Alpha’s Abused Daughter

Peace, silence, and darkness.

That's what sleep is supposed to bring, right? It's supposed to be a temporary escape from reality. But for me, there’s no such thing. Peace has long been a stranger in my life. Whenever things seem calm, it only makes me anxious and waiting for the next storm.

I’ve made my peace with it—or at least I’ve tried. This is my reality, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. My father is a pack warrior, but I’m not the proud daughter of a warrior. No, I’m the product of his affair with a maid—my mother. That makes me an omega, the lowest rank in the pack, an abomination in the eyes of many.

My mother died not long after giving birth to me, leaving me in the care of a father who never really wanted me. He let me stay, despite his wife’s protests. But I’m a constant reminder of his betrayal. I'm a living scar on their marriage. So, I can’t really blame my stepmother or others for hating me. Every time she looks at me, she sees her husband’s infidelity.

They let me live with them, sure, but there was no kindness in their charity. I’m not a daughter; I’m a servant. My stepmother never misses an opportunity to remind me how lucky I am to have a roof over my head. According to her, my mother was a maid, so it’s only fair that I take over her duties now that I’m old enough.

I don’t complain. I can’t. Life has hardened me. I’ve faced so much that there’s little left that can truly break me. Or so I thought.

I felt a cold sensation on my body. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that it was cold water. I sat up in bed, drenched. Blinking the water out of my eyes, I saw one of the female pack warriors standing there with an empty bucket in her hand.

“That’s what you get,” she sneered. “I’ve been calling you for minutes. Get up and do your damn job.”

"I'm sorry" I whimpered "I'll be there soon"

She glared at me before turning away and leaving the room.

My heart rate increased in my chest. I shivered, feeling cold from the water and the hatred in her words. I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. After a quick bath, I got dressed in blue skinny jeans and a black sweatshirt—clothes that would hide the bruises from yesterday’s beating. I didn’t need the teachers at school asking questions. Not that they cared, really, but I didn’t want the extra attention.

I left my room and headed downstairs. When I got down, I felt the tension in the air. My father, stepmother, and stepsister; Raquelle were already seated at the dining table.

“Good morning,” I murmured, bowing my head in greeting.

“You’re late,” my stepmother, Janet, snapped.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” I replied quickly,

“It better not,” she muttered, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

I hurried into the kitchen, deciding on pasta since it was quick and wouldn’t make them wait any longer than they already had. When I was done cooking, I served their plates.

I stood in the corner, watching them eat, waiting for the moment they’d be done so I could clean up. That’s how it was in this house—I was a ghost, only noticed when I wasn’t doing something right.

Finally, they finished, and I began gathering the plates and taking them to the kitchen. My stomach rumbled with every move I made. I took the pot of leftover pasta and grabbed a spoon, hoping to get at least some food. But just as I was about to take a bite, a sharp smack sent the spoon and the pot clattering to the floor.

I looked up to see Raquelle. Her smirk widened as she watched the food spill across the tiles.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, tilting her head.