I’ve been putting it off all day, hating that he treats me like a servant instead of a daughter. Storm made me promise to try and not piss Dad off. I’m trying my hardest to keep my word, and man is it hard.
Once I’m done with cleaning up after him, it’s time to prepare dinner.
“Food should be on the table waiting for your alpha when he returns home.”My father and school have preached this to me as far back as I can remember. My mom even made sure it happened. Well, according to all the stories that Storm has told me. And maybe one day, my instincts will push me to care for my alphas — but he’s my father, not my alpha. When I finally find a pack, I don’t plan on being their maid.
Some days I wonder if there was a mistake and I’m really not an omega, but a beta instead. I don’t have the natural homemaking tendencies of an omega. The only thing that makes me remotely fit into that designation is my nest. The one I fill with all my stuffies, and scents of me, for now. The place I hide to feel safe. The sanctuary where I cut.
The creak of the front door opening splits through the silence and sends a jolt through my spine. My breath hitches, and in an instant, the fragile peace I had been clinging to shatters like thin glass.
Dad’s home.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white as a heavy, suffocating weight settles in my chest. My sweet cherry scent sours, thickening the air around me, until it’s almost unbearable. Each breath grows more difficult, the bitter tang clinging to my throat, making it feel like I’m choking on my own fear.
I don’t turn around. I don’t move. Any movement might draw his attention to me, and that’s the last thing I want. Invisibility is what I need when it comes to my father. The urge to curl up somewhere small and safe tugs at me — a tight corner, a blanket-covered space, anything that could soften the ache. But there’s no comfort here, only the constant weight of his watchful eyes.
The air shifts with something unspoken but understood. A storm brewing beneath the surface, unpredictable and dangerous.
The sound of his boots against the hardwood floor echoes into the kitchen, each step slow and measured. He’s in no hurry. He never is. The beast inside him is stirring, stretching, waiting for an excuse to pounce on me, punishing me for some presumed wrongdoing.
I force myself to take a breath, slow and silent, willing my body to remain still. But it’s hard when all I can smell is the heady scent of brimstone.
Don’t flinch. Don’t tense.He can smell fear, and fear only feeds his fire.
The brief moment of solitude is gone, ripped away as if it never existed. All that matters now is survival—keeping my head down, my voice steady, and my movements controlled. One wrong move, and I will be the one caught in the fallout.
I think about running, locking myself in my room, curling into the nest I built in my closet. But I’m too far away. He’ll see me before I make it, and Storm isn’t here to shield me, to throw himself into the fire so I don’t burn.
A hollow comfort stirs in my chest at the thought. At least his absence means he isn’t here to take the brunt of our father’s rage in my place. Storm is the one good thing I have in my life. Well, him and school. The excuse to be out of the house and away from my father. If only I could hide from the other kids while there.
Everything else is fucking misery.
My breath hitches as my father’s heavy boots thud against the floorboards, and I know he’s behind me. I keep my head down, hoping that if I don’t move, if I stay perfectly still, he won’t notice me.
His abrasive voice cuts through the air like a knife.
“Get dinner on the table, River. We’re expecting guests.”
His tone is almost cheerful, which sends ice down my spine. He’s never in a good mood unless he’s drinking, and even then, that mood sours quickly. And he didn’t bitch about it not being done already? Something isn’t right.
Still, I don’t argue. I don’t ask who’s coming. It doesn’t matter. He won’t tell me anyway. He’ll just get angry that I dared question him. I’m to be seen and not heard.
I keep my movements swift and silent as I prepare dinner. Moving slowly, I try to make as little noise as I can while I chop vegetables, placing them in a casserole dish with some diced chicken and potatoes. Preparing everything just the way he likes it. Any mistake, any delay, and I’ll regret it. Once I’m done, I stick it in the oven and set the timer.
Just as I’m finishing up, I hear the distinct thud of his boots against the floor again.
I stiffen, keeping my back to him.
Then he speaks, his voice dangerously close to my ear.
“Get to your room and change into your best clothes. Now.”
I swallow hard before nodding, but as I turn to walk past him, he snatches my arm, yanking me toward him.
A whimper escapes me, but I quickly compose myself. His grip tightens; his fingers bruising against my skin. The scent of alcohol clinging to him, mixed with the wretched smell of brimstone.
His putrid breath fans across my face as he snarls, his lips pulling back in a sneer. “Don’t fuck this up for me, River.”
I nod quickly, not trusting my voice. He releases me with a shove, and I take the opportunity to escape, darting out of the kitchen and down the hallway without looking back.
