Pregnant for the Cruel Lycan King

Alora “Yo, can I get a club soda-” The voice stopped mid sentence. I dragged my gaze up from my notebook. The man's eyes were focused on me, a sadistic smile slowly spreading across his features, “Well if it isn’t the omega rat.” His friend next to him barked out a loud laugh, “Can we get another waitress?” He yelled to the front table, before saying only loud enough for me to hear, “This one’s likely to pass a disease.” I pursed my lips, slamming my notebook shut and walking away from them. The last thing I needed today was any of their antagonizing remarks. My head throbbed from the day's work and I could barely hold myself together. I was an omega female, in a society where ranks meant everything. To say it sucked would be the understatement of the century. As if that’s not bad enough, not only am I a weak wolf, I didn't even have one. I was almost twenty years old, yet my wolf had not made any signs of coming to the surface. It’s completely abnormal to not have your wolf by the time you turn eighteen. But here I was, a living, breathing joke. And the members of this pack never let me forget it. “Order at table six.” The bar manager called. “On it.” I took the order, and came back balancing a tray full of drinks. A foot shot out and caught me by my ankle. In a second, I was on both feet, the next, I was toppling over my face. I crashed to the floor, glasses smashing all around me. The few tables close enough to the spectacle thrummed with laughter and my face heated. I wipe the beer from my face, sitting up and wringing out my hair. “Your wolf should have sensed that coming,” A girl grinned, standing above me, she pressed a finger to her chin in mock contemplation, “Oh, wait! You’re a freak without one.” She threw her head back, laughing. The group of wolves joined her. I ignored them, carefully picking myself off the floor to avoid any of the glass shards. I grabbed the tray, and made a beeline for the backroom. It was late in the morning when the crowd weaned out. I was beyond exhausted, my eyes sliding closed every now and then as I dragged my feet underneath me. Luckily, after the fall incident, the rest of my night went on without a hitch. I wiped down the tables, dried off the clean dishes and put them away before checking out of work. I was eager to close my eyes, fatigue on my bones on the short walk back home. By the time I made it to the house, I was well aware I could sleep like a log for days. But the second I opened my door, my eyes grew wide open. The house was a complete mess. Cushions turned upside down, cabinets drawn and left open, all sorts of clutter strewn all over the floor. My heart stuttered in my chest. Were we robbed? And then it hit me. I dropped my bag on the floor by the door, bolting to my room. It was no different than the rest of the house, completely ransacked and a total mess. But I barely pay it any mind, rushing to my bed. I dug my hand into my pillowcase and it came up empty. I searched under, behind and around my bed. Pulling the sheets off the mattress, frantically looking for the stash of money I had put there last night. But it was all gone. I slumped down on the floor, unable to bite back tears of frustration. The day's events bubbled up, and suddenly, I was a mess on the floor. My shoulders shook as I let it all out. The front door opened and slammed shut. Heavy footsteps thumped through the house. “Alora,” Dad slurred my name. I wiped my cheeks, got up and walked into the living room. Intoxicated, red rimmed eyes meet mine. He leaned most of his weight on the back of the sofa, waving a hand in front of him, “I’m out of cash,” he says, eyes drooping shut, “Be a darling will ya? How much did you make today?” “Not enough.” I snarled, bitterness coating my tone. He attempted to lift up his arms, in a show of surrender but stopped midway. He was too out of it to control his movements. “I need more money.” “I don’t have any.” I say, “What? Everything you stole from me today wasn’t enough for your excesses?” His eyes grew angry, he took a measured step towards me, “Give me what you made today!” I rolled my eyes, turning to walk back to my room. The sound of something breaking hit my ears. I spinned back around. A lamp lay crushed near the wall. He f*****g threw it. He hobbled to the kitchen, rifling haphazardly through the drawers, “Where is it? Huh? Where’d you put all the damn money?” “My money, Dad!” I yelled, “Money I worked hard for. You’ve just taken it, and for what, to get hammered out of your mind? How is this benefiting you?” He ignored me, prowling through the entire space, causing even more damage than earlier, “I need that money, Alora.” “Well, I don't have any.” I told him. “You don’t understand,” he says slowly, softly, “You don’t understand.” He walked towards me, trying to get past me and into my room. “No.” I say, blocking his path. He glared at me, pushing against my shoulders, shaking his head, “I need that money!” He said as he shook his head, “You have to give it to me.” “Even if I did have any money on me, why would I do that? To see you get wasted again?” “It’s not like that,” his words rolled into each other. I scoffed. His eyes surprisingly grew hard, “I need… I… I’ve made a mistake.” “Yeah,” I say, my voice hard, “Wouldn’t be the first time.” “No,” his voice turned faint, “I… I’m in… I’m owning someone.” My brows