Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 14
"See you in a bit," I finally say, my words coming out far more breathless than anticipated. Atticus nods in return, his eyes darkening as they watch my retreat. As soon as I enter my room, I lock the door behind me and slump against it.
How is it possible one man can make me feel such... longing?
Not ten days in his presence and I can tell the soulmark remembers his touch from so long ago. How long before we give in to temptation and feel its spark again?
I step away from the door, unprepared for my feet to come to a jarring stop when I see the vase of flora on my vanity. My palm jumps to my chest over my racing heart. Thanks to my nerves, it takes almost a minute for me to build the courage to near them.
Closer inspection reveals the vase holds a bundle of holly, and nearby it sits a book I'm somewhat familiar with, The Language of Flowers. I spy a small sheet of paper sticking out from its pages and take it out.
We were always better at letters.
Merry (late) Christmas.
-A
A thrill of excitement teems in my blood as I thumb through the thin book to find the meaning of holly. I small smile lights my face as my fingers trace the word. Hope.
The Countdown
Chapter 8
My mother is remarkably good at selective hearing, but she's even better at steamrolling entire conversations. Over the years, I learned the patience needed to insert my voice into the fray, but it's the right words to say that sometimes still evades me.
It was easier with face-to-face conversations. I could read Mothers' moods easier.
Deciphering her motives and emotions over the phone is proving not to be my forte. Mother is too well-versed in weaving traps with her words and lulling you into false senses of security with her cadence and reasons.
Twice she catches me in minor detail changes I make about the fairy's true appearance. I mutter curses under my breath at the scolding that follows each.
On the other hand, speaking with Mother over the phone does allow for some leniency. I am bolder in my responses and don't feel the pressure to give an immediate response. I can think before I speak. Even my wolf appreciates the small liberties.
"Did you listen to what I said?" I ask.
My fingertips stall their drumming on the windowpane as I wait for my mother's response. I catch her in a rare break from her latest rant.
"As I was saying, Winter—"
"I was attacked, Mother. Why are we still on about the witches and this fairy? I told you everything I garnered in the last few days since we last spoke."
Except for a few critical pieces of information here and there... like how the border is compromised and the fairy is more powerful than they let on.
She pauses far too long for comfort, and my pulse speeds at the prospect of her uncanny intuition. My fingers fall to the moonstone necklace and toy with its chain.
"Everything has its place and order, Winter. You assured me you've recovered from what minor injuries you sustained, the time to elaborate on your tale can wait until we finish this conversation. And do remember, when retelling your harrowing ordeal, to spare any dramatics. Facts and timelines do not change due to your emotional state."
A lump forms in my throat as my fingers curl around the moonstone, one that feels so large I'm unsure if I can swallow it down before replying. I manage, croaking out my response in what will undoubtedly earn a reprimand. "Of course."
Mother's scoff hits like a lash at the wound she's just inflicted. "Honestly... may we continue on with our discussion? Or does your need for attention outweigh the task at hand?"
I bite down on my tongue to stop my retort. It is easier now, with such distance between us, to be filled with frustration and disappointment at my mother's tenuous treatment. Whereas before I would sit passively by at each snub.
The wolf echoes my sentiments and releases a restrained growl in the back of my mind, yet it doesn't press further for retaliation. Years of grooming have seen to that.
"I've nothing more to report." The tenor of my voice is as smooth as silk. "The fairy was either lost to her thoughts or in turmoil over her past experiences."
"Yes, as you've said before, but you continue to fail at expanding upon what this 'past experience' of hers was. Do not think to test me here, Winter. I know the effect you have on people. Your empathy and pathos naturally incline those around you to confide in you. Now that you're officially a beta, the instinct is amplified even more so. So tell me, what happened to the fairy."
My stomach knots as I release my stranglehold on the moonstone. With a delicate sigh, too soft for my mother to understand over the phone's receiver, I lean into the window with my head and shoulder. The sharp cold is the anchor I need to carry on.
"She was eaten."
"I beg your pardon? Eaten? By whom?"
"Goblins."
"How on earth did this come about?"
"I told you. I don't know the exact details. The fairy couldn't explain, given her state, and Atticus doesn't want to share another person's story," I lie.
Sort of.
I know details of the battle thanks to Quinn, but her bombastic retelling of events makes me doubt the accuracy of her account. As for Atticus, well, I took his general dislike of my gossip session with Quinn to infer his disapproval of speaking on behalf of others.
My tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip before I continue. "The fairy is still suffering from her memories of the event—"
"And what effect does this have on the towns magically erected border?" Mother cuts in sharply. "Well?"
"I—" I pull from my slack position, sitting upright and alert at the unexpected direction of the questioning.
"I require an answer, Winter."
The order comes through thickly in her voice, and an uncontrollable shiver spider walks down my spine in response. The urge to obey is there, but it is hardly as strong as I've known it to be in the past. Nevertheless, I answer. "I suppose it's weaker, in theory—"
"Just as I thought," Mother announces. "The strength of their border is tied far tighter to this fairy than they have let on to you."
