One Shots (+18)

Mate

"Make sure the pack house is spotless by 8 o'clock, or else it wouldn't just be a week in the dungeon without food, I'll tie you naked in the woods, at the border where any rogue could have his way with you," my cruel father threatened. "Am I understood?"

"Y-y-yes, sir," I trembled, gripping the broom tightly at an attempt to contain myself.

"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, but having superhuman hearing, I heard it loud and clear. With one last dirty look, he walked away.

He was right, I was pathetic. The fact that his hurtful words still stabbed at my heart after all those years was really pathetic. My whole life, all I've ever known was the harsh, cruel man who mentally and physically abused me whenever he got the chance. Not once was he affectionate towards me.

I remember as a toddler when I wanted to get him to play with me, he would always refuse. When I showed him my family drawing, he would laugh and call it ugly.

I was determined to impress him, to make him proud of me; so I excelled in school, took drawing classes so that I could draw a painting of him that he would be proud of, maybe display in his office. But with every report card I showed him, he would be less and less impressed. When I aced all my classes, he called it the bare minimum, that it was nothing compared to his success.

He was right, his office was littered with his achievement; trophies, certificates, medals... you name it. Though he never told me what any of those were for. Later I'd come to learn that he was accomplished in academics and sports when I went to clean his office; the only time I was allowed in his space.

I didn't understand his hatred towards me, nor his constant urge to put me down and belittle me. When I drew him a portrait as a birthday gift, he got so angry that he slammed the drawing over my head, ruining the canvas that I spent hours upon hours perfecting down to the finest line so he'd be proud of me for once. He kept saying I was talentless. That I was good for nothing. That it should've been me who died instead of my mother. After that day, I didn't try to make him accept me anymore.

It was noon and the pack house was unusually quiet. Normally, there were couples around my age making out everywhere. There were also the guys who played football outside and would be dragging dirt into the house around this time, uncaring that I was standing right there, cleaning after them.

It didn't help that I was the youngest in the pack, making me the easiest target to get picked on. The pack's alpha had twins who were just a year older than me, Sam and Stacy. They were the meanest people I've ever met. Growing up, Stacy and her squad would bully me in class while her brother and his friends would bully me at recess. They had it nailed down so well I thought they planned it.

It didn't need rocket science to understand why they hated me so much. Since my own father does, why would they like me either. As if that wasn't enough, my wolf was also quite small; with fur as stark as ice and eyes the truest blue you could ever see. Despite that, they'd never tried to touch or abuse me in my wolf form, which I found strange but didn't dare question. Even Sam's mate wasn't nice, treating me like her personal maid, and what hurt more was that I couldn't do anything to defend myself.

Even though my father's a beta, I was demoted to an omega after my mother's death. My rank was even lower than the cook's. It meant that I was in no position to question an order from someone of higher rank, or anyone at that matter. I was a step away from becoming werewolf scum — a rogue. Although I turned eighteen yesterday, and was smart enough to graduate a year early with Sam, Stacy and the others, I had nowhere to go if I ran away.

Pulling myself out of my depressing thoughts, I focused on cleaning; scrubbing everything so thoroughly that the wooden floor glinted as the light hit it. I was done within six hours, having deep-cleaned every floor and every room that wasn't occupied.