Page 7 of The Alpha's Sold Pregnant Mate

Oh, you mean these rags?

Indeed, in comparison to society’s norms, those were rags that Esme wore as clothes.

“...Therefore, you will do as I say, when I say it, and how I say it. Do you understand?”

She nodded, fighting against the tightness of his grip on her jawbone.

“Do…you…under…stand, Esme?” he reiterated, saying the words slowly but forcefully.

“Yes, sir,” she managed to speak, however inaudibly.

“Good.” He let go and snorted his disregard for her before leaving the room.

Esme sighed heavily, massaging the spot he'd inflicted that highly unnecessary pain on, and walked over to her window.

She opened them and parted the curtains, allowing the morning sun to kiss her face warmly. With her eyes shut, Esme drew in a deep breath, basking in the glory of the beaming light rays. She blocked out the disheartening scene that just occurred and decided to try and be happy regardless.

She picked up the Harry Potter novel on her table and stared at the cover design, fixing her gaze on the graphical representation of the fictional young wizard.

“Looks like we're not so different after all, Harry,” she said and added almost immediately, “Except for the fact that you have magic powers, and I don't.” She exhaled slowly, “Sometimes, I wish I did, though. And maybe, I'd smite those who hurt me with an ‘Expecto Patronum’!” She dramatically recited one of the popular spells in the novel, stretching out a hand like she was indeed holding a wand and casting a spell.

Esme giggled at her ridiculousness, dropped the book on her table, and then stopped in front of the cracked mirror across her small room. It was reasonably high but very old—so old that it gave off blurred reflections, and the permanent stains on it hindered her vision.

She smiled, admiring her beauty since there was literally no one in town who saw her as anything more than a cursed lady.

“You're gorgeous, Esme. Always remember that,” she said to her reflection, “You still look good, even in a broken mirror.” She adjusted the hems of her green gown, which was torn in more places than one, faded and worn out, and then headed out of her room.

Esme was blessed with an angelic voice, hence her love for music. She always sang at any given opportunity, when she was sad, happy, or angry, but mostly when she was sad—since she was sad almost all the time.

The melody of her voice cut through the air, announcing her beautiful soprano. A smile brightened her face as she clasped a woven basket between her ribs and her left hand on her way to the garden outback.

“Shut the fuck up, Rapunzel!” A neighbor yelled at her from his window, “Some of us are still sleeping, you know!”

“Sorry, Mr. Griffin,” she replied and lowered her voice.

Mr. Griffin was a plump, pot-bellied, ugly man in his mid-fifties. He and his unbearable wife were the primary people who had made her life a living hell these past years. Their hatred and disregard for her were second only to her father's. Mr. Griffin obviously wanted to just shut her up because he was already by his window, looking out the horizon when she passed, not still in bed. Besides, his bird-brained son, Caleb, was mowing the lawn with a faulty mower, which was producing a high-pitched noise.

“Rapunzel… Really, Peter?” Mr. Griffin's wife, Hilda, stuck her head out and sneered at her husband. Like him, Hilda was plump and in her mid-fifties. She was beautiful, with blonde hair and two small dimples that appeared at the corners of her cheeks whenever she chose to smile. Sadly, she only smiled at other people's demise, especially Esme's.

“Yeah, you know… Like the princess who sings…” he replied defensively.

“‘Princess’?” Disbelief was evident in her gaze.

“Yeah…” he replied.

“Okay, first, royalty is very far from Esme, and second, Rapunzel isn't the princess who sings; that's Snow White, dumb-dumb.” She left him by the window and returned inside.

“What? No. That's not true…” He followed up after her.

Esme scoffed and shook her head as she heard them argue about who was right and who wasn't.

As she walked into the garden, all the flowers and plants came alive, blossoming and radiating in the morning sun—roses, lilies, and hibiscuses alike. Soon, the place was enveloped by the sweet fragrance of these plants. It was almost like her presence had awakened them.

“Good morning, Gideon. Morning, Shelby…” she said, walking amongst the green.

Esme had at some point thought that she was losing her mind since, in her loneliness, she was able to find friendship and comfort amongst the plants in her father's garden. She'd gotten so used to them that she decided to name each of them. Surprisingly, she never mixed up their names.

Esme could never really explain it, but she could swear that the plants somehow could understand her. In a very weird way, she felt like she could understand them as well. It was like she shared some kind of connection with them.

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