Page 57 of Caged

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.