My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

He shifts slightly, his young face thoughtful as his gaze drops to the scrape on Silas’s knee.

"My mom says Omegas are fragile and soft."

The words linger between them, light as dandelion seeds drifting through the golden afternoon.

Silas blinks. Slowly. The motion is unhurried, deliberate. Then his fingers rise, drawn by a quiet, unspoken curiosity. His fingertips brush against Ellis’s lashes, so lightly it’s barely a touch, barely a presence—just the faintest whisper of warmth against his skin.

Ellis flinches, instinctively pulling back.

"What are you doing?"

Silas tilts his head. His expression is innocent, untouched by the weight of the question. As though the answer should be obvious. As though he doesn’t understand why Ellis would even ask.

Ellis frowns, his voice sharper now, edged with the frustration of a boy who is used to being understood and finds it deeply unsettling when he is not.

"I’m speaking to you. Don’t you have a tongue in your mouth?"

Silas blinks again.

No answer.

Just those warm brown eyes, steady and unreadable, fixed quietly on him.

Ellis looks away, shaking his head with a small, defeated sigh. The gesture is subtle, almost imperceptible. He murmurs under his breath, the words meant for no one but himself.

"I think the pain has made this Omega lose his mind."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. Light blue and soft, with a large, elegant E embroidered on the corner in silver thread that catches the dappled sunlight like a sliver of moonlight.

My favorite. Mom made it specially for me.

His gaze drifts back to the wound. The boy’s knee must be hurting—even if he doesn’t show it. Ellis hesitates, the handkerchief soft and familiar in his small fingers. It is his favorite. His mother made it just for him. He doesn’t usually give away things that belong to him.

But the wound is still bleeding.

Without giving himself time to change his mind, Ellis wraps the handkerchief around the scrape. His small fingers work with surprising gentleness as he ties it carefully, pulling the fabric just tight enough to hold without hurting him. When he finishes, a small bow rests neatly at the center—so precise and careful it almost seems too perfect for a boy his age.

He pulls back, his eyes meeting the other boy’s.

"It suits you."

Silas lowers his gaze to the handkerchief. The neat knot. The tiny bow. A soft smile blooms across his lips—small, almost imperceptible, yet unmistakably there. It transforms his face, softening the quiet stillness into something warm and alive.

Ellis picks up his book from the grass and leans back against the tree, the rough bark pressing gently against his shoulder blades. He opens it to the page where he left off without looking at the boy.

"Now go. Follow the path I told you."

Silas does not move. He stays seated, his fingers brushing the edge of the handkerchief, tracing the little bow. His gaze lingers on the tiny bandage Ellis made, as though committing every detail to memory.

Ellis looks at him, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

"Hey. Don’t touch it."

Silas simply looks back at him. Brown eyes wide and innocent, as though he doesn’t understand why Ellis is upset. As though the idea of being told what to do is completely foreign to him.

Ellis holds his gaze for a moment before looking away with a defeated sigh. His eyes wander around the garden, searching for an escape route.

Maybe I should go somewhere else. He’s so weird.

He stands, his book hanging loosely from his fingers, and starts walking, searching for another quiet corner where he can finally be alone.

Then he hears it.

Soft footsteps on the grass.

Too close.

He glances back.

Silas is following him, keeping exactly two steps behind.

Ellis stops.

Silas stops.

Ellis turns, his voice sharp with frustration.

"Why are you following me? I already told you—go find your parents. Leave me alone."

Silas remains where he is, unbothered by the sharpness in Ellis’s voice. His expression stays calm, his brown eyes fixed on Ellis with that same unwavering patience.

Ellis turns and walks faster.

The footsteps follow.

He quickens his pace.

The footsteps quicken too.

He stops.

The footsteps stop.

He spins around, his patience finally snapping.

"Hey! What are you doing?!"

Silas just looks at him. Patient. Waiting. As though he has all the time in the world and is perfectly content to spend it standing here.