"I didn't say that," I protest, coming to a stand from the windowsill. "I—"
"Then how do you explain how the Wselfwulfs were able to sneak into the town and hurt you? Obviously, the fairy's instability has left a weakness in their touted border."
I shake my head as I reply, curls of snowy white landing in my sights. "We don't know that for certain," I insist, batting away my hair and beginning to pace. "There could be many reasons as to why the lycans were able to get through. Perhaps they have an inside man?"
"Doubtful." Mother's voice drips with arrogance. "We're quite knowledgeable about the Wselfwulfs standings. I assume your new alpha was able to provide an explanation for his failings?"
Once more my teeth clamp down on my tongue. Mother's slight brings an unpredicted wave of protectiveness inside of me. "He assured me it would never happen again." I mildly note the touch of heat to my tone. I know better than to press on, but I can't seem to stop myself. "My ties with the Adolphus pack are still weak, but once the soulmark binding is complete, any of my distress or alarm will be noticed sooner rather than later."
"What a shame you shall never know such comforts," she replies far more cavalierly than I expect.
"I cannot put it off forever—"
"You can," she snaps back, "and you will. We've talked about this, Winter. A hundred times over. Have you no wish for children? For a future unhindered by this curse we suffer so unjustly from? One day soon, I will see you happily matched, Winter... with someone deserving of the honor of our family legacy. Your father and I only ask that you assist us in this effort by being our eyes and ears inside the Adolphus pack for a while longer."
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway momentarily distracts me. I clamber to the window, wiping away the fog that appears at my heavy exhalation. Atticus is home.
"I've been assisting as best I can." The words come out more a growl than polite insistence and Mother retorts accordingly.
"Mind your attitude, Winter," she replies, with her words dripping in condescension. "Your father and I expected far greater from you. It's hard to believe it was just a week or two ago when you so heartily promised your loyalties to this family and this pack."
She tsks, but the noise is muffled by the garage door opening and shutting. Next comes the car door.
"I am loyal," I reply hastily, feeling as if the hands of time itself are pressing in on me from all sides. "But I can only achieve so much without integrating more into the pack."
My argument falls on deaf ears, at least that's what I take from Mother's divisive laughter. But it is her next words that strike down my last defenses. "You know, your excuses won't save her."
Another door opens and closes, this one to the house. "Winter?" Atticus's call rings hollow in my ears.
"Save who?" I breathe, my heart caught in my throat.
"Why, Juniper, of course," mother answers calmly. Tears are quick to sting the corners of my eyes, but I'm unable to make a rebuttal for Mother charges on unperturbed. "It's far past time Juniper was dealt with by a firmer hand. She's been babied far too long. Your father and I both agree that she understands her role in this family and in the pack."
"Please, Mother. Don't bring her into this."
Atticus's heavy footfall climbs the stairs.
"Think of this as motivation. We'd hate to have to become more creative in our efforts to ensure your promises are kept. As it is, the distance between us makes monitoring your progress a task in itself." She huffs loudly to express her exasperation. "We shall speak again, and soon."
"Yes, Mother," I reply to the sound of the dial tone. The tears that I held back roll down my cheeks, but there is little time to process what I've been told. A knock sounds at my door.
"Winter?"
"Just a moment," I answer. I move mechanically to the bathroom, running the water in the sink as cold as it will go and before splashing it onto my face.
"There's no rush," he continues quickly. "When you're ready, would you come downstairs? I need to speak with you."
I hesitate, dreading whatever conversation is to be had, but force out a cheery response regardless. "Of course," I chirp back and listen to the sound of his retreat.
Fuck.
I fret in my room for some time, turning over his request in my head until it's nothing more than mush. He knows, I tell myself as I go downstairs. I'm ruined, and so is June. The witches have finally broken their silence and told him.
"Hi." I strive for casual and latch on to something far more forced and awkward instead.
"Hey!"
Atticus jumps up from the couch in the sitting room. His hand instantly goes to muse his hair as he follows my line of sight to the coffee table before him. My momentum draws short at the bottom step as I stare at the bundle of flowers concealed in brown paper lying on the table. For a glorious second my worries and fears fade, a flutter of butterflies gathering in my stomach at their presence.
"You can open them when we get back." Atticus's voice is laced with delicate hope and a hint of excitement. I sweep my gaze back to him and see his cheeks are a merry red, the product of which isn't from the cold.
His words sink in, and I blink back at him. "Get back from where?"
My eyebrows drift together in confusion, and unconsciously my grip tightens on the banister. Perhaps the flowers are just a decoy to throw me off guard and—
"Dinner."
The wood creaks underneath the persistence of my hold. "Pardon?"
Atticus’s cheeks flame brighter at my question, but for the life of me, I can't believe he might be asking me out too—
"Dinner. With me. Tonight. It's New Year’s Eve."
We stand in silence for what must be an age before I bob my head in agreement. Atticus breaks out a relieved smile.
"When?"
