My Quadruplet Bullies To Mates

I'm So Screwed

Mika

Mark's grip tightened around my arm, his fingers digging into my skin with a force that left me immobilized. Fear coursed through me, a cold dread pooling in my stomach as I thought about the consequences of defying him.

Alpha Alexander loomed in the background, his presence a dark shadow that amplified my anxiety. I couldn't shake the feeling that they would unleash something unforgiving upon me if I didn't bow as Mark had demanded. My heart raced, each beat echoing my desperation to

"Why do you assume that Mika is lazy or to blame for the substantial debt? If anything, the maids seem to fall short of their responsibilities by offloading their tasks onto Mika. Regarding the debt itself, it's important to note that Mika's father accumulated that financial burden, not her," Malcolm defended me, his voice steady and filled with conviction.

Why was he, of all people, choosing to defend me to his father? I glanced at Malcolm, whose demeanor struck me as oddly serene. His voice was steady, carrying a calmness that belied the situation, while his posture remained relaxed, almost unfazed.

In contrast, I could feel the tension radiating from Mark as he shifted his stance, pulling his hand away from my arm to confront his brother directly. The atmosphere hung heavy with unspoken emotions, and I was caught between the two brothers, unsure of what would unfold next.

"My dear brother," Mark chuckled, his voice laced with mockery, "what compels you to defend this little sheep? Are you infatuated with her, or do you secretly wish for her warmth beside you at night?" His laughter echoed, a sharp contrast to the severe atmosphere surrounding them.

Malcolm stood tall, unyielding in his stance. "That’s absurd, Mark," he retorted, his tone firm yet measured. "Every member of our pack deserves protection, regardless of rank or status. We’re on the brink of becoming Alphas, and what good will it do if our wolves resent us?” His pride glimmered in his eyes, fueled by a sense of duty and unity that he believed was essential for their future leadership.

"That's enough from both of you," Alpha Alexander articulated firmly, his tone echoing through the clearing. He turned his steely gaze toward Mark, his expression unwavering. "Your brother has a point. Whether or not they hold a high rank, every member of this pack has a vital role in our community. You should have grasped it by now, given the responsibilities you soon will share with your brothers." The weight of his words hung in the air, underscoring the importance of unity and respect among them all.

I glanced over at Alpha Alexander, Mark, and Malcolm, anxiety tightening my chest as I remained rooted in place. Malcolm caught my eye, his expression a mix of urgency and reassurance, subtly gesturing for me to move along.

With a quick breath to steady myself, I turned on my heel and hurried out of the kitchen, my heart racing as I made my way to the storage closet. The familiar creak of the door echoed in the quiet house as I reached for the broom and mop, the cool handles grounding me amid the swirling nerves.

I paused in front of the storage closet, taking a moment to collect myself. The air felt heavy with the scent of cleaning supplies, and I inhaled deeply, trying to steady my nerves before heading back into the kitchen.

As I pushed the door open, I scanned the room and felt a wave of relief wash over me. The kitchen was blissfully empty, devoid of the argumentive Alpha family.

This brief moment of solitude she was allowed me to focus on my tasks without distraction, giving me the space to complete my duties efficiently.

After a grueling night at the pack house, where the clock hands shuck signaling me that it was 6 a.m., I could finally put down my tools and sigh in relief. The fatigue in my bones was palpable, but there was no time to linger. I hastily gathered my belongings and darted out the door, eager to go home.

As I walked, the dawn light filtered through the trees, casting a gentle glow on the familiar path. I knew I had to move quickly. My father was a stickler for punctuality, and I had chores waiting for me that couldn’t go undone.

Reaching home, I barely had a moment to catch my breath. The house was still quiet, but I could hear the faint sound of my father stirring inside. Without a second thought, I plunged straight into my responsibilities. I started with the dishes piled high in the sink, the cool water splashing against my hands as I scrubbed away the remnants of yesterday's meals.

