Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 15
And all at once, it's clear what I'm going to do.
My hands flatten against my lap. I can't allow my parents to wreak their havoc on June. All I need is to look in the mirror to see every reason why. They'll break her. I suck in a slow, deep breath, attempting to stem my distraught thoughts. I'll have to make a better effort to cater to their curiosity about the pack. Give them more of what they want, even if it cuts straight through to my heart.
My sights flit to Atticus, who is focused on scraping up the last dredges of his meal. He's strong in body, mind, and heart. He can withstand what I must do. I hope.
"Can I ask you something?"
I blink back at Atticus, then nod whilst a gentle smirk rises to my face. "It hasn't stopped you yet."
He shoots me a charming smile in return. "True. Your parents... they don't like me, do they?"
Oh. My mouth runs dry, and I silently curse our waiter for not refilling my wine the last time she came around. "If it's any consolation, they don't like most people outside of the pack."
"I figured," he responds coolly, but the sentiment must hurt, for it hurts me.
"It's difficult to earn their respect. Even I struggle with it," I admit, unable to stop my tongue from the Freudian slip. Our eyes meet, and a wave of understanding passes between us.
"I suppose they weren't pleased then when we found each other, what with me being outside the Blanc pack."
A frown falls upon my brow. "I don't know about that." My lips purse together in thought. "You belonged to the Wselfwulf pack at the time, and my parents considered them a strong pack. They still do in several ways, but I doubt they know the true depths of their ways." At least I hope they don't.
He stays silent for a long time, and in the interim, the waitress returns to take our plates.
"It would be nice if they liked me," Atticus says. "Or didn't detest the fact that it's me you're saddled with for the rest of your life. But if they don't... it doesn't matter in the end. I vowed the day I found you I would be the best man I could—for you, Winter. Not your parents. Not your pack or mine. Just you." He lets out a low chuckle, his eyes never leaving mine.
"That's a pretty big vow to make when you're eight."
"I was an ambitious kid," he replies with a grin. "Plus, I was never going to be high ranking in a pack like the Wselfwulfs. When talk of separation came passing by my ears, I knew I needed to convince my parents to leave.
"The Wselfwulf pack was always too cruel for my tastes, even as a kid. But I was lucky enough to be spared most of their tests of loyalty and strength because of my father. He entered the fighting ring to make sure we were safe and to keep us," Atticus tells me.
Dread creeps along my skin. "What do you mean, 'to keep us’? And why did you have a fighting ring?" I ask.
Atticus spins his gaze away in search of our waitress and catches her eye. When she arrives, he asks for two more glasses of wine and the check.
When she's out of earshot, he replies. "Anything could be won in a fight. Possessions. Rank. Money. Rights to mate. Rights for families."
"That's a terrifying way to live."
"It was Xander's father who was brave enough to organize those willing to leave. We all knew what we risked by fleeing, but to stay wasn't an option anymore. He garnered passage for us through a slew of victories in the fighting ring. By the end, Rollins, the alpha of the Wselfwulf pack at the time, had no choice but to agree to the separation. Xander's father had grown strong enough to bring a legitimate challenge to the alpha, so he allowed our party to leave... Of course, he went back on his word. He sent out his men to take us back the night we left."
The waitress returns with fresh glasses of wine and the check, and Atticus takes a moment for a hearty sip. I take the glass and eye him over the rim. His torment is painted clearly across his brow.
When he at last sets down his drink, deep creases remain on his forehead.
"Atticus, you don't have to go on," I tell him with mindful softness. I swallow and reach my hand across the table. He stares at it a long moment before grasping on and giving a shake of his head.
"I want you to know. I think it's important that you know where I came from. Why our pack is willing to do all of this. The night we left, Xander's father must have known Rollin's would try something. So he stayed behind with a handful of others to ward off any who might try to stop us. They killed those men. All thirteen, and paid for it with their lives as well. Now the Wselfwulfs claim fault, even though we lost pack mates too."
"I'm sorry, Atticus."
I'm sorry for all you went through... and for what I'm to put you through. Your pack doesn't deserve my dishonesty, but neither does June deserve my parents' wrath.
The pads of his fingers are smooth as they stroke my hand. They're a contrast to the small calluses rooted at the end of each digit. I lock eyes on the motion and begin to feel what I shouldn't. I shouldn't.
"They can have their old laws and customs." Atticus lowers his volume as he speaks, gaining my regard in a timid raising of my lashes. "The ties that bind the Wselfwulf pack aren't made to last. This pack, our pack, we are. And we'll continue to grow and strengthen."
