Claimed by the Twin Alphas

Chapter Two

Lila

My fingers hover over my laptop’s keyboard. I’ve been rewriting two paragraphs for an hour. The work’s due tomorrow, and I’m exhausted, physically and mentally. I want to get it done with, but the words won’t come.

A knock booms on the door. Followed by two more loud, demanding ones.

“Lila!” Jim yells. “Come make dinner.”

My jaw tightens. The last thing I want to deal with is my stepfather’s troubles. I close my eyes, pressing my fingertips into my sockets. I can’t wait for this to be over. To be finally rid of him.

“I’m coming,” I grunt.

As I step out into the hallway, the smell of alcohol and sweat hits me. It’s so thick I retch, almost throwing up.

Two women I’ve never seen before sit on the living room couch. One of them is holding a wine glass and laughing too loud. The other lights a cigarette and sets her filthy boots on the coffee table.

Jim waves me to the kitchen. His face is red, and his eyes are glassy.

“Cook something fancy,” he slurs. “We’re celebrating.”

I don’t ask what he’s celebrating. Truth is, I don’t care.

With lips drawn together, I step into the kitchen and start cooking. The sound of clinking glasses and raunchy laughter keeps slicing into my concentration. My hands tremble over the chopping board.

I want to scream. I want to smash something. But I swallow it all down.

Six more months. Just six more months and I can walk away from this madness.

I have no idea why Mom inserted that stupid clause in the will. Why do I have to stay with my stepfaer until 21 before I can get my share of the inheritance? It’s utter bollocks.

In twenty minutes, I whip up a dinner of pasta and veggies and take the dish to the living room. The women lean on Jim, giggling like kids who have been gifted new toys. I drop the food on the table and head straight to my room.

“Lila.”

I stop.

“Go clean my room,” he says. “Me and my girls wanna have a nice time.”

I stare at him. “Please, I have lots of work to do.”

“I said go clean my room!” He gets up, eyes narrowing. I see a portion of his round stomach from his unbuttoned shirt. Jim’s not fit but there’s something in his eyes that constantly screams Don’t mess with me.

I clench my jaw and lower my head. I need to stay patient. It’s only a matter of time before I get what I want.

“Alright.” I head straight to his room. The stench hits me as soon as I open the door. Beer bottles everywhere. Dirty clothes. Used condoms on the floor.

My stomach lurches. What the hell is this? This is beyond disgusting. I turn around and march back into the living room.

“I can’t do it. Your room is disgusting. I won’t clean that.”

Jim’s face darkens. “What did you say?”

“I said I won’t do it.”

He rises again. “Don’t play with me, Lila.”

“Look, let one of your. . .”

That’s as far as I get before he lunges. He tries to grab my arm but I bend away from him. His knee knocks into a stool and he yells like a husky.

“I’m going to kill you.”

I scream and race down the hallway, heart in my throat. He’s right behind me, shouting, cursing. I dive into my room and slam the door shut, twisting the lock just in time to keep him out.

“Open this door!”

“Leave me alone!”

“I’ll f*****g kill you, Lila.”

“Do your worst.”

His steps echo away from the door. Is that it? He’s just going to ignore my disrespect. Or is he too drunk to do something about it?

I sit on my bed and pull my laptop closer. My fingers are shaking, and funnily enough, the elusive muse hits me. I’m finally getting words on the page.

Buzzzzz!

My breath catches. Is that a saw? The buzzing sound increases and a serrated blade slashes through the door.

Panic explodes in my chest. I back away, eyes darting toward the window.

I need to do something now. My eyes sweep around the room. I can’t find any weapon to defend myself.

Okay, I need to run.

I grab my lamp and hurl it at the window. Glass shatters outward. I climb up, cutting my hand on the jagged edges, but I don’t stop. The door cracks behind me. Jim is almost in!

With one final push, I throw myself out into the night. I tumble onto the lawn below and spring to my feet. Behind me, the door finally crashes open.

Jim bellows from the broken window. “Come back here, you cursed changeling!”

