The Cage
1052 Words
Sheila
They come at dusk.
Not soldiers. Not enforcers. No spectacle.
That alone tells me something’s wrong.
Two wolves I don’t recognize stand just beyond the human-side boundary, posture neutral, expressions blank in that infuriatingly calm pack way. No aggression. No apology either.
Just certainty.
“Brianna’s been approved for pack school,” one of them says. “She’ll start tomorrow morning.”
For a second, the words don’t land.
Approved.
Pack school.
My mouth opens, already forming something sharp, already ready to demand, accuse, tear into.
“You’ll receive the schedule and conditions shortly,” the other adds. “Transport will be arranged.”
That’s it.
A decision delivered like the weather.
Like something that was always going to happen.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I snap. “She’s my daughter.”
“Yes,” the first wolf replies calmly. “And this is the Alpha’s decision.”
There it is.
The name I never stop hearing.
Alpha Aaron.
I laugh, loud, brittle, ugly. “Of course it is.”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” the second wolf says, still calm. Still maddening.
That word.
Negotiation.
Like I ever had one.
I turn without answering and slam the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Brianna looks up from the floor.
She’s been drawing again. Careful lines, erased and redrawn until the paper’s nearly worn through. She always draws wolves bigger than herself.
Her eyes lift.
“What was that?” she asks.
Not scared.
Just alert.
Something in her already knows.
“They think they own you,” I snap.
She blinks. “What?”
“They think you belong to them,” I continue, heat flooding my chest. “That a building, a badge, and a Goddess mean something.”
Her fingers curl into the paper.
“They said something about school,” I add sharply. “Pack school.”
Her breath catches.
Just a little.
Not joy.
Not fear.
Hope.
That’s what does it.
“I can… go?” she asks quietly.
I see it then.
Not surprise.
Expectation.
And suddenly I remember her coming home days ago, eyes bright in that way she tries to hide.
Reza.
Standing outside. Talking to her like she mattered.
Telling her she was a real wolf too.
Something inside me twists. Sharp and furious.
“Of course you can,” I say coldly. “That’s how packs trap you.”
She rises slowly, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to move yet.
“They have classes,” she says carefully. “Training. History.”
Her voice is soft. Testing.
She’s choosing her words the way children do when they’ve learned adults are dangerous.
I stop pacing and turn on her.
“They don’t teach,” I snap. “They condition.”
She flinches.
Good.
“They smile and tell you you’re special while they decide what you’re allowed to be,” I continue. “Every rule is a leash.”
Her shoulders draw in.
“But Reza said..”
There it is.
The name lands like a slap.
“Reza doesn’t get to decide anything,” I cut in. “She walked into that pack and they handed her a crown.”
Brianna’s eyes fill fast and silent.
“She said I’m not broken,” she whispers.
The room tilts.
Something tightens in my chest, sharp, unwanted.
I crush it.
“They tell you that so you’ll trust them,” I say harshly. “So you won’t notice when they start choosing for you.”
She hugs herself now, small, shaking.
“I just wanted to learn,” she says.
“And I wanted to be free,” I snap.
The words are out before I can stop them.
Her breath stutters.
I keep going anyway.
“I lived without rules,” I say fiercely. “I woke when I wanted. Ran where I wanted. Ate when I wanted. No Alpha. No council. No one deciding my worth.”
She looks at me, confused and hurt. “Then why don’t we do that?”
The question is innocent.
It guts me.
“Because I had you,” I spit.
The silence that follows is heavy and absolute.
Her face crumples, quiet, total. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t argue.
She just folds inward.
Regret flashes through my chest, sharp and unwelcome.
I shove it away.
“That’s the truth,” I say coldly. “I’m stuck in between now. Not pack. Not rogue. Tied to rules I never agreed to because I became a mother.”
Tears slide down her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them away.
“They don’t care about us,” I continue. “They never have.”
She whispers, barely audible, “Do you care?”
I freeze.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then the rage surges back in. Rage is easier than honesty.
“I’m the only one who does,” I say sharply. “That’s why you need to remember this.”
I turn away, pacing again, hands clenching uselessly at my sides.
“They’re dishonest,” I say over my shoulder. “Every pack is. They promise belonging until you stop being useful.”
Behind me, she sobs quietly.
I don’t turn around.
Because if I do, I might stop.
And stopping would mean feeling what I’ve done.
“They want you because they can,” I finish. “Not because they should.”
The room falls quiet.
Not safe.
Just empty.
And I stand there. Preaching freedom, dreaming of roads and open nights and a life without obligation,
Knowing I won’t leave.
Not because I love her too much.
Because I never got the choice.
Because I got pregnant.
Because suddenly I was expected to be responsible. Careful. Settled.
Because even the rogues, the ones who taught me how to run and vanish and live without asking, decided I’d be safer with a child inside a pack than free outside it.
They chose this for me.
All of them.
They called it protection. Stability. Sense.
I call it a cage.
And I hate it.
I hate the rules.
I hate the pack.
I hate the rogues who stopped seeing me as one of them.
And worst of all —
I hate that no matter how much I talk about freedom,
I’m still here.
- Writer
