Page 4
So fast, I don’t see it coming, my father grips my upper arm, preventing me from backing away any further. I yelp in pain, instinctively trying to pull away from him.
“I—I was—”
My father’s harsh grip tightens, putting an end to my stuttered excuse.
“Enough!”
He shakes me, his voice holding a hint of Alpha Command. He doesn’t need it. I’m too scared to speak. Too afraid to argue.
Too weak, too terrified, too cowardly.
No.
My jaw clenches.
I’m not a coward. Not today, at least. Today I was brave. Today I almost escaped. It’s not my fault that, for the first time in years, Father chose to come home early. I didn’t simply cower in my room, waiting for fate to deal me yet another awful hand. I did something.
I tried.
And look where that got me.
I’m objectively worse off now than I was this morning.
My father glances at the male, and his anger disappears, replaced by an easy mask of professional courtesy.
“My apologies, Alexander. Idril was setting a few things outside for donation.”
He releases my arm, settling his large palm around the back of my neck. His fingers clamp down with deliberate strength that brings tears of pain to my eyes. It’s not only a mockery of what should be a loving gesture.
It’s a message.
He can end my life right now if he wants to. As though I could forget.
Alexander hums, his eerie gaze still boring into mine.
“Donations. How charitable.”
Those dead eyes travel down my body with deliberate slowness. I squirm, desperate to look away from him, but his features are so off-putting that it’s hard to shift my gaze. His expensive, stylish clothes should give him an air of professionalism.
They don’t.
It’s like looking at a half-decayed skeleton in a suit.
His lips are unnaturally thin. So is his hair, but he clearly tries to hide it with a comb-over. There’s a slight tremble to his limbs, which becomes even more obvious when he extends a hand with thin, dry, spindly fingers toward my face. The whine I’m holding in finally escapes, ringing through space between us.
My father’s grip on my neck tightens until I’m struggling to breathe.
It’s meant to be a warning, so I bite my cheek until I taste blood, cutting off the sound of distress.
My father hates that I’m an Omega. Any reminder of my designation can send him into a violent fit of anger. Despite how much it hurts to temper my Omega, I’ve become an expert at it over the years.
Silencing my instincts doesn’t hurt nearly as badly as his fists.
Alexander smiles at my obvious show of discomfort, letting his skeletal hand fall back to his side. Clasping both hands behind his back, he turns to my father.
“I take it this is the one?”
“Yes,” Father replies, sounding bored. “This is my daughter.”
