Wanted Mate of the Alpha
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Sarah Tribus
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2.2M
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33
Chapter 1
SERENITY
The pain woke me up like it did almost every morning. I sat up with a hiss, with every single movement feeling like it would rip my body open.
The skin on my back was taut and swollen, and I winced repeatedly from the throbbing ache.
Yesterday, my father had beaten me so badly with his belt that I had barely made it to bed.
He was only half a head taller than me, but he was still stronger. He made sure I knew it.
This couldn’t keep happening.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed when my gaze fell on the mirror on the front of my white double-doored wardrobe.
Even though I was wearing a nightshirt, I couldn’t help but notice that my body was almost skin and bones.
I got up from my bed and began to take a closer look at my small, five-foot-six body, checking for visible signs of the beating.
My cheeks were sunken in, with dark circles around my eyes. To say I looked half dead would be an understatement.
My skin was adorned with bruises in various stages of healing. Some were dark blue and purple, fresh from yesterday; some a few days old, and others had faded to yellow.
My eyes began to water at the sight of my horribly mutilated appearance.
At least my honey-colored eyes and straight, dark-brown hair that reached my shoulders—which I inherited from my mother—remained untouched.
As I poked at the bruises, I asked myself for the hundredth time what I had done to deserve this.
Why did my own father torment me so?
What had I done?
It had been a sudden, drastic change. It all started with the death of my mother.
She died a few months ago while I was at school, supposedly of cancer. That’s what my father told me.
I didn’t believe him.
My mother had been doing very well before, as full of life as ever, and then she’d died overnight of breast cancer?
No, absolutely not.
Not to mention, I hadn’t even been allowed to see her, and my father, who had always called me his little princess, hadn’t held a proper funeral. I never got to say goodbye.
He’d just looked at me and said, “Your mother died of breast cancer. We don’t have enough money for a funeral. My friend, Calle, will take care of all the formalities. Since we can no longer afford the house, we’re moving, so pack your things.”
I still remember the complete shock I’d felt and how I’d yelled at him for the first time in my life. And that was when he’d unbuckled his belt and beat me black and blue.
At some point, I’d lost consciousness, and when I next woke up, I’d found myself in a small room that was supposed to be my new home.
It looked like a nursery, but it was very sparsely furnished.
I had a small white wardrobe with a mirror, a simple gray metal bed that resembled a crib, and a small square brown table with a wooden chair.
There were clothes in my closet, but they weren’t my own; they looked like they came from a second-hand shop.
I didn’t have anything left from my old room.
I didn’t even have a picture of my mother.
Nothing.
When I’d started to cry, my father had stormed into my room, angry and stinking of liquor. He was in his mid-forties, with a beer belly, a puffy face, and a red snub nose, probably due to his alcohol consumption. His blue eyes stabbed at me with every glance.
He’d gripped me by the hair and made the rules clear. “From now on, you will address me as sir. You will only speak when I ask you to. You will not scream. You will not resist your rightful beating, and you will not speak to anyone about it. If I call you, you will come immediately. You will do everything I ask of you without argument. If you leave your room without permission, I will make sure you can’t leave it for a long time.”
I had been so shocked at the time that I could only stare at him, but he’d added, “You’ll be taking care of the house here when you’re not at school. Your first day starts tomorrow, and next week, you’ll start the job I got you at a restaurant. You’re going to give me all the money you earn.”
Then, he’d grabbed me by the hair and grinned, an expression too evil for the man I’d known. “If I find out you’re shirking or you even utter a single word about what’s going on here, I’ll lock you in the basement and never let you out again. Do you understand me, Serenity?”
My father had never been violent before that, but since then, fighting had become a daily occurrence, as had the alcohol.
I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror anymore. I used to be a strong and charismatic person, but I’d mutated into a frightened, weak, and jumpy little chick.
I hadn’t been able to process my mother’s mysterious death, nor did I have anyone to talk to or ask for help.
At school, I was either shunned or bullied and laughed at because of my looks and shabby clothes. I was all alone and functioned almost like a robot.
Inside, I felt numb and weak, but something inside me made sure I kept going.
I’d even made plans to escape.
Knowing my father’s schedule and moods, and helped by my gut instinct, I managed to sneak out of the house unnoticed every now and then to secretly take extra shifts at the restaurant.
Since I was essentially working under the table, there were no official paychecks to show my father, or rather, my jailer. So, I remained undetected—for now.
I needed the money to carry out my plan. Staying was no longer an option.
It was hard, and my body was getting weaker and weaker from the daily beatings and working overtime, but nevertheless, I was slowly getting closer to achieving my goal.
All that suffering had led to the small stack of cash I had secretly stashed away in a pack of tampons.
With that money, I wanted to move to a distant city, find a job and an apartment there, and then finally investigate my mother’s untimely death.
I also hoped to find out if I had any other relatives. Although we never had anyone visit, I still felt like a large, loving family was waiting for me somewhere.
Yes, I knew it sounded crazy, and I couldn’t explain, even to myself, why I was so sure. However, the dream remained, and just thinking about it strengthened me and gave me hope for a better life.
It fueled my heart and soul.
But now, I had to get ready for the day ahead of me.
The only good thing about my room was that it had its own bathroom with a shower. Ignoring my stabbing and burning pain as best I could, I went and got cleaned up.
After that, I put on the ugly brown high-water pants and a plain black sweater and quietly went into the kitchen.
It was small and offered little comfort. There was only a small gray kitchenette, a brown kitchen table with three wooden chairs, and a refrigerator.
My father’s empty beer and liquor bottles were lying around everywhere, smelling awful.
My nose had always been very sensitive to strong, unpleasant smells. If my stomach weren’t empty, I would’ve probably thrown up.
On top of that, I had to be especially quiet because if I woke my father with the clinking of bottles, he’d make me regret it.
The mere thought of it terrified me and made me whimper softly.
The places where he had hit me yesterday began to tingle as if on cue.
As I placed the bottles in a bag as quietly as possible, the air changed.
The smell of alcohol and sweat grew even stronger.
An ominous tingling sensation shot down my spine, making the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
My eyes darted around the kitchen, but I didn’t notice anything unusual, which only disturbed me further.
Something oppressive unfolded in my stomach before the doorbell rang, and I jumped in alarm, fear creeping up inside me.
My father yelled loudly from his bedroom, “You stupid brat! Don’t tell me one of your degenerate friends is picking you up. I’m gonna give you a piece of my mind.”
My instinct to flee kicked in as my heart began to race. I’d tried to run away from him many times, and every time, he caught me before I could get far.
But at this moment, something was different. Every instinct I had screamed at me to run.
I ran to my room, grabbed my school bag, and climbed out the window with an ease I didn’t even know I possessed.
Instantly, I was enveloped by the cold morning air, making my teeth chatter slightly.
Although my legs were weak and shaking, I still managed to get up and start running. My father’s thunderous voice echoed behind me—followed by the sound of shattering glass.