furrowed, “What? How much?” His eyes slid shut. I shook him, “How much money, Dad?” His eyes slid open for a slight second, and then his body heaved. Hot thick vomit poured out of his mouth, all over me. I fought back a gag at the horrible smell. Old alcohol, hot and bitter, greasy digested food. It dripped from my chin, down my neck, soaking through the material of my cotton tank top. His body gave up, falling into mine. My back hit the wall, balancing both his and my weight. I ground my jaw so hard that I worried my teeth might crack. I can’t take much more of this bullshit. His body stuck to mine, hot, thick vomit sandwiching our bodies together. I tried not to breathe through my nose, wrapping his arms around my shoulders as I dragged him into the hallway and towards his bedroom. He dropped on the bed in a heap of sweaty, unmovable limbs. I peeled off his shirt and covered him. Turning off the bedside lamp before walking out and closing the door behind me. I pulled my shirt off, careful not to let the soaked fabric touch my face. He’s owing someone money? How much? Who? My head throbbed with a migraine as I cleaned up the house. I’ll have to wait till he wakes up before I can get any more information about it. I barely got any sleep. Before I could make it out of my room in the morning, I realized he'd already left the house. Instantly, my heart beat frantically. Is he sober? Is he okay? As much as the way he chooses to live his life upsets me, I can’t help but be worried about him. I was out of the house a short while after. The pack house was bustling with people as usual. I stopped at the gates, asked one of the guards if my father stopped by. He snorted, rolling his eyes and ignored me. The more people I ask, the more similar responses I get. “It’s Maverick, he’ll turn up eventually.” “Your old man again? Give me a break.” “He’s out of his mind patrolling the streets, I’m sure you’ll find the crackhead sooner or later.” I was bustling with anger and frustration. Yet, I can’t blame them for their reactions. Maverick Wells was known for his wasted escapades. He always disappeared, looking for the next hole to bury himself in once he got enough crack or booze to brighten his day. But something about last night was different. He was… scared. By the time I got home that night, I was exhausted. And not just from work. I had no luck figuring out Dad’s whereabouts, and it had been plaguing my mind all day. I was cleaning up after dinner when Dad walked through the front door. I stared at him. His footsteps were heavy, but he was not dragging his feet. His hands were buried in the pockets of his jeans, a solemn look on his face. But that was not all I noticed. His eyes meet mine. Clear blue eyes. He's sober. “Dad?” I ask, tentatively, “Where have you been?” He pursed his lips, taking a deep breath before he sat on the leather sofa. Cradling his head in his hands, he whispers, “I’m sorry.” He’s sorry? “I messed up,” he continues, “Bad.” I dropped everything I was doing and walked up to him, “What are you talking about?” “I owe him money,” his voice cracks, “A lot of money.” I crouched down to his level, “Who Dad?” He scratches at his temples, shaking his head. I pry his hands away, “Who do you owe Dad?” His head hangs low, “Kylen Nova.” My eyes grow wide, “The… the Lycan King?” He nods shakily. “How much money?” I whispered, scared of the answer. “One hundred thousand dollars.” My breath is knocked out of me. I moved away from him, my ass hitting the carpeted floor. No way. One hundred thousand dollars? He’s owning a hundred thousand dollars? Worst of all, to Kylen Nova. I shook my head. I’ve heard stories about King Kylen. Horrible stories. “How could you be so stupid, Dad,” I yelled. There’s no way someone like Kylen would let go of that sum. If Dad wasn’t going to be able to pay, he’d find retribution in some other way. And Kylen was a man with no limits. He could kill him as a form of payment, My stomach twisted. “I don’t know!” He cried, voice muffled by his hands. “I don’t know what to do. I’m in trouble, Alora. Big trouble.” I rose from the floor, my entire body shaking. Kylen was… a monster. There was no other way to describe him. He wasn’t the type to show mercy. I wracked through my brain, “We have to figure a way out of this.” “There’s nothing we can do, Alora.” He says, “I either get the money together or I don’t.” “What happens if you don’t?” “I don’t want to know.” His voice is small, hesitant. I have to think of something. I have to get him out of this. He had dug up his own grave with his recklessness, but still, he’s my father, and I can’t sit back with my arms crossed. I grabbed my bag and left the house without another word. By the time late afternoon rolls around, I was a complete mess. My plan didn’t go as expected. A weight hung heavily over my shoulders. The only reasonable idea I could come up with fell flat. I went on my knees for the Alpha of this pack, and he turned me away, refusing to help a man like my father. My eyes stung, the feeling of hopelessness consumed me. There had to be a way out. There has to be something I can do. And by Dad’s demeanor this morning, he’s running out of time. I closed up from work later than usual. I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, the cold evening air made me wish I brought my jacket. Suddenly, a strong arm wrapped around my neck. “Scream and you die.”