Chapter 11 #2
The concern in her voice sounds genuine.
The satisfaction underneath it doesn't.
"I'm sure," I say.
Ragon nods approvingly. "Good. It's nice to see you two working together."
Working together.
As if this is collaboration and not me giving up every piece of territory I have left because fighting for it brought me pain and isolation.
"I was thinking," Marie says a few days later, "we should rearrange the pantry again. Group things by meal type instead of ingredient type. It would make cooking easier."
She's looking at me when she says it. Waiting.
The old Vee would have argued. Would have pointed out that I'm the one who cooks most of the meals and I organized it the way that makes sense for my process.
The current Vee knows that argument ends with Ragon's voice going cold and another week added to the ban that no longer feels like a ban. It’s more of a way of life by now.
"Sure," I say. "That makes sense."
Her smile widens. "Really? You think so?"
"Yeah. Meal type. Smart."
"Great! I'll start on it this afternoon." She pauses. "Unless you want to help?"
"You've got it."
She practically glows.
Ragon, reading his tablet at the table, glances up. His gaze moves between us, then settles on me with something that looks like approval.
See? his expression says. This is what I wanted. Cooperation. Harmony.
He thinks he fixed me.
He thinks the punishment worked.
He doesn't realize I've just learned that having opinions is dangerous and keeping my mouth shut means fewer painful corrections.
Eli looks like he's being punished too.
I come into the kitchen one afternoon for water and find him already there, scrolling through something on his tablet.
"Hey," he says softly. "Hydration break?"
"Yeah. Trying not to mummify."
He huffs a laugh. It dies quickly.
I get a glass, turn on the tap. Cold water, no thoughts.
"What are you working on?"
"Budget. Jasper eats a lot."
"That explains the third loaf of bread."
"Among other things."
I turn, glass in hand.
Our eyes meet.
The instinct to step forward is automatic. So is the jolt of fear when I remember I'm not allowed.
My muscles lock.
He sees it. Of course he does.
"Vee," he says quietly, and there is so much in that single syllable. Apology. Helplessness. Anger.
My throat closes.
"Budget's important. Gotta keep the bread coming."
His jaw works. "This isn't—" He stops himself, eyes flicking toward the doorway. "Never mind."
"Okay."
This is what the ban really is: not just the absence of touch, but the thick layer of unsaid that settles over everything.
Later, I hear them fighting.
I'm not supposed to be listening. But the house is old and sound carries.
"It's been weeks," Eli says, voice tight. "She's collapsing in on herself."
"She's learning boundaries," Ragon replies.
"She's learning to disappear."
I don't hear the rest.
I slip away before they realize I'm there.
Jasper talks to me sometimes.
He picks his moments carefully.
I'm at the sink one evening, scrubbing a pan that doesn't need it, when he steps into the kitchen.
"You missed a spot."
I freeze.
He nods toward the handle. "Grease. You can feel it when you run your thumb along the underside."
I do. He's right. I scrub it again.
"Thanks."
He leans on the island. "You like cooking."
It's not a question.
"It gives me something to do. People have to eat."
"What do you get out of it? Besides food."
I hesitate.
"Something I can start and finish. Something that doesn't talk back."
He makes a thoughtful noise. "You think people are something you don't get to 'finish.'"
"I think people change the rules halfway through."
He doesn't argue.
"You've been in your room a lot."
"I like my room."
"You liked the common spaces more. Before."
My knuckles whiten around the dishcloth.
"Ragon told you."
"I have eyes. And a functional memory."
I rinse the pan again even though it's very clean.
"I'm not going to comfort you," he says, and the bluntness is almost a kindness. "That's not my role. Not yet. Maybe never."
I nod.
"But I am going to ask you questions. Even if you don't answer them. Because silence is information too."
"What questions."
He watches me for a long moment.
"Do you genuinely believe you are beyond repair, or is that someone else's voice you've decided to keep?"
The pan slips a little in my hands.
Water runs. The clock ticks. Somewhere down the hall, Marie laughs at something Drake says.
"I should wipe the counters," I say.
"I noticed you do a lot of counters when you're trying not to think."
He lets it go and leaves.
I wipe the counters until they shine.
Gardening becomes my escape.
After the fourth week of exile, my walls start to close in.
It's too quiet in my room. Too loud in the house.
