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Idril’s Mate.
Kane grins, shrugs, then unsheaths a dagger—from I don’t even fucking know where—and starts absently twirling it between his fingers, performing an increasingly intricate series of loops and skips with each pass.
Not once does the asshole look at the damn thing.
Where the fuck did he pull that dagger from?
Shaking my head, I wrench my eyes away from him when a nurse stops in front of Gav and hands him a paper. Gav dismisses the her with a wave of his hand, jaw clenching as his gaze flicks over the words. When he’s done, he folds it into thirds and slips it into his pocket.
“Good news,” he announces. “The Omega is mostly fine. She’s tired, dirty, and dehydrated. Has a few scrapes and bruises that need tending but nothing serious I don’t think.”
The door to the exam room swings open right as he finishes speaking. Branwen steps out—all five-foot-three of fiery personality, ebony curls, and way too much sass for this late at night.
Like she can fucking hear my thoughts, her eyes land on me and she smiles.
I don’t like it.
I like it less when she points a finger at me and says, “You. Pretty boy.”
My brows fly to my hairline. “Uh... yes?”
“What do I have to do to get a shower in this place?” She scans the hall dramatically, like one might jump out and turn it on for her. Before I can respond, she frowns, skidding to a stop mid-stride.
“Where the bloody hell is Idril?”
“I’m here.” Idril’s voice is so soft it barely carries down the hall. She leans forward, peeking around the wolven with a relieved smile.
She pushes off the wall and, like a whipped puppy, Soren follows at her heels as she makes her way unsteadily toward the Omega—er, Branwen.
“Are you alright?” Branwen asks, voice full of concern as she rushes toward her. It’s impossible to miss how fluid and easy her movements are compared to Idril’s jerky, exhausted steps.
Like Idril, not Branwen, is the one who spent Fates know how long locked in a cage.
That stabbing ache in my chest returns, and I make myself ignore it.
“Me?” Idril asks, astonished. “I should be asking you that.”
Branwen dismisses her concern with a flick of the wrist. “I’m right as rain. Your father only had me a few days. Where are your rooms? Take me to them, I beg of you. I’m dying to get out of these clothes.”
Idril presses her lips into a thin line as a strangled sound gets caught in her throat.
My jaw’s clenched so tight it hurts.
Fates. She doesn’t know how to answer. She doesn’t know how to answer, because she doesn’t have a room, let alone extra clothes to offer her.
I shoot Daxen a panicked look. His eyes widen, but he quickly schools his features and, ignoring Idril’s lack of rooms—and clothing—addresses Branwen.
“You can have a shower after we talk.”
Right now I wish I was more like Dax and could just ignore shit. Instead, all I can think about is how we never even gave Idril a bed to sleep on.
I mean... apparently her own room—that I’m guessing doesn’t include a shitty attic—is the bare minimum expected of us. And Branwen has no clue Idril hasn’t had either the whole time she’s been here.
Shame slams into me out of nowhere. Gods, even the thought of sending her back to that fucking cell tonight— I press my fist against my sternum, over the stabbing pain. Like that’ll somehow alleviate the ache.
It doesn’t.
Idril turns, and I watch her, unable to look away.
