The Alpha's Gamble - Chapter 93: Chapter 93
You are reading The Alpha's Gamble, Chapter 93: Chapter 93. Read more chapters of The Alpha's Gamble.
MADELINE
The last three days were all a repetition of each other: wake up, take a shower, read a book, try to break out of this confinement, only to find two guards standing outside my room. Go back in. Read another book. That day, three days ago, when I went to the cliff ready to end everything, I managed to evade the guards with what I thought was a thoroughly thought-out plan. I jumped out the window. In the wake of recent events, some little shit had decided to post three guards outside the mansion, circling the ground beneath my window to make sure I couldn’t escape again.
My best bet was Noah or my mother. One of them wanted me stuck in this box until I was tossed to the wolves. Literally.
I made do with shadow boxing, knife practice after my dad snuck me a few of his own training blades, journaling, and pacing. You could see the exact path in the carpet where my tracks had burned in.
On another note, Noah hadn’t visited in the last three days. He left with the others after the blowout in my room when the sex tape leaked, and I hadn’t seen him since. Part of me worried that he’d get himself in trouble, going on a rampage to clean up the mess we’d caused—he’d caused—over the last few weeks. But every now and then, his musky scent would creep in through the crack under the door, gathering in the corners, letting me know he was still alive.
Don’t ask me why he never came in. I wouldn’t know. Maybe he’s busy. Or maybe he’s had enough of the wreckage that is me. Nah. That can’t be it. My wreckage is a direct result of his fuck-ups too. Together we made up the Titanic on the bottom of the ocean, fated for chaos and forever remembered for the people we hurt.
Or maybe we were the iceberg that sank it—unforgiving and misleading.
I had a lot of time to come up with analogies in here. Each one drove me crazier than the last. I’d open the window for fresh air, but it didn’t do much. I couldn’t touch the grass. Couldn’t feel the wind the way I wanted.
A group of teens walked by, heads bent and voices hissing. One of them looked up at my window and pointed with a red nail. They snickered and ran. Others would pass, eyes locked on the mansion, shaking their heads. The oldies were worse—contained disgust bled in their eyes. They’d snarl, flick their heads away quickly, as if they might catch something if they stared too long.
I asked the guards for blueberries on the first day, when I noticed how many eyes watched my window. They graciously brought me a bowl, and I crafted a slingshot from two pens and elastic bands, with a strip of worn leather as the pad. Whenever someone’s judgy gaze landed on my room, I painted their pretty clothes with purple stains.
My mother hated it when I ate blueberries. Said the stains were a pain in the ass to get out. Eventually forbade me from having them in the house.
That was my source of pleasure for a while. I think I flicked fifty berries, ruining a few days. One of my hits was Mrs. Trine, a cranky old mutt who hated kids and anything else that made noise or got messy. You can guess she was close to my mom.
I turned her bleached curly updo into a purple poodle before she shrieked and ran off, cane flailing in the air.
My precision was flawless. I had a lot of unwanted attention to release my aggression on. The berries were all gone before the guards barged in, ready to seize my ammunition.
“Good luck getting more blueberries,” they said.
“That’s okay. I don’t like them anyway.”
Obsidian-black eyes burned into my face. They grabbed the bowl and slammed the door.
That was a fun day.
I tried finding marbles or something else to fling, but there wasn’t anything useful in the room. So now I just stood there, soaking in the sunlight that reached me. I felt like a caged animal, a show for their amusement as they walked by, pointed fingers, snickered, and pictured me bent against that wall. I wondered if Landon got the same attention I did. Did he feel like a freak in the pack, too? Or was he being praised because he fucked a girl in the dim backroom of a club and got it on film?
The sun warmed my cheeks. Shivers ran down my shoulders, and I gripped the marble windowsill, closing my eyes. A pathetic way to live out my last time in this pack, but one sinister source of joy kept me going.
My mother. Running rampant across the pack. Trying to downplay the tape among her friends. Scrambling to save whatever bridges she had left.
The corners of my lips tugged back. My chest vibrated with a giggle bubbling in my core. I didn’t have much right now, but at least I had that. And that alone was enough to keep me going a while longer in this prison, where my fucked-up mind was the only companionship I had.
The voices were gone. So was Nasha. I could barely feel her.
