Chapter 220

Grayson’s POV

Silence. Twenty seconds of it. Then Damien’s voice, that irritatingly confident drawl, sliced through the quiet. “Skip the pleasantries, Your Highness. We’ve met enough.”

I remained silent. His smugness was palpable, the air thick with unspoken knowledge.

“Story time?” he asked.

My silence was his cue. He chuckled, low and amused. “Consider it a yes.”

A beat. He cleared his throat. I pictured him leaning back, relaxed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips—a triumphant smile. He was in control.

“Before Ava was… Ava,” he began, his voice smooth, almost nostalgic, “she was a little girl who wanted to fly.” He paused, a soft exhale. “Five years old. Stubborn enough to try reaching the library bookshelves, even though she couldn’t. That was Ava—relentless. But that day… that day was different.”

His voice shifted, like he was reliving it. “She whispered, ‘I want to fly, Uncle Damien. I want to see the world!’ I saw those bright eyes and knew they were going to try and break her.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “And they did. Not with chains, but expectations, duties, the crushing weight of who she should be. Her parents loved her, in their own twisted way, but that love… it never let her soar.”

I listened.

“But she was clever,” Damien continued, his voice measured. “Too clever, too wild. She didn’t scream. She found ways around it.”

He chuckled, the sound tightening my grip. “I remember the day it hit her—she wasn’t free, wouldn’t be. She’d been sneaking out for weeks, slipping past Omegas and guards, just to breathe, to run. But that day… they caught her.”

His voice dropped. “Luther found her. I’ve never seen her so afraid—not of the punishment, but of what it meant.”

A heavy pause. “They didn’t just scold her. They made a lesson of it. They made her stand before them—her parents, the council—and told her she wasn’t meant to run, to dream. That her duty was more important than her desires. That she was too fragile.”

His voice softened, almost mournful. “Ava… five years old… so still, so composed, while they chipped away at her fire. I thought, This is how it starts. This is how they break her.”

His voice hardened. “They told her she had no choice. That she’d learn to listen. To be what they wanted.”

Another pause. “And do you know what she did?”

I knew.

“She smiled,” Damien murmured. “That sharp smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. And she said, ‘Okay.’”

Silence.

“But I knew better,” Damien continued, softer now. “That smile was a lie. The moment she said ‘okay,’ she was planning. Because that’s Ava—cage her, hold her down, she’ll always look for a way out. She’ll never stop trying to fly.”

His voice lightened. “That’s why I call her Little Dove.”

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

“Everyone saw a fragile bird,” he went on. “But doves are survivors. They find their way home. No matter how many times you cage them, they return to the sky.”

I stared at the floor. He was right. He knew her too well. A part of her still belonged to him. And he’d told me this for a reason.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Damien’s voice cut through the silence. “You’re just another set of hands trying to hold her down. The only difference between you and her parents is you haven’t realized it yet.”

My fists clenched. “I hated clipping those wings, but as expected, my Little Dove soared.”

A slow breath. “I told you this, Grayson,” Damien murmured, his voice like silk around steel, “because you think you’re keeping her safe. But you’re just another cage. And cages… they break.”

A beat of silence.

“Since you’re so eager to hover, why don’t you come in? Unless you’d rather watch while I remind Ava exactly who helped her learn to fly.”

A smirk. “Come inside, Grayson. Or don’t. Either way, by tonight, my Little Dove will remember what it feels like to truly fall.”