The backyard is just dirt.
I step outside one afternoon because if I stay inside for another minute I might scream. The sun hits my face. The air smells like cut grass and old leaves.
The garden beds along the back fence are fine. Functional. Eli planted what would survive neglect.
My hands itch looking at it.
I find gloves in the shed. A trowel. Potting soil.
I kneel in the dirt and dig.
It's satisfying in a way nothing else has been lately. The resistance of the soil, the crumble of it between my fingers. The small snap of roots giving way.
I weed with ruthless focus.
"Lucky plants," I mutter. "You get clear instructions. Sun. Water. Don't die. No one asks you to communicate your feelings."
I work until my knees protest and my back twinges. Sweat sticks my shirt to my spine.
At some point, I realize I'm breathing easier.
The back door opens.
I don't turn around.
"You're going to compact the soil if you kneel there too long," Jasper says.
"I'll aerate it. It'll be fine."
"You know what you're doing."
"I know enough. Plants are forgiving. If you mess up, you buy more."
"Different from people."
I rock back on my heels. "That why you like them less?"
"Plants don't call me when their alpha breaks a window. Or when someone forgets to lock the medicine cabinet."
"Plants just die quietly."
"People do, too," he says. "If you're not watching."
The words hang between us.
I look back at the bed.
"I'm watching, Vee."
"I know. You're always watching."
"It's my job. And I'm very good at my job."
"Gold star."
I jab the trowel into the soil again.
He doesn't push.
He leaves me there with the dirt and the sun.
I plant new seeds.
Herbs first—basil, thyme, sage. Then flowers—calendula, marigolds.
I water them carefully.
They don't flinch when I get too close. They don't care if I sit beside them and talk to myself. They don't ask if I've learned my place yet.
They just exist, unapologetically alive.
The first time a seedling breaks through the soil, tiny and fragile and absurdly brave, I stare at it for so long my knees go numb, this time by my own choice.
"You don't even know what you're growing into yet," I whisper. "You just decided, 'Okay, I'm doing this,' and went for it."
It doesn't answer.
It doesn't have to.
***
More weeks pass.
My world shrinks.
Morning: cook, bar stool, "yes, Alpha." Afternoon: clean, counters, maybe a book I can't focus on. Evening: chair, movie, sounds through the wall.
In between, I go outside and tend my little kingdom of things that cannot judge me.
I start talking less because it's easier than hearing my own voice bounce off walls that don't answer.
I start leaving rooms when laughter gets too loud.
I start thinking about registry forms the way some people think about vacations.
Maybe they'd let me request a placement in some quiet rural region. Or no placement at all. Maybe there's a box you can tick that says I'm done. Stop trying.
Maybe I'll get to be something other than an omega if no one's around to see it.
The thought feels treasonous.
It also feels like relief.
One morning, Ragon finds me in the garden.
I don't hear him approach. Just feel his shadow fall across the bed I'm weeding.
My whole body goes tense.
"The garden looks good," he says.
I don't look up. "Thank you, Alpha."
"You've been spending a lot of time out here."
"It needed work."
He's quiet for a moment. I can feel him watching me. Assessing.
"You seem calmer," he says finally. "More settled."
Settled.
I want to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both.
Instead I say, "Yes, Alpha."
"I'm glad the structure is helping. I know it's been hard, but you're adjusting well."
My fingers dig into the soil.
He thinks this is progress.
He thinks I've finally been broken in, like a pair of stiff leather shoes.
He doesn't realize that I've just accepted the inevitable. That I'm not adjusting—I'm waiting.
Waiting for the day he decides managing me isn't worth it anymore.
Waiting for him to find a cleaner solution than having a broken omega taking up space in his house.
Waiting to be returned.
"Thank you, Alpha," I say again.
He nods, satisfied, and goes back inside.
I sit in the dirt and stare at my hands.
They're shaking.
That night, I lie in my nest and try to remember what it felt like to be wanted.
Not needed. Not tolerated. Not managed.
Wanted.
The memory is getting harder to find.
Every night, I wonder how many more weeks before Ragon decides isolation isn't working and chooses the cleaner solution.
Every night, I reach for a comfort that isn't there and pull my hand back before it touches anything.
In the garden, things grow.
Inside, I'm not sure if I am.
Or if I'm just waiting to be returned.
Again.