Chapter 197

Chapter 197
Citlali's POV

I looked at Kira and saw tears streaming down her face, saw her free hand come up to cover her mouth as if to hold back a sob.

Prince Snow moved back toward us, but he didn't sit, just stood there with his hands hanging at his sides, looking more defeated than I'd ever seen anyone look.

"My father knows," he said, his voice flat now, emotionless. "He knows how I feel about Kira. And he's made it very clear what will happen if I don't cooperate with his plans."

He paused, and when he spoke again, each word seemed to be dragged from somewhere deep and painful.

"He'll take her from me. He'll give her to the nobles, let them do to her what they're doing to all the others. He'll make me watch while they destroy her, piece by piece, until there's nothing left of the woman I love."

The threat was so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it made my skin crawl.

Prince Snow returned to his seat, moving like a man twice his age, and when he spoke again his voice was heavy with exhaustion.

"So I do what I can," he said quietly. "I make sure there's enough food, that no one starves to death. I've given orders that the guards aren't to use excessive force—though as you've discovered, those orders aren't always followed."

He looked at me, and I saw in his eyes a plea for understanding, for absolution that I couldn't give him.

"I try to limit how often the nobles can visit, try to space out their... their sessions so that the women have time to recover between. I've had the cells cleaned, made sure there are proper mattresses and blankets, arranged for medical care when it's needed."

Each item on his list felt like a slap, like an insult to the women suffering below.

"That's your mercy?" I asked, my voice cold. "Clean cells and regular meals while we're being raped?"

Prince Snow's face crumpled, and he looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

"I know," he whispered. "I know it's not enough. It will never be enough. But it's all I can do. It's all I'm allowed to do."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it, just bitter self-loathing. "What a hero I am, right? Making sure my father's victims are comfortable while they're being violated. Making sure they're well-fed before they're bred like livestock."

"It's all I can do," he repeated, and the defeat in his voice was absolute.

Prince Snow stood, and I realized with a jolt that this meeting was ending, that I was about to be sent back to that cell.

"It's late," he said, his voice carefully neutral now, all emotion locked away again. "You should return to your cell. Get some rest."

He looked at me, and his expression was complicated—regret and guilt and something that might have been genuine concern all mixed together.

"I won't touch you," he said quietly. "And I'll do what I can to keep the nobles away from you, at least for a while. But I can't make any promises. I can't guarantee that someone won't come for you eventually."

I stood as well, my legs unsteady but my spine straight, refusing to show weakness even now.

"I don't need your protection," I said, even though we both knew it was a lie.

Prince Snow's mouth quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Perhaps not. But you have it anyway, for whatever it's worth."

He turned to Kira. "Take her back, please. And... make sure she has extra blankets. It's cold in those cells."

Kira nodded and stood, her face carefully blank again, all traces of tears wiped away.

"Come," she said quietly. "I'll take you back."

I didn't respond to Prince Snow's offer, didn't acknowledge his attempt at kindness, just turned and moved toward the door.

Kira followed, and we stepped out into the corridor together, the heavy door closing behind us with a soft click.

As soon as we were alone in the hallway, as soon as we were out of Prince Snow's earshot, I stopped and turned to face her.

"Kira," I said, my voice low and urgent. "You can't just stand by. These are your people. Our people. You have to help them."

Her steps faltered, and she looked at me with wide, frightened eyes.

"You have his ear," I continued, desperation making my voice shake. "You have influence. You could do something. Please."

Kira's face crumbled, and I saw understanding dawn in her expression as she heard the plea in my words.

Her lips trembled, and for a moment I thought she might actually agree.

But then she shook her head, a tiny movement that was barely perceptible.

"I can't," she whispered, her hands coming up in a helpless gesture. "Citlali, I can't. I'm a prisoner too. I don't have that kind of power here."

The disappointment that crashed over me was so intense it was almost physical, a wave of crushing despair that made my knees weak.

I'd known, on some level, that she wouldn't help, that she couldn't help.

The walk back through the corridors was silent, neither of us willing to break the heavy quiet that had settled between us.

I wanted to say something, wanted to scream at her or thank her or demand answers, but I didn't know where to start, didn't know how to put into words the tangle of emotions churning in my chest.

She was a victim too, I reminded myself. She'd been captured just like the rest of us, had suffered just like the rest of us, had made the choices she needed to make to survive.

But she was also complicit now, was actively participating in the system that kept us caged, was choosing her own safety over the welfare of her packmates.

I couldn't condemn her for it, but I couldn't forgive her either.

So we walked in silence, and I tried not to think about the disappointment crushing my chest, tried not to think about how alone I truly was in this place.

Finally, as we neared the cells, as the sounds of suffering began to filter through the walls again, I couldn't hold back anymore.

"Do you love him?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Kira stopped walking, her whole body going rigid, and for a long moment she didn't respond.

Then, slowly, she turned to look at me, and her expression was so raw, so vulnerable, that it made my breath catch.

"I don't know," she said quietly, and her voice was thick with something that might have been tears or just exhaustion. "Maybe. Maybe I do."

She paused, and when she spoke again, her words were so soft I almost didn't hear them.

"Or maybe I've just learned to love my cage."

The admission hung in the air between us, terrible in its honesty, and I found I had no response to give her.