The Curse Of The Alpha’s Mate

Chapter 7

My father presses a button under the table, and two of the guards stationed outside rush in; alert and ready for danger. He jerks his head to Fauna. “Wolfsbane. Take her to the infirmary.”

They nod in understanding and jump into action; scooping up her crumpled, bloody body, and hurrying off to the infirmary without a word.

Do they know that he purposefully poisoned his daughter? Surely, they must suspect something.

The doors shut behind them dully.

“I plan to form a mutually beneficial alliance with the Sons of Fenris.” My father begins to explain, wolfing down a chicken thigh. He flashes me a distorted smile, eyes glinting with vile glee. “To foster unity and peace between our two packs, I’ll give their Alpha my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Hearing him say it makes it sound too real, and suddenly escape feels impossible, now that I’m in the wolf’s den.

“Why me?” I ask, although I already know the answer. “Why not Fauna?”

His haunting laughter echoes in the dining area. He shakes his head; a lock of dark hair falling over his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, child.” His fork clinks on the plate. “Alpha Dmitri might’ve has lost his mate, but it’s still against pack law to marry a werewolf without a mate bond.” He points the sharp end of the knife in my direction, his gaze digging into me. “You should know this.”

I look everywhere except for his eyes; wishing to erase his presence, to erase his very existence. “I’m the perfect candidate then.” I mutter bitterly.

“Exactly, cause you’re… human.” He scrunches up his nose, then drops a napkin on his plate, his appetite gone. “The word puts a bad taste in my mouth.”

I’m not surprised. He says the word ‘human’ like it’s vermin; like we’re some sort of parasitic creatures that are weak, disgusting, and at the bottom of the food chain. His words make me regret my existence. If I had been born like them; one of them, then maybe things would’ve been different.

I blink back the destructive thoughts. “What do you get out of this… alliance?” My voice is monotonous; dead. I sound like my sister.

He picks a piece of meat stuck between his molars with sharp, pointy fingernails. “That is none of your concern.” He takes a gulp of water, throws me a disdainful glance. “Just look pretty and be agreeable when you meet Dmitri Amoux.”

“What if I don’t want to marry him?”

A sharp sting lands on my cheek. I blink, disoriented for a second. My ears ring like late warning bells, and tears blur my vision. The pain echoes dully through my whole face, and I taste something metallic and warm in my mouth.

Blood.

“It’s not a choice.” He says, adjusting the collar of his shirt and reclining back in his chair. “Don’t disappoint me again, Fiona. If you do, you’ll be the one paying for your sins, not your sister.”

I am trembling all over. I grind down on my teeth, swallow the blood; jaw screwed tight, my fingers curl into tight fists; nails digging into the skin of my palms so deeply I know it’ll leave marks.

The monster stares at me for a second like I am a peculiar creature meant for his merriment. But then something shifts in his gaze, and disappointment settles in. I am his greatest disgrace, and in this moment he seems to remember it. “Leave me.” He barks out.

I get to my feet; the chair scraping loudly on the tiles. I turn around, shuffle forward, blinking back tears and holding back the scream that has been stuck in my throat since the day I found out I’d never be like them.

I’m almost to the door when his words stop me.

“Oh, Fiona?” His voice has turned sickly sweet again; almost like the tone of a loving father. “Get some sleep. You have a big day ahead of you.”

“Yes, father.”

The door closes behind me, and I release a shaky breath. My fingers graze the tender skin of my cheek where he’d slapped me. I can feel it burning with pain and anger; a bright red spot of shame and proof of my powerlessness.

I may not be able to fight back, but I’ll die first before he turns me into one of his puppets.

I look around the empty hallway, then start the decent down the staircase. The two guards are yet to return from the infirmary, but a different pair have taken over their duty. I say nothing to them as I pass, but their gaze follows me until I’m out of their line of sight.

My feet carries me to my old bedroom, purely from muscle memory.

