Chapter 3
River
It’s been a week since my father came after me. Since Storm stepped in to save me. I’ve kept my promise to him. School and home. Not that there’s much difference between the two. Both give me nothing but pain, just different people delivering it.
“The scar makes you look better.” Jenna smirks.
“All they’ll need to do at the whorehouse is put a bag over your head.
” A round of laughter erupts just as the teacher enters the room.
School is a fucking joke. Instead of learning math, science, or even English, we’re stuck learning how to keep a home.
Have they been to my house? It’s all I fucking do.
A balled up piece of paper lands on my desk. I look around to see who threw it, to find Jenna leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, pencil held between her lips as she gazes at me. Opening the crumpled paper, my eyes land on what’s written inside.
“Why don’t you just kill yourself?” I won’t let her see my response. Crumpling it back up, I drop it on the floor and open my book, ready for class to begin.
I’m the laughingstock at school. The daughter of the town drunk. I’m ridiculed and humiliated for the threadbare clothing I wear, the bruises and scars I bear, and my father’s antics around town when he’s on a bender.
Storm doesn’t know how bad I have it at school.
I hide it from him with lies about how great it is and how amazing my friends are.
There aren’t any. But if he knew, he’d rush in and try to be my savior, because that’s what he does, and it would only make things worse.
My bruises are finally starting to disappear.
All traces of my father’s brutality from the last bout of anger are fading from existence except for the cut on my cheek and the gash on my temple.
Thin, dark scabs stretch across the wounds, cracking in places where my expressions have pulled at them over the last few days.
The bruising around the cuts is in various stages of healing.
They shift in color from a deep purple to a sickly yellow-green.
It makes me look as though I’ve been carelessly painted with watercolors.
I let out a slow breath, meeting my own gaze in the mirror. It isn’t the first mark I’ve worn on my face, but it is the only one that’s left a lasting effect.
“You’ll never earn the attention of a wealthy pack looking like a disfigured hag.” My father made a point of telling me just two days ago.
It took everything in me to bite my tongue and not say a word. It’s his fault I even have the damn scars. I let out a deep sigh as I continued washing the dishes my father had left in the sink this morning. Even though it’s his mess, if I don’t clean it, then there will be a repeat of last week.
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.
Once I’m in my room, I shut the door behind me, pressing my back against it as I exhale shakily.
“What the hell has he cooked up now?” I ask myself softly. Why would he be worried about me fucking something up for him?
Whatever it is, it can’t be good. It never is. And since he’s making sure I’m present and dressed in my best clothes, it has to involve me, in some way. My stomach starts to churn, and my heart races.
I move to my dresser and pull out the nicest thing I own, a navy blue sundress with a cream-colored sweater. It’s simple. Modest. The fabric is soft and comforting to my skin. I pull it on quickly, brushing my fingers through my hair before glancing in the mirror.
My reflection stares back at me with wide, wary eyes.
I hate this.
I hate feeling like a pawn in his twisted games, like I’m nothing more than something to be used.
But I don’t have a choice.
With a final steadying breath, I leave my room and head back down the hallway.
Dad’s already in the living room, beer in hand, dressed in his neatly pressed suit. I raise a brow, shocked that he did it himself instead of demanding that I do it.
I don’t trust him, and I begin to clench and unclench my hands. Anxiety and dread fill me.
“Set the table,” he orders, barely sparing me a glance. “We’re having two very important guests join us tonight. I expect you to be on your best behavior.”
I swallow my unease and do as I’m told, laying out the plates, the silverware, the glasses. My fingers tremble slightly as I place the last plate down.
The doorbell rings, cutting through the tense silence and causing my panic to take over, my once pleasantly rich cherry fragrance disappearing.
Dad stands abruptly, setting his beer aside. His smile is wide, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s all for show.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Fuck, I wish Storm was here!
Something tells me that whatever is about to happen, it's not good.