A sudden idea flashes through Ellis’s mind.

"Hey—look over there!"

Silas turns to look.

Ellis bolts—silent and quick, slipping behind a thick tree a little way off. He presses his back against the trunk, catching his breath, his book clutched against his chest. A small laugh escapes him, equal parts relief and triumph.

What a fool.

He glances at the watch on his wrist. One more hour. Then the event will be over, and he can finally leave this place.

...What if he gets lost again?

Or hurts himself?

The thought lingers for only a moment before Ellis shakes his head and settles beneath the tree, leaning comfortably against the trunk. The grass is soft beneath him, the shade cool and quiet. He opens his book, draping it over his face as he murmurs to himself,

"He’ll be fine. I already told him the way. It’s not a big jungle. If he gets lost, the guards will find him."

A small tug at his sleeve.

Ellis lowers the book.

Silas is sitting beside him.

Brown eyes wide and shining, looking up at him with that same quiet patience.

Ellis straightens in surprise.

"Where did you come from?"

No answer.

"Didn’t you understand the path I told you?"

Still silence.

Ellis stares at him for a long moment. Then he lets out a slow breath.

"Fine..."

He sits up a little straighter and taps a finger against his own chest.

"I’m Ellis Roselle."

He points at Silas.

"Now tell me your name. I’ll take you to the guards."

Silence.

Ellis waits.

Nothing.

He sighs again, sounding more tired than angry this time.

"Why won’t you answer me? What do you want from me?"

A small pause.

"If you don’t want to answer, then just leave me alone."

Silas’s gaze drifts to the book resting in Ellis’s lap. His eyes linger on the cover, quiet and curious, as though it holds a secret only he can see.

Ellis follows his gaze.

"Do you want to hear the story?"

A slow nod.

"If you want to hear a story, go find your parents. Or your caretaker. And leave me alone."

Silas doesn’t move.

Ellis lets out a long, defeated sigh, one far too weary for a boy his age.

"Fine. Just a little. And then you leave."

He leans back against the tree.

Silas quietly shifts closer until their shoulders almost touch, then settles against the trunk beside him. The warmth of the other boy is unexpected, a small, silent presence at his side.

Ellis opens the book and begins to read.

The words of the old woman’s magical tale drift through the air, soft and unhurried. Sunlight filters through the leaves above, dappling the two small figures beneath the tree with shifting patches of gold and shadow.

The story unfolds—a lonely old woman, a garden of impossible flowers, and nine children born from petals and moonlight. Ellis’s young voice is calm and steady, weaving the tale into the quiet afternoon until the garden itself seems to fall still and listen.

At last, he closes the book.

"And the old woman lived happily ever after."

He glances beside him.

Silas is asleep. Peacefully.

His tiny fingers are curled around the fabric of Ellis’s sleeve, still holding on even in sleep.

Ellis watches him for a long moment.

Then footsteps approach, followed by the familiar voice of his caretaker.

"Young master..."

Gently, carefully, Ellis eases Silas’s tiny fingers from his sleeve. The little hand resists for just a heartbeat before falling limp again.

He rises to his feet, brushing the grass from his clothes.

His caretaker hurries over, relief washing across her face.

"Young master, are you alright? I’ve been searching everywhere. The event is over. Mr. Elias is asking for you."

"I was just reading my book."

"Please, let’s go."

Ellis pauses, glancing back at the sleeping boy beneath the tree.

"Miss Ana."

"Yes, Young Master?"

"There’s a little boy sleeping beneath that tree. Please inform the staff and make sure he’s taken care of."

She follows his gaze and nods.

"Of course."

Ellis nods once and starts walking. After a few steps, he slows. Almost without thinking, he glances back one last time.

The little boy is still asleep beneath the old oak tree, the light blue handkerchief tied neatly around his knee, its tiny bow catching the afternoon sunlight.

A slow smile tugs at the corners of Ellis’s lips.

What a strange boy.

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