His smile grows as he walks toward me, answering only when he can lean up against the banister's post. "A couple of hours. I know Xander wants us to lie low, but I figured since it's New Year's Eve we can make an exception. Besides, you won't be out alone this time. You've got me to watch your back."
I'm dumbstruck once more by his thoughtfulness and allure. A shade of darkness creeps into his eyes as we stare at one another. The moment stretches on waiting for my response.
"That sounds lovely."
++
Dinner is, in fact, lovely. And much to my relief, a lighthearted affair. Atticus proves to be a perfect distraction from thoughts of my mother's threat—even if it lurks in the back of my mind and at times I catch myself debating what to do and who to choose.
Juniper or the Adolphus pack.
My parents' approval or my happiness.
A war, to begin sooner or later.
Atticus catches my eye, and I realize I once again lost track of the conversation. With haste, I piece together the bits I have managed to pick up over the last few minutes and paste on a smile.
"Everyone in the pack seems so close," I comment. His fork is stacked perilously with food that finally makes its way into his mouth. My mouth twitches upward at the sight, and Atticus hums an agreement behind closed lips.
"We're in a rather unique situation," Atticus concedes. "I might be biased, but I think our wolves are closer than most because of what we've been through."
No kidding. "Because of the split?"
His movements slow, but at an almost imperceptible speed. The vigor at which he chews his meal gradually slows. The tick of his pulse stalls a half second too long. He's thinking, mulling over the right words or perhaps what he is allowed to say in front of me.
How often do I do the same? I muse.
"Yes," Atticus responds, at last, "and no."
This time, it's my fork that halts halfway to my mouth. A bite-size portion of rigatoni perched on its end. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean by that," I confess before eating the morsel.
A restless chuckle slips out of Atticus's mouth, one touched with a trace of bitterness if my hearing is correct. He wipes at his mouth with his napkin before placing it back on his lap.
"I suppose I assumed you would understand," he muses. Our gazes catch again. Atticus's voice is soft, but there is something to it that puts me on edge. Is it a spot of criticism? Perhaps it's a grace of contempt dwelling in his tone? Arctic blue eyes study my reaction with keen interest as I dissect his words.
"Why would you say that?"
His lips pull into a firm line, the lighthearted nature of our previous conversation put to rest. "The night we ran together. You said the males were kept separate from the females for the safety of the she-wolves."
A wave of heat flares up my cheeks. "Yes, but—"
Atticus delivers a curt shake of his head, and my explanation runs short. "You said the males were too aggressive. In the Wselfwulf pack, it was like that too, except the females weren't kept separate."
A shiver of disgust rolls up my flesh, raising every hair on my body as the weight of Atticus's implication hits me like a ton of bricks. "What?"
"They keep to the old ways. But it's clear from the past few decades how much harm has been done to keep their precious ways."
"And you think my pack keeps to these 'old' ways?" I ask, terse and hurt. Atticus colors faintly around the neck but remains otherwise indifferent to my retort.
"I know they keep to traditions of old."
My hands ball up in my lap. "We keep to traditions that are mindful of our origins, ones that respect our lineage. To those on the outside, it might seem that we're stricter than most, but our namesake carries a certain weight of responsibility that ties us tightly to lycan traditions."
Atticus sighs. "I forget that the 'old ways' I know, aren't synonymous with your 'traditions.' I'm sorry," Atticus says.
I swallow down the rise of anger in my blood and lean back against my chair slightly more deflated. "It's all right. It isn't as though my pack is known for their warmth either."
I reach for my glass of wine and take a long sip before setting it back down. Atticus watches me with rapt attention, and he mirrors my position, slipping back against his chair in a more pronounced slouch. He takes hold of his wine glass as well but doesn't take a drink. Instead, he waits, leaving the opportunity for me to continue, for me to share, wide open.
My mouth opens and closes as I take time to find something to fill the silence.
"This pack is much different than my last," I offer, stealing another sip of courage from the full-bodied Chianti. "It was far more... structured. Everything had an order and place. Everyone played their part. You didn't get ahead by might or strength, though it certainly helped when a move was being played," I continue on, finding my vision peeling off into the distance as I recall what life like was only a few weeks ago. "You had to plan and plot and scheme. And nobody did that better than my parents—does, I should say."
"They are rather brilliant." Atticus catches my gaze and offers me a small smile. I return it weakly.
"They're cunning."
Atticus nods, his small smile growing into a rather infectious grin that is difficult not to mimic. "And you? Are you cunning?"
I know his words are meant in playful jest, but the thought stings. I always thought myself different from my parents, their strive for power and rigid personalities never appealing to me.
But how different can I really be if I'm complacent in their scheming?
Cunning, I am not, but foolhearted... I trace the lines of Atticus's face. That I most certainly am.
"I am something else entirely," I admit. "I had to be to survive my parents."
Atticus chuckles. "I'll take your word for it."
The conversation lulls enough for us to finish dinner. I take my time in doing so, even though my dish lost its heat and appeal. I'm not keen on starting the conversation back up again. Talking about family, especially my own, is not something I’m comfortable with. It also draws my thoughts back to the phone call with my mother.
