Page 211 of Caged

“Get up,” Cage barks.

I don’t argue. I don’t dare. Cautiously, I stand on shaking legs. I wipe my face as tears run hot and fast down my cheeks.

“Stop crying,” he snaps, snatching the paper and pen and shoving them into my chest.

“I suggest you get started. You’ll spend your days here until it’s finished.”

He exits the room with a cruel smile on his lips. Once he’s out of sight, I don’t even try to hold back my tears. I know, logically, he can still hear every broken sob. I just don’t care.

I’m tired, hungry, thirsty, and my bones ache. My head is pounding, and now my stomach feels like someone took a crowbar to my side to pry it open.

How much more of this can I put up with?

Three days of meaningless tasks. Three days with barely enough food to keep me upright. I’m under constant guard, my Mate is unconscious, I haven’t seen even a glimpse of him, and these Alphas watch me like I’m a bomb about to detonate at any moment.

Except when they want their questions answered, of course. Then they’re battering rams, slamming against the walls of my sanity.

“What is your father doing? What are his plans? Why did he hide you away? How did he know about Caelan?”

On and on, until their words blur and my eyes lose focus. The more truthful I am, the more convinced they are that I’m lying.

And why waste my time convincing them I never betrayed my Mate? I’m already losing moments. Reality fractures around me, like broken shards of glass spinning in slow motion through the air. The minutes, hours, days… they all blur together, until life is only hunger and pain, loud voices and scratchy material.

With no end in sight.

There’s no pleasing the Alphas, and certainly no fighting them.

I sink to my knees, wrap my arms around my stomach, and calm my breathing.

In and out. Steady.

I reach for my Bond, fortifying myself with its light. It’s the only way to get through moments like these. The only way to remember who I am. I can feel it, pulsing steadily, it’s light a bit brighter than before. I close my eyes, exhaling a breath of gratitude.

He’s healing.

I wipe my cheeks and settle back on my knees, mentally preparing myself to get started. Reaching to my right, I grab a random wooden crate, making sure to move slowly so I don’t pull at my injury.

Holding myself back makes me furious.

Everything I’ve been told about Alpha and Omega dynamics was clearly a lie. There’s no protection. There’s nothing but pain.

I grab hold of that anger and shove my discomfort into it until there’s nothing left but simmering irritation.

I’m angry. Angry at the whole world.

Angry at my books for making me believe the stories I’ve read are the standard. I’m angry with my mother for not warning me that her relationship with my father is the norm, not the exception. Angry that no one warned me I’d spend my life bouncing from one abusive asshole of an Alpha to another.

For hours, I only move to grab more boxes. I sift through broken watches, belt buckles, compasses, and all kinds of personal artifacts. All of them were left here after their owners died.

There are so many lost pieces. An ancient, beautiful rosary made of jade. Hand-carved dice. Even a silver ring with a house crest, still streaked with someone’s blood.

These aren’t simply random belongings of dead warriors. They’re tokens. The kind of heirloom you cradle close to your heart as you draw your last breaths.

I don’t have the faintest idea who any of this belonged to, which adds a macabre intimacy to each piece.

I can’t help wondering about the males who owned these mementos.

What lives did they lead? Did they leave loved ones behind? What did they die for? Was it worth it?