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They aren’t going to listen. They aren’t going to let me explain what really happened.

I hang my head, praying they can’t see the tears shimmering in my eyes.

My response is barely audible. “Yes.”

“Perfect. Now, I asked you a question. Are you hungry?”

I nod once, still unable to push words through the tightness in my throat.

Vaelenor hums in acknowledgment. Before he can reply, though, Cage speaks up.

“We figured that might be the case, so we saved you a plate.”

Something about his gleeful tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Vae reaches across the table and snatches an empty glass from a serving tray, his movements casual and unhurried. He fills it with water from the pitcher, ice clinking softly against crystal as condensation beads on the outside. Tiny droplets slide down the glass to pool on the white tablecloth.

He places it in front of me.

Just… sets it there. Within reach. Close enough that I swear I can feel the icy coldness of it. Close enough, I can see the light refracting through the liquid and glass, creating a kaleidoscope of colors.

My tongue is thick in my mouth. My throat’s suddenly so dry I can’t swallow. The last time I was given anything to drink was in the cell. It was a mini bottle of room-temperature water that I finished so fast I barely tasted it.

My hands itch, but I don’t dare reach for the glass.

I lift my gaze to Vaelenor. I hate how weak my voice is when I finally manage to force sound past my vocal cords. It isn’t a question or even a word that comes out. To my endless mortification, I only manage a soft, uncertain whimper.

If I’m not allowed to speak unless spoken to, then it’s not much of a leap to assume I’m also not allowed to take things without explicit permission.

When I was nine years old, I snuck into the kitchen and stole one of the cupcakes left out to cool on the counter. The chef made them for my Father because they were his favorite. I still remember the smell of chocolate and sugar that filled every room, and how badly I wished for just one of the treats.

There were so many. I never thought it would matter if I took one. Didn’t believe anyone would miss it.

I can still hear the sound the bone in my finger made when it cracked under the force of my father’s grip. Still remember the pain of having to take a trip the next day to Dr. Albertson’s so he could reset and splint it.

I wonder how many lessons I can pinpoint to specific moments in my childhood.

How many rules did I have to learn not to break?

Vaelenor tilts his head to the side. I wait, holding my breath, until finally, his expression clears, smoothing into something resembling understanding.

He gives me a single, small nod.

Permission.

I feel his eyes focusing on my trembling fingers as I wrap them around the glass. The condensation is cool and wet on my palms, and when the first taste of liquid touches my lips, I almost cry.

The water is crisp, cool, and blessedly wet. Absolute perfection. I take another sip. Then another. I barely breathe between long, desperate pulls that slide down my throat and soothe it in a way that makes my eyes burn with relief.

A hand appears in my peripheral vision. Large and tan and moving toward my glass. Panic spikes through my limbs. My fingers flex and tighten around the glass. My breath catches in my lungs and something that feels like betrayal lodges itself in my throat.

No.

Please, no, you just gave it to me. You just said I could have it!

But the hand doesn’t take my water away. It just hovers there. Close enough to steady my glass if I drop it, but not taking. Not stealing. Not yanking it away with loud words and hard fists.

“Slow down, Omega.” Vae murmurs. “You’ll throw up.”