Time was not on my side, and a sense of urgency gripped me. Each minute felt like a ticking clock, reminding me of my father’s limited patience. I worked quickly, dusting surfaces and sweeping the floor, determined to finish before he emerged. The thought of punishment lingered in the back of my mind, pushing me to work faster and more efficiently.

A sense of accomplishment washed over me when I completed my chores. I paused momentarily, hoping to freshen up before facing him, but I knew I had to be realistic; there was no time to spare.

As the first rays of sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, I realized I needed to make breakfast for my father before I could enjoy my morning shower and wash away the fatigue from yesterday’s toil.

The clock was ticking, creeping closer to 8 o'clock, and the thought of him waking up to an empty table filled me with dread—I would certainly be in trouble if I didn't have his meal ready in time.

My father’s typical morning feast was quite hearty, reflecting his love for a robust start to the day. I began cracking three eggs into the skillet and watching the yolks glimmer like little suns against the bubbling butter.

Next, I seasoned two beef sausages, letting their rich aroma fill the air as they sizzled perfectly. I grabbed the waffle maker, its surface waiting to create the golden-brown delights he cherished, and began preparing the batter, whisking it until it was light and fluffy.

As the waffles cooked, I turned my attention to the toast, selecting a thick slice of bread letting it brown evenly until it was just right—crispy on the outside and soft within, ready to be slathered with creamy butter.

Finally, I poured a steaming cup of coffee, ensuring it was intense, just as he liked it. I could feel the anticipation building as I arranged everything on a plate, aiming for the perfect presentation.

With each dish thoughtfully placed beside the others, the aromas wafted through the air, promising that his morning wouldn't just satisfy hunger but start the day off sober.

As I meticulously arranged the shiny utensils beside my father's plate, the scent of breakfast filled the air, mingling with the warmth of the morning light streaming through the window. Just then, I heard the heavy thud of his footsteps approaching the kitchen, and I turned to see him enter with an intense, piercing stare that sent a shiver down my spine. I instinctively smoothed down my clothes, feeling the tension in the room as he drew nearer.

"Good morning, father," I greeted him, trying to inject a hint of cheerfulness into my voice despite my growing apprehension. To my surprise, he waved his hand dismissively, signaling me to be silent as if my words were an unwelcome intrusion into his world. The air felt thick with unspoken expectations, and I held my breath, waiting for whatever would come next.

"Why are you still here?" my father growled, his voice low and threatening. The sharpness in his tone sent a chill through me. "I didn't want to see your face during breakfast."

I opened my mouth to reply, to explain myself, or maybe even to plead, but before words could escape my lips, his hand moved with startling speed, connecting with my cheek in a stinging slap.

The force of the blow caught me off guard, and I crumpled to the floor, clutching my mouth as a wave of sharp pain radiated through my lips.

As I hesitantly lowered my hand, the discomfort intensified, sharp and relentless. It was then that I caught sight of the crimson stains slowly spreading across my fingers, a chilling reminder of the injury that marred my face.

The metallic scent of blood filled the air, heightening my sense of unease as I sat there in shock, trying to comprehend the extent of the damage.

"Now leave my sight, or you will receive a lot worse than what I just did," my father yelled out. "Yes, sir," I said as I held my face.

I sprinted up the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest, desperate to distance myself from his piercing gaze. When I reached the bathroom, I flung the door shut behind me, locking it with a trembling hand. I rushed to the mirror, anxiety swirling in my stomach as I prepared to see the damage.

As I leaned closer, the harsh bathroom light illuminated my reflection, and I gasped softly. My lower lip was swollen and bruised, the skin split open, a stark reminder of what had just happened. The sight was disheartening, a painful testament to my reality. I took a deep breath, willing to remain calm despite the fear and hurt bubbling beneath the surface.

I still have more chores to do at home before I start work at the pack house later. For the time being, as my father gave his breakfast, I will have to wait to finish my chores. Until then, I will take a hot shower that has been overdue, praying the stream will ease the pain on my lips