The Curse Of The Alpha’s Mate

Chapter 8

My eyes flutter open, and sunlight blinds me for a second before I blink away the blurriness and the sleep. My head throbs, and my throat feels parched. I work my jaw; pain stretches all over my face, originating from my left cheek.

I roll over on my side.

My body is numb, like a zombie that crawled out of an ancient grave. I’m sure I look like one; hair sticks to the sweat on my forehead, and my legs feel like breadsticks in a tight wrapping. I should’ve changed before falling asleep; it’s never a good idea to sleep in skinny jeans.

I didn’t even take off my shoes.

I sigh, reach for my backpack, and dump the contents of the front pocket on the bed. Sleeping pills, an old paperback copy of The Virgin Suicides, keys, my leather wallet, a pack of peppermint gum, black pens, my phone charger, tangled earphones; I grab my encased toothbrush from the pile.

I almost bump into the dresser on my way to the connecting bathroom. The world is tilting, and I feel tipsy on my feet; my head muddled.

Once I’m in the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and wince at my reflection on the large mirror above the sink.

My hair is in disarray. I attempt to smooth it down with my wet palms, but it looks worse sticking to my skull. My complexion is deathly pale, and a tiny purplish bruise is already forming in the wounded area on my cheek. The two nights of s**t sleep are starting to be visible under my eyes.

Overall, I only appeared as half terrible as I felt. If Natalia were here, she’d have called my look something along the lines of pathetically pretty.

Reminded of her, I slip out my phone. The time shows 12:09 pm; it’s early afternoon already. I have a missed call and a text from her. It reads; ‘R U OK?!!!!’

I type back a fast reply; ‘yeah, fine, will call later’ and stuff the phone back into my pocket. It’s a lie, but at least it wouldn’t make her worry.

After I’d brushed my teeth and washed my face with some random facial cleanser I found in the cabinet, I swallow down three tablets of Advil, which were also in the cabinet. I look around for a comb in the bathroom but find nothing, so I run my fingers through my hair a few times and shrug.

I’ll have to take a shower later, but for now my stomach feels like a blackhole.

I walk back into my room and my soul almost abandons my body to astral project into a different dimension.

I’m not expecting to see Fauna standing rigid by the doorway like a statue; arms crossed over a grey polo shirt paired with black high-waisted trousers. Her hair is slicked back —Italian mafia style, and my eyes goes to the dagger straped to her waist. She uncrosses her arms and clears her throat, points to the bed with fingers heavy with stainless steel rings.

Not silver though. Never silver when it comes to werewolves.

“Your dress for the evening. Breakfast is downstairs. The maids will be up here in three hours to get you ready.” She informs.

My gaze darts to the black silk dress placed neatly on the bed. It’s backless with thin spaghetti straps crisscrossing the space where skin is supposed to show. A tiny lump forms in my throat.

“I can’t wear that.” I mutter, looking back to Fauna and hoping she understands what I’m trying to say.

She raises a questioning eyebrow.

I sigh, a little exasperated that she’s going to make me say it. “I can’t wear that.” I repeat, shifting from one foot to the other. “It’ll show the scars on my back.”

Her expression is cold, unreadable. She stares at me blankly, but her left eye twitches slightly. Her gaze shifts to my bruising cheek, shifts away. “I didn’t choose it. Father did.”

Of course. And I bet the choice was intentional. He wanted my scars to be on display for the world to see. For Alpha Dmitri to see. He’s using my scars to send him a message; ‘Here’s another one of my broken toys you can do whatever you want with.’

I clench my jaw, glaring at the dress and wishing I had the power to shoot lasers from my eyes and burn the damn thing.

“It’s just a dress.” Fauna comments, sighing and shaking her head.

I turn to her, and for the first time notice the crooked way she stood; her torso leaning to the side, knees braced against each other, and shoulders pulled back taut like being held up by an invisible string. The events of dinner; the poison, the choking, the begging, all rushes back to me. I remember that she’d almost died of poison just hours ago. The rate of healing for a werewolf might be fast, but it is still no match for wolfsbane —a befitting name for the poison.

Despite my hate, something in me softens. “Are you… okay?”

She straightens immediately, but I don’t miss the wince that slips from her due to the sudden movement. “I’m fine.” She grumbles. The inflection in her voice tells me she’s lying, but it also tells me she’s angry, so I don’t push my luck.

I’d rather not get slammed into a wall when my body is already sore.

“Do they know I’m back?” I ask, referring to the rest of the people in the pack house. I’m a little anxious to picture myself downstairs in the pack cafeteria, eating like I hadn’t gone rogue for five years.

Well, nobody would exactly call it ‘going rogue’ since I’m not a werewolf. ‘Running away’ would be more fitting since I’m human and that is what us weaklings do.

Fauna twists the skull ring on her thumb. “Nobody gives a s**t if you’re back or not.” Her droopy eyes falls to my feet then drags up to my ratty hair. She doesn’t hide the disdainful curl of her lip. “You’re not a celebrity around here.”

Okay, I’ll admit. That hurt like my period cramps. Maybe worse.

“No, but I’m a freak show to them.” I toss my hair over my shoulders and stomp over to the dress. “The cursed human twin sister.” I grin down at the fabric for a second; I can see myself in it. “I’ve always turned more heads than you, sister.” I say sarcastically, wiggling my eyebrows, feeling a hint of laughter bubbling inside my ribcage.

I feel insane. This is insane. I’m back to the same place I’ve ran away from five years ago, and things are slightly worse than they had been back then.

I might never finish my degree. I’m never going to be free. It’s so depressing that I’m beginning to see the comedy in the tragedy.

Shakespeare was right. I let loose a wild giggle.

Fauna stuffs her hands into the pockets of her high-waist trousers and sighs. As if on second thought, she fishes out a packet of Marlboro and brings one to her lips. From the other pocket, a golden lighter appears, and I watch her light the cigarette.

A certain sadness settles heavily in my chest, like an anchor being dropped.

“When did you start smoking?”

“None of your goddamn business.” She says and blows a ring of smoke which momentarily floats towards me before dissipating into the air. “I don’t answer to you.” She sneers.

It’s probably after I left. I shrug. “But you answer to him don’t you?” I shake my head; a dull anger simmering to the surface. “I hate that you’re so loyal to a monster like him.” Have you forgotten what he’s done to us; to you; I want to scream, but I don’t.

It’ll only make things worse.

“Fiona.” She warns. “Father is being gracious. This alliance with the Sons of Fenris will be beneficial for everyone.” Her eyes narrow, and she drops the cigarette to the floorboards; stubbing it out with the heel of her combat boots. “Don’t cause more trouble for the pack or I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

I say nothing, only staring at her and wondering where it all went wrong; where I failed her; where our paths diverged forever.

She leans off the wall, walks to the door. “Five years ago was the last time I forgave you.” Her voice is a ghostly whisper, and her back is to me. “Never again.”

The door slams shut behind her, and all there is left is the stubbed cigarette on the floor and the smoke hauntingly trapped in my room.

I sink to the bed, and for a minute, I let the guilt consume me. I had wondered, but now I’m sure. I wasn’t there to witness it, but our father must’ve made Fauna pay for my sins. I’m the one who cowardly ran away, but she’s the one who unfairly received the punishment.

I’d forgotten that even the wounds that heal are painful. Some scars are visible and forever, but some scars burry themselves deep in our hearts; slowly turning us into monsters we never chose to become.

Some scars run deeper than the surface.