Too Beautiful for the Alpha novel Chapter 7

It has been a lonely week, but what did I expect? My day consists of eating breakfast, chatting with Gail and Theresa—the plump woman and her friend—eating lunch, listening to music or reading a book, hardly eating dinner, and going to bed. Throughout the day I become more and more depressed, and by dinner, I barely have enough fight in myself to eat. I call my mother every day and lie to her. I go on and on about how lovely everything is, and how I was wrong about not wanting a mate—it gives me something to do, to conjure up some fairytale.

"Today we went on a walk around the pack, he showed me around and introduced me to people," I say to my mother, the phone up against my ear as I lie on my bed. I've stolen the phone from the living room and put it in my room, knowing Alpha Grant won't come in to take it. "It was nice. The people here are nice."

"That's great, Rae. I'm so happy things are going so well. I'll have to come and visit someday. You'll have to come and visit me when you're not so busy with Luna duties and such."

I frown. "Yeah, definitely." Before she can carry on with something else, like how our Luna had another baby, or how she helped a guard handle a rogue, I mutter, "You know, he's waiting for me now. I should probably go."

"Oh, of course, go, go," she says, sounding excited. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Alright, bye dear." And just like that, I am alone again.

I let the phone slip from my grasp, falling onto the bed beside me. Part of me wants to cry and part of me wants to drink, but Gail found the half-empty bottle of Vodka in the porch the morning after, so I thought it best to stop there. Being drunk won't help me for long, soon enough it will lose its spark. Though, what do I have to lose? I have nothing anymore, and that's terrifying me. People who have nothing are dangerous.

At least I had myself at home. I don't know where the old Rae has gone—she's slipped away after one too many nights of her mate having sex with someone else. It's the same girl, and that only makes me more insane. Whenever I hear her come over, which is most nights, I creep away into the backyard and fight my urges to sprint to that odd cabinet and snatch myself a bottle of whatever looks numbing. I simply sit on the porch, feet dangling, and I cry a bit. They are quiet sobs because I am paranoid that someone will hear and come ask me what's wrong. What would I say? I've lost everything? That I have nothing anymore?

I sigh and get up, leaving the phone behind. I've learned my way around the house now. With nothing to do all day, I've decided to familiarize myself with the place, looking for good places to hide or places that seem to be forgotten about. It's a large house, too big for its own good, and yesterday I discovered something wonderful.

It's a library, small and abandoned towards the back of the house. The door to it was blocked off by a bookshelf filled with decorations and family pictures, something to just be there, to distract people from the handle behind the picture of an older man in black and white. It would have been better hidden if the tall shelf had a back to it, but only my desperate eyes can find such weird details. I was studying the pictures, picking them up and putting them down when I found the handle. It was tricky, though, because the door was one of those fancy ones that blend seamlessly into the wall, like in an old castle.

It took me a while to move the shelf. Luckily Gail and Theresa were out at the garden and Alpha Grant was off doing who knows what or God knows who. I managed to inch it forward just enough to fit myself through. Thankfully I grew into my chubby legs a few years ago.

Planning to go back, I left the shelf sticking out a bit, doubting anyone would notice. So today I only have to pull it out a bit further. Once inside, I relax and sit down in one of the old chairs off to the side, nestled between a tall lamp and a small wooden table.

I plan on cleaning it up as dust coats everything, but for now, it will do. There are two walls cluttered with books from top to bottom beside each other. The wall across from the door has a tiny window—the shelves built around it—and I push back the dark curtain to let the sunlight filter through the dusty glass. It is a beam of light slicing through the center of the room, and I sit in the chair, watching the dust particles dance around in it.