Alpha’s Last Gift : A Daughter’s Devotion

I froze when I heard Rosetta's voice. I had completely forgotten about my promise from a few days ago. After a moment, I said, “Sorry, I was busy tonight, but will come by tomorrow morning.”

Since we had first arrived to the city, my dad and I had been crashing at our distant relatives, the Marskes’. Randle Marske had met my father a few times when he visited the city, and when we moved here, he and his daughter Rosetta welcomed us with open arms.

Randle wasn't a werewolf, but his late wife was an Omega from our pack. My father had once protected her, and she had moved here, marrying a human. Rosetta and I were close in age, which helped us bond quickly.

“Colby, make yourself at home,” Randle had said when we first arrived. “We’ve got plenty of room here. We owe you a lot.”

“Thanks, Randle. I really appreciate it,” my father replied.

“Don’t worry about it. You can stay as long as you need. It’s pretty quiet with just me and Rossie here,” Randle assured us.

After we settled in, my dad struggled to find a decent job. With no official university certificate, he could only get work as a laborer. I was enrolled in the cheapest school in the neighborhood, but it was fine.

Surviving up to this point was something to be thankful for, but I was juggling a lot. I worked odd jobs—distributing flyers, pet sitting, yard work, running errands—to make ends meet. The education system here was also different from what I had known back in the pack, and keeping up with homework and jobs was overwhelming.

Over the years, my dad had also gotten worse. He had fallen into a deep depression, drinking heavily and losing the strength and charisma that used to make him so admirable. Now, he just seemed tired and detached, watching TV and stacking up cans of beer.

Three years after we moved in, Rosetta’s father had a heart attack and died suddenly. It hit us all hard, but it seemed to devastate my dad the most. He became even more withdrawn and irritable, and our relationship suffered. He stopped being affectionate and started blaming me for everything—if the house wasn’t clean, if I didn’t do the dishes, or if dinner was late.

I wanted to tell him I was exhausted, but he would just lash out, calling me a spoiled brat and saying he regretted saving me. He would also compare me to Rosetta, saying we wouldn’t have made it without her and her family’s help. I’d bite my tongue and get the work done, avoiding arguments. Our interactions became a constant source of tension, filled with hurtful words and broken things. I would leave crying, and he’d drown his sorrows in more drinking. It was a painful cycle.

But now, with my time running short, I was thinking it might be worth reaching out to him again. Maybe I could see him and finally tell him about my illness.

I slowly walked back to my apartment, where I had been living alone for the past two years since I turned eighteen. It was just a few blocks from the hospital, but with no buses running this late and a taxi being too pricey, I braved the cold winter night on foot. I bought a cup of coffee to warm my hands along the way.

When I finally made it to my apartment, I was hit with a nasty coughing fit as soon as I got inside. I turned on the old heater and collapsed onto the sofa, wrapping myself in a blanket. But the coughing wouldn’t let quit, and then I noticed red clumps of blood on my hand.

Panicked and shivering, I grabbed some tissues and tried to calm myself. I remembered the medicine the doctor had prescribed and took it before forcing myself to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up way too early because the heater had stopped working and the room was freezing. I added an extra blanket and tried to catch some more sleep.

A few hours later, my alarm blasted, jolting me awake. My body was aching, but I dragged myself into the shower for a quick cold rinse. I had promised to visit Dad today, so I got everything ready and even cooked some lasagna for us to share before heading out.

When I arrived, Dad barely looked at me, while Rosetta greeted me with a warm hug. “Here you are! I was worried—you said you were sick,” she said.

“That’s probably just another lie. She’s never honest and doesn’t care about us,” Dad suddenly blurted out.

Rosetta was always kind, and I felt bad for her being caught in the middle of our family drama. She tried to stay neutral, but Dad clearly favored her over me, even treating her like his own daughter.

Things had gone south when I turned 18. After some humiliating photos of me were sent to him from an unknown number, Dad flipped out, calling me all sorts of names—slut, whore, bitch—without letting me explain. He said my mom would be disappointed and that I should just leave because he couldn’t stand me.

Since then, he’d only cared about Rosetta and shut me out. Now he even called her “Rossie” while giving me the cold shoulder though I had been juggling multiple minimum-wage jobs just to make ends meet and send money to Dad.

I couldn’t even go to university with all the work and stress. Rosetta worked part-time too, but her paycheck wasn’t enough to cover everything, especially since she was mostly at home taking care of Dad.