Please, God, let it stay that way.
The last three days were all a repetition of each other: wake up, take a shower, read a book, try to break out of this confinement, only to find two guards standing outside my room. Go back in. Read another book. That day, three days ago, when I went to the cliff ready to end everything, I managed to evade the guards with what I thought was a thoroughly thought-out plan. I jumped out the window. In the wake of recent events, some little shit had decided to post three guards outside the mansion, circling the ground beneath my window to make sure I couldn’t escape again.
My best bet was Noah or my mother. One of them wanted me stuck in this box until I was tossed to the wolves. Literally.
I made do with shadow boxing, knife practice after my dad snuck me a few of his own training blades, journaling, and pacing. You could see the exact path in the carpet where my tracks had burned in.
On another note, Noah hadn’t visited in the last three days. He left with the others after the blowout in my room when the sex tape leaked, and I hadn’t seen him since. Part of me worried that he’d get himself in trouble, going on a rampage to clean up the mess we’d caused—he’d caused—over the last few weeks. But every now and then, his musky scent would creep in through the crack under the door, gathering in the corners, letting me know he was still alive.
Don’t ask me why he never came in. I wouldn’t know. Maybe he’s busy. Or maybe he’s had enough of the wreckage that is me. Nah. That can’t be it. My wreckage is a direct result of his fuck-ups too. Together we made up the Titanic on the bottom of the ocean, fated for chaos and forever remembered for the people we hurt.
Or maybe we were the iceberg that sank it—unforgiving and misleading.
I had a lot of time to come up with analogies in here. Each one drove me crazier than the last. I’d open the window for fresh air, but it didn’t do much. I couldn’t touch the grass. Couldn’t feel the wind the way I wanted.
A group of teens walked by, heads bent and voices hissing. One of them looked up at my window and pointed with a red nail. They snickered and ran. Others would pass, eyes locked on the mansion, shaking their heads. The oldies were worse—contained disgust bled in their eyes. They’d snarl, flick their heads away quickly, as if they might catch something if they stared too long.
I asked the guards for blueberries on the first day, when I noticed how many eyes watched my window. They graciously brought me a bowl, and I crafted a slingshot from two pens and elastic bands, with a strip of worn leather as the pad. Whenever someone’s judgy gaze landed on my room, I painted their pretty clothes with purple stains.
My mother hated it when I ate blueberries. Said the stains were a pain in the ass to get out. Eventually forbade me from having them in the house.
That was my source of pleasure for a while. I think I flicked fifty berries, ruining a few days. One of my hits was Mrs. Trine, a cranky old mutt who hated kids and anything else that made noise or got messy. You can guess she was close to my mom.
I turned her bleached curly updo into a purple poodle before she shrieked and ran off, cane flailing in the air.
My precision was flawless. I had a lot of unwanted attention to release my aggression on. The berries were all gone before the guards barged in, ready to seize my ammunition.
“Good luck getting more blueberries,” they said.
“That’s okay. I don’t like them anyway.”
Obsidian-black eyes burned into my face. They grabbed the bowl and slammed the door.
That was a fun day.
I tried finding marbles or something else to fling, but there wasn’t anything useful in the room. So now I just stood there, soaking in the sunlight that reached me. I felt like a caged animal, a show for their amusement as they walked by, pointed fingers, snickered, and pictured me bent against that wall. I wondered if Landon got the same attention I did. Did he feel like a freak in the pack, too? Or was he being praised because he fucked a girl in the dim backroom of a club and got it on film?
The sun warmed my cheeks. Shivers ran down my shoulders, and I gripped the marble windowsill, closing my eyes. A pathetic way to live out my last time in this pack, but one sinister source of joy kept me going.
My mother. Running rampant across the pack. Trying to downplay the tape among her friends. Scrambling to save whatever bridges she had left.
The corners of my lips tugged back. My chest vibrated with a giggle bubbling in my core. I didn’t have much right now, but at least I had that. And that alone was enough to keep me going a while longer in this prison, where my fucked-up mind was the only companionship I had.
The voices were gone. So was Nasha. I could barely feel her.
Please, God, let it stay that way.
End of The Alpha's Gamble Chapter 93. Continue reading Chapter 94 or return to The Alpha's Gamble book page.