The Alpha's Uncovered Mate

Cynthia I stare at the marks on my back. The new welts are a purplish red, some of them gaping open and bleeding, and I know they will take weeks to heal. But they will never disappear. I gingerly touch them and wince. At least the bleeding has stopped. One would think I would be used to it by now. I’ve spent twenty-four years like this, receiving a whipping every Sunday to remind me of my family’s sins. The four-year-old confused and frightened child who had entered this house had cried and begged. She had apologized all the time, trying to make herself invisible. The twenty-eight-year-old woman who is staring back at me in the mirror no longer screams. It doesn't hurt any less. Now, I get a sick satisfaction from seeing the irritation in the eyes of Jonathon Moore, the man who took me from my father's home, as he tries to break me. But you can't break what's already been broken. My silverish hair is tied up in a loose bun, my pale blue eyes dull. And yet, after all this time, my fire has not diminished. I look at myself in the mirror and move achingly slowly as I pick up my shirt, not even bothering with the ointment on the shelf. It doesn't help with the scarring. Special wolfsbane is applied to the jagged whip, so the scars remain. I glance at the wall clock. It's twelve at night. Buttoning up my shirt. I study the woman in the mirror, murmuring, "Happy birthday. You made it one more year." Picking up my bag, I head down from the attic which once used to be my bedroom. The house is dark and empty. Jonathon's wife, Lirilla, isn't home. I saw her leave when I came over. She never stays when I come over. When I first arrived, the child I had been thought she felt sorry for me. But I found out very quickly that she not only approved but found me disgusting. As far as the rest of the pack knows, the Alpha, Jonathon, is sponsoring me, a girl from the slums. Only I know the truth. Jonathon’s children either don’t know or don’t care enough. Speaking of his children, I see movement in the kitchen, and I go still. The sound of the fridge slamming makes my jaw tense. I know Jonathon is already in bed. The only one around at this time would be… Norman Moore walks out of the kitchen, a beer in his hand. I don't have to sniff him to know how drunk he is. That’s all Norman is ever good for. Unlike his successful older brother, Adam, who left this house when he was sixteen, Norman has been nothing short of a disappointment to his father. The only things he's interested in are women, partying, and getting drunk. If he has any other goal in his life, it's to show up his older brother, something he fails at miserably. The only reason he's still in this house is because Jonathon still has hopes for him. "Oye!" Norman calls out to me, and I go still, slowly looking over my shoulder. "What?" "What're you doing here?" He wanders over and the stench of alcohol around him makes me want to gag. "Leaving," I respond before beginning to walk away. However, he grabs my wrist, forcing me toward him. "What the hell are you doing?" I snap, trying to break free of his hold, and failing. "You'd better watch that tone of yours," he sneers at me. "Dad's not the only one who knows how to put you in your place." As if to prove his point, he slaps his other hand on my wounded back, smirking when I hiss in pain. Taking advantage of his inebriety, I kick him in the ankle, jumping away from him. "Don't touch me, you creep!" Norman's eyes turn into tiny slits. "You'd better watch it. If I go to Dad––" "He already told you to stay away from me," I sneer back. That is the only thing I am grateful to Jonathon for. When Normal began to display interest in me when we were teenagers, his father nipped the situation in the bud. I got a good beating for luring his son in, while he told Norman to not engage with me. His reasoning was so as not to taint his bloodline or something of the sort. Not that I care. As long as his pathetic son kept his greasy mitts off me, I didn't give a rat's ass what Jonathon's reasoning was. Norman has always watched me with those beady eyes filled with greed. Most of his greed stems from the fact that I am a forbidden fruit, and he has been raised to believe that he has a right to take whatever he lays his eyes on. "You b***h!" He grabs my wrist and I snarl, "Try it and I will scream this house down!" "You think Dad will blame me?" Norman gives me a smarmy smile. "I just have to tell him you were coming on to me and he'll peel the skin off your back even more." "I'd prefer that," I give him a cold smile, "over your disgusting touch." He lifts his hand, and I see his unsheathed claws. I don't hesitate, ducking down and twisting my hand so it grips around his wrist in a tight hold. In a heartbeat, I slam him down on the ground, the sound echoing in the empty house. "You b––" I can already hear the door slamming upstairs, and my eyes widen. Grabbing my bag from where it has fallen, I rush toward the front door. However, I know I won't make it in time, so I quickly turn around and say loudly, "Oh, no! Norman! Are you alright?" There are footsteps on the stairs, and a gray-haired man turns the corner, frowning. "What is going on?" Norman opens his mouth, glaring at me, struggling to get up, but I don't give him a chance to speak. "He was drinking and I think he fell over his feet. Are you okay, Norman? Should I get you some water?" "Dad––" "I told you to stop drinking so much." Jonathon’s brow furrows. "And what're you still doing here, Cynthia? I told you to go back."