My Alpha Her Mate

"Come down here, you worthless piece of shit!" A voice bellows, startling me in my task of zipping up my bag.

My breathing becomes shallow and my heartbeat echoes loudly in my ears. I gulp and try to force myself to stand up from the dingy cot I'm sitting on. My wide, panic-filled eyes flit around my room, around the worn grey walls that could use a good coat of paint, and the small study table bought on a yard sale last year, trying to latch on something, anything that might help me escape from having to face this. The still ceiling fan that hasn't worked in years seems to mock me, telling me that there's nothing here that's worth a full penny.

"I know you're in there, bītch!" The voice, hoarse from years of smoking, hollers again. I jump slightly, and my fingers tighten their grip on the edge of the cot of their own accord.

'Stand up and go, Micajah. Or she'll pull some other shit, later!' I yell at myself desperately, and when a loud bang is heard downstairs, I muster up everything in me and stand up. I swallow heavily and shrug my backpack over a shoulder, making my way of out of my closet of a room.

I close the withering wooden door gently behind me, not wanting to piss her off further. I send a silent prayer to the Goddess to help me as I traipse down the stairs, making the least amount of sound as possible. My sneakers make a loud 'crunch' when my feet hit the base of the stairs, making me cringe.

I look down to see that I've stomped on pieces of broken glass littering the floor, glass that wasn't there last night. She must've thrown something accidentally or on purpose, after I'd gone to bed, I realize; wincing when the sound echoes across the too silent house. I curse my bad luck because now that the sound has alerted her drunk brain, she would've sensed my presence.

"Hurry up!" She yells, and I flinch at the plain harshness in her voice. I rush across the hall to the kitchen, not paying attention to anything else that I might step on, seeing as there's no point in trying to be silent anymore.

"Give me my breakfast!" She shrieks, the sound similar to that of a dying hyena. I open the fridge hastily, pulling out the eggs and the other ingredients from it. I grab the pan hanging from a hook to the side, and set it in the stove, quickly hurrying with my work to prepare her breakfast.

Five minutes and two rude comments later, I have eggs and bacon ready. I set the plate in front of her on the bar counter, and take a quick step back, putting much-needed distance between us. She takes one look at the plate and her glazed eyes — which were once a beautiful shade of cerulean, I'd been told —narrow in disgust.