Alpha Queen (Claimed by Wolves 4)

Instead, I’m still sitting right there on the overstuffed couch when he walks into the room.

“What are you doing?” Clint barks.

I jump and whirl around in my seat, losing popcorn in the cushions. Fear spreads through me like a ghost, chilling my skin. I reach for the remote to turn the television off, but it’s too late—they’re doing witchcraft on-screen, and Clint sees it.

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nbsp; His expression grows stormy. “What have I told you about the television?”

Even though it’s modern day me living in a past version of events, I still say the words I spoke back then. “I’m not allowed to watch without you.”

Clint reaches for the buckle on his belt. “If you know the rules, why did you break them?”

I cringe as the belt slides from the loops on his blue jeans. In the past, I begged and pleaded with him not to whip me. Promised him I’d never do it again, promised him I’d do extra chores, just please, please don’t hit me.

But Cleo’s dark presence in the corner makes me hesitate.

I don’t care if she sees me get beat with Clint’s belt, but I don’t want her to see me grovel.

So I break character and glance over at her. Before I can catch her eye and do something crazy like give her the middle finger, she attacks.

Red hot magic latches onto my essence, and my soul goes up in flames.

I can’t let my terror get the best of me this time. My witch reacts swiftly, my own magic rising like a tidal wave. I etch a sigil on the air, and Cleo shrieks in anger as my power shoves her back against the wall. She doubles down on her attack, and agony ripples through me. I bend forward, grasping my head in my hands and trying not to scream. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

I shove aside the pain and dive into the bond that connects me to Cleo. My magic barrels into hers, shoving it away from the bond and away from me. It works, but only for a few seconds before Cleo screeches in anger and pushes back.

I’m ready for her. My witch grabs on to the assault, magically speaking, and yanks. I go tumbling from Clint’s worn-down couch and into the black void, still holding tightly to Cleo’s power.

We come out of the astral plane into an unfamiliar place.

A large Victorian mansion rises from the lush green grass at my side, front steps leading to an impressive wrap-around porch that’s lined by a garden that looks professionally tended. The house has three visible turrets and a high widow’s walk at the top-most eave. Rolling hills and dark forest surround the manor on all sides, like something out of a movie.

A man stands on the porch. He has black hair that peaks at the center of his forehead and coal-black eyes that are a little too big for his features. Tall and lanky, he reminds me of a praying mantis as he stalks down the short set of stairs and barks, “Sloppy. Go again.”

I realize then there are two little girls in the yard. If they aren’t twins, they sure look a lot alike, and they can’t be more than seven years old. They both have waist-length black hair and bangs, dark eyes, and porcelain skin beneath their cotton jumpers, like little dolls.

Except dolls don’t typically leak black smoke.

“You should just give up, Cleo,” the girl on the right hisses menacingly. “You know you aren’t as strong as me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Cleo replies with a childish lilt.

Adult Cleo’s assault on my spiritual essence intensifies. I can feel her rage through the magic, because I’ve somehow pulled us into one of her memories. But I strengthen my walls against her, and my witch holds her off while I watch the two little girls begin to battle.

They take turns trading blows—tracing sigils, flinging spells, grunting as they both take hits. From the porch, the man shouts out instructions in between hurling insults on their form. Every time he speaks, the battle intensifies as if his voice makes them both fight harder. Fight dirtier.

He’s their father, I realize with horror. And he’s encouraging these two little girls to fight each other.

I gasp as Cleo takes a blast of magic to the chest and gasps at the air as if she can’t breathe.

“You’re weak, Cleopatra,” her father snaps. “Get it together.”

Young Cleo glares at her father for a moment before she turns that expression on her twin sister. She redoubles her efforts, magic slinging across the yard in bursts of static and light, black smoke lingering over the scene like a storm cloud. Cleo manages to get a few blows in on her sister, but not enough to beat her. Her sister ends up getting the upper hand and throws Cleo to the ground.

Her father claps from his position on the wooden steps. His shoes tap lightly in the sudden silence as he walks down to the yard, where he steps right over Cleo’s prone form. He spares her one glance, gazing down at her with a look that’s something like disgust.

Then he stops before the girl who must be her twin and squats down, beaming as he says, “Well done, darling.”