I ignore him and sprint down the sidewalk barefoot. Gravel bites into my feet, but that’s better than getting sawed up by my drunk stepfather. My wounded hand is slick with blood and sweat. But I keep going.

I don’t stop running until I reach the main road and find a taxi.

“Wentford Avenue.” That’s my friend, Erica’s house. She’s one of the few people I trust around here.

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. His brows furrow at the sight of my bleeding hand. But he doesn’t say a word. He only nods and pulls away from the curb.

I lean back against the seat. The adrenaline eases, leaving me cold and hollow. It feels crazy that the man my mom believed would protect me was inches away from killing me tonight.

“We’re here,” the driver mutters, pulling up outside a flat. Wow, that’s quick.

I pay the fare and hurry to Erica’s door. The windows are dark and no one answer my knocks.

She’s not home. My stomach drops. If she’s out of town, then my night has just gotten worse. I knock one more time. Nothing still.

I whip my phone out of my pocket, not caring that my blood is staining the pouch. As I scroll through my contact for Erica’s number, the wind picks up and brushing across my exposed skin. I shiver.

Somehow, it feels like I’m being watched.

I swallow and spin, searching for around me for movement. Nothing. I dial Erica’s number. The call drops.

“Damn it. Not tonight.”

I don’t even have the option of checking into a hotel. My purse is back in my room, and I don’t have enough on my credit card to pay for anything.

I pace the porch, heart still caught in my throat. Every sound feels too loud.

What do I do?

Headlights swing around the corner and a sleek black sedan rolls to a stop across the street. My breath catches again. Has Jim tailed me here?

The driver’s side door opens, and I heave a sigh of relief. It’s Max. Erica’s boyfriend.

Erica steps out of the passenger side, laughing. Her hair is a little messy, cheeks flushed. She looks happy.

As much as I want them to enjoy their romantic moment, I know I’ll only feel safe indoors. I run toward them. “Erica!”

She turns. “Lila? What a surprise?”

“You weren’t answering my calls. . .”

“I put it on Do Not Disturb during the date. Wait, what happened to you? Why are you bleeding?”

Max comes over, also staring at my bloody hand. “Do you want me to call 911?”

“Nah, it’s just a little accident. I’m sure Erica has a first aid kit somewhere. I’ll clean it up once I get inside.”

Erica says a hurried goodbye to Max, and he drives off. Then she leads me into the house. She disappears into the kitchen and comes back moments later with a steaming mug of coffee and a first aid kit.

My hands shake as I hold the warm mug. I try to speak, but my voice cracks. Erica kneels beside me and starts cleaning my injury.

“So, tell me what happened,” she whispers.

I tell her everything. From Jim’s call in the middle of my work to my escape.

“We need to call the cops right now. That’s attempted murder.”

“He used to be a cop,” I say bitterly. “He still has friends in the police department. Who do you think they’re going to believe? Me or their buddy?”

She wipes the injury with a cotton wool soaked in methylated spirit, making me wince. “Okay, then screw the cops. Let’s call the lawyer. The one handling your mom’s will. He needs to hear about this. Maybe they will cut him off the will and kick him out of the house.”

“Okay, that makes sense.” I dig out my phone with my good hand and dial with trembling fingers.

“Ms. Quinn,” says the lawyer. “This is such a late call. How can I help?”

For the second time that night, I repeat my ordeals in the hands of my stepfather.

“I’m deeply sorry,” he says at last. “But the will’s terms are legally binding. Unless we have solid evidence, like photographs, medical reports, a police complaint. It’s merely your word against his. If you abandon the house, you forfeit your claim.”

“So I should stay there and just let him kill me?”

“No. I’m advising you to endure. Just a little longer. Record everything. Get proof. You’re so close. Don’t throw it all away now.”

“f**k the inheritance,” I hiss.

“Ms. Quinn?”

I hang up. Erica stares at me, open mouthed.

“Are you sure. . .”

“Yeah. The inheritance can rot. I’m taking my life back.”