Chapter 1 - Storm
“Rain Storm Stone, you have five minutes to get your ass out of bed and start my breakfast.”
Groaning loudly, I throw my pillow across the room and glare at my door. Blindly reaching for my phone, I squinted at the too-bright screen: 4:30 am. Dropping the phone back onto my nightstand, I stumbled out of bed and then literally fell down the stairs into the kitchen, slightly twisting my ankle.
He’s there, glaring at me while impatiently tapping his fingers on the kitchen island. Keeping my head low, I was too tired to deal with his bullshit and too sore to handle another beating, so I started pulling out eggs, sausage, bacon, pancake mix, and orange juice. He likes a big breakfast.
Once I got things cooking, I stumbled over and started the coffee. I should have done that first, but my brain is running on two hours of sleep and is close to automatic shutdown mode. A long drawn-out sigh from him has me tensing. He’s particularly mean in the mornings.
Plating his food, I gently set the plate in front of him. Grabbing a fork and knife, I set those next to his plate and turn to pour a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. Stepping back from the island, I stand still with my head low. You definitely do not want to anger him in the morning.
He doesn’t speak to me; he rarely does. When he finished his breakfast, he shoved his plate away and stood. “Come here, Rain Storm.”
I winced. I hate when he calls me Rain Storm. I mean it is my name, my parents’ sick idea of a joke, but I’m 21 years old, and I have been just Storm Stone since I was ten. Walking around the kitchen island, I stood in front of him. His hand came down hard across my cheek causing me to stumble sideways, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing through the kitchen.
“Tomorrow, you had better not make me wait for my breakfast.” He turned and walked away. I stayed where I was until I heard the front door close.
Refusing to let the tears that had gathered fall, I turned and cleaned up the kitchen before going back upstairs to my tiny bedroom. I grabbed a cold pack on the way, knowing his handprint would be visible if I didn’t ice it immediately.
Sinking onto my twin bed, I gingerly press the cold pack to my still-stinging cheek. Falling back onto the bed with a groan, I tried to blank my mind and not think about the hell I am living in right here in the middle of paradise – note the sarcasm here.
I am the daughter of Warrior Milton Stone. Milton and Velma Stone of the Blood Warrior Pack are very well-respected pack members and loved by everyone. They have eleven pups, and many consider them to be so blessed. I am right smack in the middle, one of a litter of five.
Quints are rare; quints without fertility treatments are almost unheard of. There was a time when all she-wolves carried litters of pups, back when we were more animal than human. Nowadays, one or two is the norm, except for the occasional anomaly.
My mother had two sets of twins, one set of quints, and two single pups. Growing up with a dad who is a pack warrior was hard. He is a no-nonsense kind of wolf, and he expected every pup to fall in line and pull their own weight by the time they were potty trained. We all had expectations piled on our shoulders by the time we were five, and if you stepped out of line, you felt the sting of his hand or belt.
My sisters – I have four of them ranging in age from 14 to 24 – all are perfect angels compared to me. I’m the social outcast, the one who took those expectations and tossed them to the wind. My sisters are social butterflies; three of them have found their perfect mates. Hannah, my youngest sister, is a spoiled little brat and daddy’s special girl.
Actually, nine of the eleven have found their mates. My parents made it abundantly clear that as long as we are unmated, we remain at home. They didn’t want any scandals attached to their name. So, at twenty-one years old, I am still living at home. My father told me he would unleash his warrior friends on my ass if I tried to leave.
My phone buzzed with a text. I have one true friend here in the pack – Santiago Gomez, or Thiago as he prefers to be called.
Are you coming to the packhouse this morning?
Nope. That is where my dad will be, and I’m not going near there. I had hoped to catch a little more sleep since I didn’t get home from work until after two this morning. My parents think I work at a fancy hotel in the human city, but really I work at an upscale nightclub. That’s right, I serve drinks and sometimes even dance in the cages suspended from the ceilings.
Men are pigs, and I have discovered that my hourglass figure brings out the most disgusting reactions in them, but it has also earned me plenty of fabulous tips. I get paid extra when I dance in the cages, and I get paid triple when I work the back rooms – the private rooms. The best tips come from the back rooms and all the girls want to work those.
I have to give my parents half my paycheck to cover my living expenses. I lied and told them I only made minimum wage, and every Friday I hand over a few hundred dollars. When I balked at giving them that much money, I was beaten by my father and told I owed them more than a measly couple hundred dollars a week.
Yep. Apparently, parenthood entitles you to your pup’s money and anything else she might accumulate. My mother thinks nothing of coming into my room and taking anything that is mine, saying it is payment for all the money they spent on me while I was growing up.
Therefore, I started renting a small storage unit in Millville, the human city. Anything of value, I keep there, hidden from the parentals and my overly annoying and completely spoiled little sister, Hannah. I even keep my work clothes hidden in the storage unit and use the laundromat just down the street from it to wash my clothes.
Another text rolls in from Thiago.
I know you’re awake. Your dad just left for patrol. You should come to the packhouse and have breakfast with me.
Thiago was feeling a little lonely.
Sighing loudly, I shoot him a reply.
Are you sure he’s not there?
“Yep. Get your ass moving and come see me!”
