The Alpha's Mate Who Cried Wolf - Free To Read

Struggling to rise from the cold, creaky wooden floor, I sweep my long, obsidian hair behind my ears and gingerly wipe the crimson evidence of my split lip, wincing in pain as I do so. My once sparkling emerald eyes, now swollen and bruised, bore deeply into my father's rich, chocolate-brown gaze. 'Please,' I implore, my voice shaky with both physical and emotional agony, 'Mum wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you to hurt me like this.'

His voice, consumed with anger, causes me to tremble as he bellows, 'You should have thought about that before you killed your mother!'

Tears stream down my cheeks as I sob, my voice breaking with guilt and despair. 'Please, Dad! You know it was an accident. I didn't mean for her to die!'

We lock eyes, an icy silence enveloping us. Desperation fills my voice as I whisper, 'If I could bring Mum back, if I could go back and save her, I would. Please, please forgive me.'

My father's eyes, filled with burning rage, shift into a malevolent smirk. 'Oh, Astrid,' he drawls with a chilling nonchalance, 'you're no daughter of mine. You never were. Your mother told me your birth father died while she was pregnant with you. But I loved your mother so much that I was willing to pretend to be your father.'

My head shook vehemently. 'No! That can't be true! Mum would never keep something like that from me!' I shout, my disbelief echoing through the room.

He advances, closing the distance between us. 'Your mother didn't want you to discover the truth until you turned eighteen,' he reveals, his voice dripping with a cruel satisfaction. 'She wanted you to lead a normal life. She said you would find out your true identity once you were eighteen. I didn't understand what she meant then. But I guess she planned to reveal the secret of your biological father to you at that age,' he says, smiling and tapping his foot on the wooden floor. 'Well, I guess you'll never find out who he is now.' He laughs, then turns and leaves my room, the ominous click of the lock sealing my isolation.

As the darkness of my room swallows me whole, I'm left alone with the shattering revelation that everything I had known about my identity had been a carefully constructed lie. The weight of my mother's secret and my father's sinister revelation bore down on me. I wonder if I'll ever be free of this nightmare, of his torment and abuse. My eyes dart towards the window, and I look out at the evening sky at the twinkling stars, and I know the odds are against me.

My sanctuary, my broom, is a room of simplicity. Its walls are plain cream-colour, while a lone, modest square window allows slivers of daylight to sneak through. The centrepiece is my trusty, weathered wooden bed. Its age is obvious in the creaks it emits, yet it remains very comfortable, allowing me a good night’s rest each night.

Opposite the bed are matching old drawers filled with well-worn clothing. The stubbornly broken bottom drawer had chosen a solitary path of defiance, but the others offer ample refuge for the rest of my modest wardrobe.

Above the drawers, a floating shelf is attached to the wall, a repository of cherished trinkets and dog-ear books. Nothing here was extravagant or ostentatious; it was just a plain old broom, which I’ve always been content with. In the days when my mother's laughter still filled our home, toys and fanciful things never held sway over my heart.

Our world was the great outdoors, where mud became art, the woods were a racetrack for our adventures, and the dams welcomed our gleeful splashes. Even when Dad wasn't toiling away at work, he was our playmate and the best father a child could have. Back then, he was kindness incarnate, and his love was boundless.

Piggyback rides were a daily occurrence, and he'd transform a simple tyre into a swing, suspending it from a sturdy tree branch near our cherished dam. Each day, he pushed me higher on the swing until I fell off, splashing into the dam. We laughed so hard as I doggy paddled to the water's edge. Those were the days of innocence and joyous togetherness, and the memory of that swing squeaking in the breeze remains in my heart long after my mother's untimely departure and my father's heartbreak turned him cruel.

In the vast, unforgiving expanse of the woods that surrounded our house and the adventures that would await us each day, old clothes were perfect for our daily explorations. But since Mum's tragic departure, I had outgrown my clothes, and my father refused to spend a dime on me. So, I started wearing my mother’s clothes once I was around seventeen, since they fitted me nicely by then. My mother would always refer to me as her twin. My father agreed that I inherited all my mother’s looks. Her green eyes, light olive skin, dark hair, and my nose—she would always tap it and call it the cutest nose ever.

Unable to sit up any longer from the pain, I lie back sprawled on the floor, agony coursing through my bruised body. My gaze drifts towards my bed, and my mind plays tricks, warping my view and making the bed look much further away than it is. At this moment, I yearn for my knight in shining armour to burst through the door, scoop me up, and, with tenderness, place me on my soft bed. Yet I know my world is far from a fairy tale, and Prince Charming remains mythical. With a resigned sigh, I summon my willpower. Drawing a shaky breath, I muster the strength to drag my battered form across the wooden floor. Each movement sends bolts of pain shooting through me. Finally, I heave myself onto my bed, the relief of its soft embrace washing over me. The softness is the only gentleness I've received today.