I blow out a hard breath. That was close.
* * *
I’d forgotten to roll my window up before I drove off from getting pulled over. I arrive at the dilapidated beige home I grew up in with a breeze rushing through the car. Luckily, I’m the first one here. The rest of our extended family is either lost or at a bar. I consider seeking out the latter when my mother’s shout carries from inside the house. I cringe, shutting the car off and cranking the window up. She’s always yelling. I hate this house. No more than 1200 square feet, with broken blinds and shingles missing, it’s obvious this home needs work. Not only on the outside, but on the inside too. It’ll take a lot more than a fresh coat of paint to fix the damage inside.
“Goddammit, Granny,” I whisper, swiping at my damp cheeks. She wasn’t supposed to die. She was the only one who gave a shit about me. She should be here.
Granny only had two kids, and my Uncle John died last year of a drug overdose. Mom and her mates are the only ones left with a house for hosting the repast, even if the place is a piece of shit.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I grind my teeth and try to work up the courage to go inside. I don’t live here anymore. I haven’t for three years. As soon as I was old enough to move into one of the apartments provided by the Omega Council, I ran fast and far away from this place. She can’t hurt me. At least, she can’t hurt me like she used to.
I hate having to come back. For Granny though, I can swallow my pride and make it through one afternoon. One afternoon of shit and barbs and hate. For Granny, I’ll bear it.
Then never again. My mother will be deader to me than Granny. For all the shit she put me through, she’ll cease to exist. I’ll have my new pack soon enough. Things will get better.
They have too.
God, I’m so fucking pathetic. I sniff again. I probably look disgusting with snot and tears covering my face, but I don’t care. Grief isn’t pretty. It’s raw and ugly and painful. I can’t hold the emotions in, so they pour out of me with renewed force.
Someone knocks on the window of my rundown Honda, making me squeal in surprise. I clean my face with a tissue, scowling at my mother. Her lip is curled back and she has that half-crazed look in her eyes, reminding me of the pain she’s capable of inflicting. She must be in pre-heat because she’s been especially awful today and her pheromones are all over the place.
“What the hell are you doing? Come and help me get these goddamn casseroles set out. Everyone and their mother sent a fucking casserole.” She sucks on the end of a cigarette, the cherry glowing bright red. She blows the smoke up and narrows her eyes. “Don’t you embarrass me, Whitney Marie. I’m too old for your shit.”
My shit? Does she mean me wanting love and attention? Yeah, sorry I bothered you with my fucking needs, Mother. She never gave a damn, and she’d hit me or beat me whenever I got in her way, like somehow I inconvenienced her, even though she was the one who decided to have a child.
“I’m coming,” I say, giving her a tentative smile. “Just need to blow my nose.”
She scoffs and flicks her cigarette into the street, not giving a damn that she’s littering or that she could start a fire. Her blue eyes are icy and cold, brown hair stringy and in need of a good washing. I used to think she was beautiful, but that was before I knew better. Before I realized what a monster she is.
“Hurry the fuck up, we’ve got guests coming.”
“Okay.” God, I hate myself. How is it that I can be so headstrong with everyone else, but she makes me feel like I’m five again? No spine. No will to fight. Only the survival instinct to please and not cause problems.
She turns and storms toward the house, her loose black dress flapping in the wind. Once the front door bangs shut, I pull down the visor and flip the mirror open. My mascara is a mess. I fix that first. When I’m done, I stare at my reflection. I look like my mom. My fingers curl into fists and I growl at the mirror. Only my dark blue eyes set me apart from her. My mother’s are the color of ice, cold like her heart.
Fuck her.
I don’t look like her. I look like who she used to be. I look like Granny. That thought calms me enough that I can gently flip the visor back into place and climb out of the car. With one last steadying breath, I solidify my mental shield. It’s only a few hours. I can do this. I pull the strap of my purse over my shoulder, grabbing on to the thin material like it’ll help anchor me in a turbulent sea. Even though I’ve read books to help me cope with being here again, no amount of mental preparation will make this experience easier.
Chaos is the only adequate word to describe what it’s like being inside the house. Mother is storming around the dining room, pushing my fathers’ chests and yelling at them to get their asses moving. She wasn’t always like this, was she? Did she ever love them? I don’t remember much about my childhood. There’s one good memory of her and me together. She took me to the park. We laughed and played. That’s the memory that made me think she was gorgeous. She was happy that day. The rest is a haze of screaming and… things I’d rather not think about.
Repression does wonders.
“Goddammit, Rodney. Stop drinking the fucking beer and get the fucking tablecloth on the table.” Her scent slaps me in the face. I wrinkle my nose and try not to breathe too much in. She’s definitely in pre-heat. Her pheromones are so strong, and with her heightened emotions, the scent blankets the house. The smell alone is enough to make me nauseous.
Only a few more hours. She can’t do much harm in a few hours, Whit. You got this.
“I’m going, Wendy! Give me a break, my mother-in-law died.”
I quietly shut the door, shrinking against it to avoid her vicious temper and gripping my purse strap tighter. Rodney has always been a jerk. I don’t think he’s my biological dad. Frankly, I hope none of the alphas are, but she’s been with them since before I was born. One of these assholes is my father. One of these men didn’t care enough to save me from her. They didn’t care enough to give me the time of day. All of them suck.
“She was my mother,” Mother hisses, cracking her palm across his cheek.
Even though I’m not the one under assault, I flinch. My stomach churns and bile rises in my throat as memories try to resurface. Count your breaths, I remind myself. That’s one of the supposed techniques, but they’ve never done much to help me. Still, I try to focus on my breathing instead of the havoc in the house.
Everything stops with that slap. Tim and Peter slide their gazes toward one another. Rodney’s eyes slowly narrow on my mother, and she finally loses some of her gusto. She looks down under the heat of his gaze, jaw grinding. She wants to keep fighting, but that would make him even angrier. I’ve never seen them hurt her, but that doesn’t mean they won’t. She’s always pushing their buttons, poking and prodding. Eventually, the beasts will snap.
For Granny’s sake, I hope that doesn’t happen today.
