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Scarlet
My isolated cabin idea looked better on paper than it does in real life. My real-life version is plain, downright scary and a hell of a lot of manual labour. There’s no paint left on the outside walls, the roof has more shingles on the ground, and I swear, nature has all but won the battle of reclaiming the cottage.
But I have nowhere else to go.
The door collapses on me, splinters bite into my fingers. The pain is tolerable but pushes my flailing temper, skittering it to a new high. When I saw the cottage again, I’d thought maybe the whole thing might fall on my head, so I guess a single door is a win.
I wrestle with the old wood until it sits back on the rusty hinges and warily step back, sweeping my long, tangled hair out of my face. I get a look at the interior of the cottage in the rapidly disappearing daylight and wonder if this is life telling me just to quit. It’s a wreck, and it looks nothing like it does in my memories. The curtains are moth eaten; the floor is dusty; and the smell reminds me of wild animals. It’s not fit for living in, but beggars, I remind myself firmly, can’t be choosers.
At least it’s mine alone. Peace. Solitude. Time to gather my thoughts and work out what the fuck I’ve been doing for the last decade. Time to be alone and take off the mask I’ve been wearing so long I’ve forgotten who I even am anymore.
The radio station playing in my earpod stops playing music.
“This is your favourite station, 99.9, and we’re here with all your Alphas, Betas, and Omegas, the ABO’s, oh, yeah. Today we’re talking about packs.”
“I’d love me a pack.” The female croons through my ear.
I snort at her desire. Maybe one day they’ll stop selling the romance out of packs and start peddling realities. Bitterly frosty nights that turn into months or years. The group ganging up on others to get what they want. There isn’t communication or love, it’s what you can get from each other.
I’m tired of being drained. Scarlet, handle the business. Scarlet, sort out our parties, handle the cleaning, cook, play mediator.
I turn around, eyeing the cobwebs hanging from the corners. Please, lord let the owners of those webs be deceased! The cute, stained glass in the window edges is dirty and doesn’t turn the floor coloured like it used to. My heels click across the wood as I walk, but somehow they lose the power they normally ring with, like the sheer volume of dirt and other nasties is some absorbent mat. I rip the white sheet off the couch and find a floral disaster zone.
“You are going in the bin,” I tell the couch with a warning glare.
“Alphas need packs to keep them sane, situated, and calm. Male alphas need to protect. They need mellow betas and needy omega girls.”
“Oh, no, they don't. What alphas need is peace and quiet and an existence sans morons!” I shout back, incensed.
The idiot on the station chuckles. I’m not surprised he has so much information wrong. Alphas don’t just need to protect, we need to serve; we need to provide safety, both emotional and physical. We are the sharp edge of the sword ready to defend and the warm embraces bringing food and love. Pack life is a give and take. It has to be.
I’m an alpha, but I’m not male, so I can’t be sure, but I figure we must be similar, and I need more than just to walk around protecting people or fucking them.
I think of my friend Missy and how happy she is with her alphas, the tiny flickers of seeing something I’ve never seen before out of a pack that works as a unit, a team. Each person making room for the next.
Missy’s a unicorn. I’ll never find someone like her. And that hurts.
“Right, because heats. Oh, man, I have heard the stories, getting that fabulous bite mark on your body, being owned by an alpha who can rock your world.” The woman makes a suggestive noise.
I stop where I am and glare. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all. It shouldn’t be, anyway. I reach up to touch my neck where there’s not a single blemish. No bonds, no bites, no pack. Alone.
I press my lips together, focusing on the cabin, remembering the last time I was here. Gran with her arm around me, smiling as she told me yet another one of those stories my father had forbidden. It was Red Riding Hood, and when I looked up at Gran and asked her in a hushed whisper, “How come Red was so dumb that she didn’t realise the wolf was pretending to be her Grandma?” Gran had smiled and leaned down and whispered into my ear, “That Red wasn’t dumb, it’s just because wolves wear the best disguises.”
I’d been confused. Until I remembered her words when I was sixteen. The day I presented as alpha. A female alpha. It made no sense. But from then on, they, my family, anyone who met me, looked at me with fear, and Gran’s words, well, I took them to heart. I made myself the best disguise. I turned into a wolf.
Scarlet Waring, CEO of multiple multi-million dollar companies, who is calm and feared, not for what she could be but for what she is when she walks into your business room.
And it still hadn’t worked. I’m still just as alone as I was at sixteen. Unwanted. An aberration. Feared.
With a grunt, I flop down on the lone kitchen chair that’s not broken, unbuttoning my suit jacket and kicking my heels off. I put my hand over my eyes and smile. I just want to sleep for a month. I can do that now. I answer to no one.
“Everyone wants a hot little omega to wiggle into their life. Get yourself an alpha or omega, join a pack. Bonds are for life.” The two idiots on the station giggle. “We have Sarah on the line. Hi, Sarah.”
“Hi, I just think you’re wrong. It's got to be more than just sex, just designations. What about loyalty? What about sacrifice? What about family and love?”
“Well, I guess, Sarah, if you’re after those things, you should really consider a fairy tale.”
