
I mean, they started harmless. She flexed her fingers, and I started thinking about how delicate they were, which led to my Alpha snarling over her lack of food intake—like we weren’t purposely keeping her hungry and tired so she’d break faster.
Then my thoughts crept sideways, straight into traitor territory, and all of a sudden I’m thinking ‘I should bring her another sandwich tonight,’ and ‘I bet I could steal some linens from the staff and leave them in her room.’
That’s where I should have stopped. Pumped the brakes. At the very least, been self-aware enough to realize that continuing to sneak behind my pack’s backs to comfort the Omega was something I shouldn’t be considering.
But because I’m me, and I apparently have the self-control of a fucking frat boy who just discovered kegstands, I allowed my stream-of-consciousness to take a left turn to Inner Caveman City.
Now I’m picturing the Omega tangled in my sheets, her wrists in my hands, her mouth open and back arching as she gasps my name.
I imagine the way she’d fit against me, her soft skin slick and hot with sweat against mine, and the way her pulse would feel when my fingers flex around her neck just enough to make her Omega whine in need.
I’m not even simply fantasizing about having her. I’m fantasizing about keeping her. Keeping her pinned beneath me, panting and marked and dripping in my scent and both our arousal. Marked and screaming and shaking and begging me for more, faster, harder—
I growl, forcing my eyes back on the page. This is ridiculous. I’m a walking HR violation at this point. I need to focus on the words. On the book. Not on the girl.
Not on her throat or her knees or—
Out of the corner of my eye, Idril shifts. Like she can feel me looking at her, she glances to the side, and her gaze slams into mine.
I should look away. Force my attention on anything that’s not her.
I don’t.
I hold her stare steadily, my own full of feral-longing. My heart’s racing, my breath coming in shallow, barely-there pants.
I know—I Fatesdamned know—that I’m broadcasting my desire and need, but right at this moment I don’t care.
Because she’s not looking away.
Her lips part. Her pupils dilate. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but—no.
Her breath catches, the sound barely audible across the six feet separating us. My body is tense, muscles coiled tight.
For a single heartbeat, I imagine her running.
I imagine the chase.
Riven coughs, and the sound rips us both out of the moment. I watch in real time as confusion replaces the interest in Idril’s eyes, and my own drop back to the page with a violent lurch.
Fuck.
After a long few minutes of talking myself down and begging my cock to fucking relax, the words on the page eventually come into focus once more.
Rumplestiltskin.
I snort. I would gladly give that asshole my firstborn if he’d spin these traitorous thoughts out of my fucking head.
Sighing, I let my head fall back and stare at the eaves of the ceiling, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Maybe I need to talk to Dax instead of hoping this shit will eventually stop on its own.
A sudden shout has my head snapping across the room to see Dax aggressively pointing at a page in a book sitting open on his lap. Riven snatches the book and holds it to his chest like he’s protecting the damn thing from Dax’s tirade.