I close the door behind me and flip the light-switch. Warm orange light floods the room, and my familiar space comes into view. The extra large queen sized bed, the old manga and Lana Del Rey posters stuck to the wall above my dresser, the full length mirror near my wardrobe, the stack of thrifted books cramped in a corner, the constellation stickers glued to the high ceiling curtsy of Marcelo; all of it reminds me of things I don’t want to remember.

I can tell the room has been cleaned recently. The smell of citrus air freshener and laundry detergent hangs thickly in the air. I glance at the windowsill; they’ve removed the pots and vases of orchids, cacti and monstera I used to grow there.

Well, I abandoned the plants first.

I sigh and shuffle in. My backpack has been retrieved from the car and placed neatly on the floor by the foot of my bed. I fish out my phone from my back-pocket and stare at the screen. 3:08 am; the time reads.

Should I send Natalia a text?

I shake my head and stuff my phone back. She’s probably asleep, and I feel too miserable to talk to her right now.

I collapse on the bed and burry my face in the soft pillows to muffle my cries. Hot tears mix in with my shallow breaths, and I bite down on the sobs. Back to the days I cry myself to sleep, it seems.

The mental and physical exhaustion crashes into me. It feels like the weight of the world on my shoulders, on my back; shattering my spine.

I drift, and I dream; I remember.

I relive a nightmare; a trip down memory lane.

Eight years ago; Fauna and I are fourteen years old. It’s a stormy night, and the rumbling of thunder outside the mansion sounds like the world is splintering into tiny fragments. But that is not what has us both shaking, barefooted and cold in the dark basement.

Our father steps out of the shadows.

In his right hand is a leather whip, in the other, a love letter written to a boy, in my handwriting. But he doesn’t know that I wrote it yet. Fauna’s handwriting and mine are almost identical, and I had signed it with my initials, which is the same as Fauna’s initials; F.L. A smart, safe move that I applaud myself for.

He holds up the crumpled piece of paper to the single flickering lightbulb in the claustrophobic space. “Which one of you wrote this?” He demands. His voice is scarier than the clap of thunder.

“It was Fauna!” I lie, pointing at her frantically, trying to sound and look believable. “I saw her writing it.”

“That’s a lie!” She yells, turns to him pleadingly. Her hair is a swaying, thick mane of auburn shining in the poor lighting. She hasn’t cut and dyed it yet. “She’s lying, father, don’t believe her. I didn’t write that letter! I don’t even know who it’s addressed to!” She defends.

“Liar!” I shout back.

“Fiona!” My sister shoots a death glare in my direction. Under her eyes are pools of darkness from insomnia and nights spent pushing the limits of her endurance. She tries to channel all the hate in her thin body into this single look. “Admit you wrote the letter.” She begs, and I see her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Please, tell him the truth.” Her voice breaks.

I tear my gaze away from her and to our father. His hair hasn’t been invaded by grey hairs yet, and in the partial darkness, he looks like the boogie man. I’m trembling so badly, glancing at the whip in his hand, the the paper; a proof of my stupidity.

How could I have been so foolish? Thankfully, I did follow a good precaution just in case I got caught.

“Father, I always draw little hearts above my ‘i’s, but Fauna never dots hers. Check the handwriting. I’m sure it doesn’t have dotted letter ‘i’s or little hearts because I didn’t write it.”

“No…” Fauna whispers, turning paler than the paper as she realizes what I’ve done, as she watches our father unfold the letter and confirm my claim.

His gaze falls on her with bitter disappointment. “Such weakness is not befitting you.” He spats.

But I’m the one he turns to with the whip. For her sins, I am punished. For my sins, she is punished. It is his law. Thunder crashes; I sink to my knees, and await what I deserve.

“You will pay for her foolishness.” Our father says. He raises the whip.

Fauna is sobbing in the corner. She has to watch. She hates me for not letting her receive the punishment in my place, because she knows that her wounds will eventually heal, but my scars are forever.

And I’d rather see her cry than have her pay for my sins.

I don’t cry on the first strike of the whip, or the second, or the third, but by the sixth lash, I am screaming out in excruciating pain. Blood and sweat seeps out my back and stains my white shirt.

I want it to end. I want to wake up from this nightmare, but my scars are forever.

My scars are forever.