Page 4 of The Alpha's Cursed Queen

Once. Twice.

I can’t stop him. My hands lift defensively as I try to swallow any sound of pain. Thomas tends to get even more aggressive if I cry out. The first time he beat me up was when I was ten; I had saved enough money from cleaning yards to buy myself a pink backpack for school, the same bag Willow had had her eye on. The backpack was taken from me and destroyed.

It’s clear where Willow gets her sadistic streak from. At least Thomas only beats me if I’ve upset his daughter, whom I try my best to stay away from.

“I didn’t call the police, Thomas!” I try to tell him, but the next blow has my vision blurring with blood, and my tongue now feels thick in my mouth.

“You have some audacity.” He looks annoyed. “I don’t care who called the police. You should’ve stopped them. I don’t care if you didn’t press charges. My daughter was at the police station. My daughter. She had no reason to be there.”

I should keep my mouth shut. I should agree with him and apologize. But even though this pack has been quite successful in breaking me, there is still some spirit left alive within me.

“She wasn’t the one arrested!” I manage to say before I get punched in the throat and fall to the ground. But I’m not doneyet. “Only Flint was arrested!” I gasp. “Willow just went with him.”

My head is spinning as I try to get to my feet.

Beta Thomas crouches beside me, something thin and sharp in his hand. “It doesn’t matter, Alice. You are the reason she stepped inside that filthy place. You still don’t understand, do you? Willow is my precious daughter. You should’ve stopped her. You should’ve begged her if that’s what it took. Instead, you did nothing. When it comes to you and Willow, you’re not even worthy enough to lick the bottom of her shoe. My child was traumatized because of you. She had to deal with all sorts of human police matters. All because you couldn’t bear to have some soup thrown on you? If you can’t do your job, then quit and starve.”

As soon as he finishes his sentence, he lifts his arm and thrusts something into the palm of my right hand. A high-pitched scream is torn from my lips.

He has stabbed me with something. My vision bloody, I don’t understand what it is at first. I’m barely able to think past the pain, and then I see the letter opener sticking out of my hand.

Nausea washes over me.

Thomas shoves me away from him, gets up, and dusts off his suit. I clutch my wrist, trembling and staring down at my hand, only looking up when he makes a clucking sound. “Give me that letter opener.”

Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier if I had just been killed when my parents left me at the pack orphanage. Or did they want me to survive and suffer for having been born?

“I don’t have all day!” the beta snaps, and I cringe.

Wrapping my left hand around the letter opener, I press my lips together and yank it out. My teeth sink into my tongue as I try to distract myself from this vicious pain. I manage to get to my feet, and I walk over to the desk. Just as I’m about to place the sharp object on it, Thomas shakes his head.

“Throw it in the trash there. It’s got your dirty blood on it.”

My body grows cold.

There are times when I’m convinced I’ve grown numb to the insults, the taunts, and the constant degradation. But in moments like this, I feel like a child, all alone and vulnerable, with the world hurling sticks and stones at me.

I throw away the letter opener and turn to leave. My steps are uneven, my vision half obscured by the blood in my eyes. I step out of the office and decide I’ll have to go see a healer. If Mary is available, she will patch me up. Otherwise, I’ll have to get some gauze and disinfectant from the local human pharmacy.

It’s June, and it’s sweltering hot, even in the evening. Despite the sweat streaming down my nape, I wish I had a jacket or something to conceal my badly injured face from the gawking shifters. It sucks that shifters prefer living in close proximity to each other. Each time I get a beating, it’s public knowledge. While there are always a few sympathetic faces, most of my pack feels that my humiliation is well-deserved. I don’t know what they expect me to do. Kill myself?

It hasn’t come to that yet.

Since my kind prefers to reside close together, it means I run into pack members everywhere I go. I am fortunate in one regard, which is that my job and my apartment are both located outside the pack’s inner territory. They might have considered this a punishment, but to me, it’s nothing short of a relief. I don’t mind living among humans. They’re kinder to me than my own people.

The Wolf Kingdom existed long before the humans populated our land. But unlike our kind, humans multiply like rabbits, and over time, we had to concede to human rule, and the Wolf Kingdom faded into obscurity. Soon enough, the humans forgot about our kind, relegating us to their myths and legends.

However, the Wolf Kingdom had simply withdrawn into the background, never letting go of its reins. With multiple packs under its vast umbrella, it controls the continent’s economy, entertainment, and politics, much like its counterparts in Europe and on other continents.

We may be hidden from the human eye, but we are still very much in control. My people take pride in this, but I don’t. What use is it being all powerful when they can’t even treat one of their own with basic decency?

I try to call Mary, one of my few friends in the pack, but she doesn’t pick up. I send her a message, and when there is no response, I realize I may have to go to the healing center. I let out a quiet groan.

I make my way to the edge of the territory, where there will be fewer people around. Weaving through the trees, I try to stay out of sight of the few shifters moving about. My hand is hurting,and when I look down at it, I can tell that the wound is not healing. Instead, I see the beginnings of infection.

Shifters have fast healing, but that’s only one side of the coin. If we get an infection, that also progresses quickly. It has something to do with our immune systems. I need to see Mary right away. She’s the only one who can help me. If I go to the healing center, they’re going to give me a tough time. They’ll treat me because they have no choice, but the way they’ll move around me, touching me gingerly as if I carry some sort of special cooties, is too disheartening right now. And the last thing I need at the moment is more harsh words thrown at me.

I check my phone, but there’s still no response from Mary. My heart sinks as I look at my infected hand.

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