Mated To A Cursed Wolf

(Sharon)

Hisses and snarls trail me as I hurry home from the market. They neither faze nor bother me; none of it is new. I’ve been used to this my entire life, and I guess I’ve grown a thick enough skin to handle all the barbs. Not that I didn’t believe I deserved it. I deserved the hisses that rained from every lip whenever they caught sight of me. I deserved the glares of contempt that followed me everywhere I went.

Yes—according to them, I was cursed, and I deserved to suffer.

My name is Sharon Samaf, and this is my story.

First, I would like to introduce my family, for without them, no story of mine would be complete.

Now, if you’re thinking of one big cozy family where everyone loves and supports one another, then you couldn’t be farther from the truth. My family was the opposite of an ideal one—at least where I was concerned. They were close-knit only when other matters came into play, like finding my sister a rich husband.

In other families, the father is the head, but in my family, my mother is.

Fania Halfad-Samaf—Belle of the Golden Lamp Pack and matriarch of the Halfad-Samaf clan. Her father, Levan Halfad, was a direct descendant of Lycan Halfad, the first king of the Lycan Empire. When he died, she schemed and plotted, removing all those who refused to follow her so she could take his place as the head of the clan.

As for my father, he was mere putty in her hands. If she asked him to jump, his only question would be how high. She was powerful, revered, and feared throughout the pack—which was why I was such a disappointment to her. You can imagine how such a woman would feel about having a weak omega for a daughter. I understood why she treated me the way she did; I was a smirch on her reputation.

Next is my sister, Vienna—the perfect daughter, the one my mother deserved. Vienna is not just beautiful; she is extraordinarily beautiful. Long dark hair that falls to the middle of her back, green eyes that glow in the dark, a cute nose, high cheekbones, cupid’s-bow lips, and perfectly white teeth.

She shifted for the first time at three into a magnificent wolf. From then on, she continued to develop her powers, and by ten she could outrun adult pack members and beat most of them at hand-to-hand combat.

As she grew older, she stopped fighting physically and began using her wits instead, letting others do the dirty work—just like our mother. She was everything Fania wanted in a daughter, and she treated me as insignificantly as she pleased.

Then we have Barkin Samaf, my father—member of the lower council of wolves and owner of the largest rice and barley fields in the entire Golden Lamp Pack. Unlike my mother and sister, my father never looked at me with hatred. If anything, he looked at me with indifference. He never raised a hand against me either, but if I had a choice, I might have preferred that.

What he did was worse—so much worse.

I was eight the first time he came into my room—not for anything harmful, but to unload his frustrations and burdens on me as though I were his personal emotional dumping ground. That day I was exhausted from working in the rice fields, trailing after laborers in the hot sun, leveling the rows they had tilled. The earth was blistering, and I had blisters on my hands and arms, as well as bruises from repeatedly falling.

When I finally got home, Vienna made me wash all her clothes, both dirty and clean, before I was allowed to sleep. I fell asleep the moment my head hit the bed, only to wake when I felt someone sit beside me.

“Shhh,” my father whispered, tapping a finger to his lips.

“Father?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. Surely he wasn’t there to give me more chores?

“Shhh,” he repeated, placing his hand gently over my mouth—not harshly, just insistently. “Promise to keep your voice down.”

I nodded.

“Good.” He sat beside me and sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. He placed his hands on my ankles absentmindedly—not in a harmful way, but in a tired, defeated manner—as though he needed someone to anchor him.

“What are you doing?” I asked softly.

He didn’t answer. He was breathing shakily, weighed down by stress.

“You’re going to remain quiet,” he murmured, getting to his feet and straightening his clothes. “Raise your voice even one decibel above a whisper, and your mother will work you harder tomorrow. Is that understood?”

I nodded again. He gave a tired, approving smile and sat back down—not to harm me, but to complain, vent, and unload everything he couldn’t tell my mother or sister. I became the silent bucket for all his frustrations, fears, and secrets—responsibilities no child should ever carry.