"Do you really think that?" I ask in earnest. Is this pack strong enough to survive my betrayal?
My query makes him catch his breath, yet he manages to answer not a beat off. "Yes."
Our smiles are candid, though slow to come, and then our tender moment turns to something more as we continue to gaze at one another. A spark ignites between us. It scorches straight from the start and obediently follows the path of Atticus's gaze.
He looks at me as if I'm... everything.
Phantom fingertips graze across my back from shoulder to shoulder, drawing my spine up straight along the way. We keep winding up back here, I acknowledge, a touch out of breath, circling each other. Waiting for the moment, until we both fall off the edge.
Would that be so bad? a velvet voice asks in the back of my head. What harm can it really cause? I dare not go through my list of answers. It will take all night. Instead, I finish off my glass of wine in a messy gulp.
"Let's go home," Atticus says. I'm too slow to disagree.
++
I had too many glasses of wine. This is true because, somehow, the heat of Atticus keeps reaching past our winter coats and stealing across my skin. It becomes worse as we exit the car and head inside. Atticus opens the door and ushers me in first with a hand at the small of my back.
Despite all the layers between us, an insidious shiver walks its way right up my spine.
His hand presses against my soulmark.
Does he know what he's done? Can he hear the rapid rise of my heartbeat at the touch? It is only by flesh-to-flesh contact with the soulmark that its rapturous sensation can be triggered. But this prelude tempts me to think otherwise, for a languid heat sinks low in my belly as his scent perforates my senses.
He smells of leather and anise with hints of some tea leaf that I cannot recall the name of stealing through each inhalation of his cologne.
Too much wine indeed.
Atticus helps me out of my coat and proceeds with his own after hanging mine. I go to the stairs, taking in a steady breath as I sit down on one of the steps to peel off my boots.
"Do you need help?"
I find his eyes in the dark foyer. Even now they burn brightly, a constant light within the darkness. My teeth find my bottom lip as I weigh the pros and cons of such an action, then scold myself on the foolishness of the act.
"Yes. Thank you."
He kneels before me, and without thought, I scoot up another step to give him more room to work—and me some necessary space. Without delay, Atticus cups my left ankle and stretches my leg out to its full length. The knee-high boots I wear boast daunting laces up their front, though in reality are secured by a zipper that runs the inside length of my calf. Atticus unlatches the small buckle at the top that hides the zipper, his eyes darting up to look at me through thick lashes.
"I hope you enjoyed dinner tonight," he murmurs, eyes slipping back to the task at hand. His fingers pull the zipper down with great patience. "I realize the conversation took a turn toward the end, but I'm glad we spoke about it. It was important to me."
I suck in a breath as he gives a tug to the bottom of my boot. My foot comes free with the help of Atticus's guiding hand at my Achilles. He looks back up at me, his chestnut curls catching what weak streetlight filters through the windows.
"I… I'm glad we could talk too."
"It doesn't always seem to come easy for us," he remarks and sets my foot down. His hand trails up the back of my calf.
"Except for our letters," I murmur.
Atticus pauses just as he takes hold of my right leg. The spark of heat I felt before returns at the smoldering look he passes to me. With a touch more force than the last, he straightens my leg as he did before. This time the act drags me forward an inch, my bottom resting precariously at the edge of the step. My fingers curl around the step’s lip as I stare Atticus down, lips parted in mild shock even as a thrill of excitement winds its way through me.
"Except for our letters," he agrees smoothly, the husky tenor of his voice rolling over my skin like a purr.
He takes his time once more. His idle fingers release the buckle with a lazy flick before moving onto the lengthy fastener. The zipper slides down its path at a leisurely pace, but as it does, Atticus leans up. I freeze, watching his predatory movements with wide eyes.
A sharp tug and the boot is removed. It clatters to the wooden floor behind us, but neither of us makes a move. Caught in our standoff, I find myself drowning in the growing streaks of gold in his eyes.
His hand cups my calf, and with a deliberate measure, he pulls me down a step as he continues to close the gap between us. I gasp as I come nose to nose with him, unable to do anything but submit to his wishes.
"Happy New Year’s, Winter."
My gray eyes drop to his lips, watching with fascination as his tongue darts out to wet the bottom one. I mirror the response, intentional or not, and I’m greeted with a short groan from the man before me.
"Happy New Year’s, Atticus," I whisper back.
The pounding of my heart thunders through my ears as my rational side yells at me to retreat. But the other part of me—the one who longs to finally stretch its wings and throw all caution to the wind—inches me forward.
Our lips meet, but they aren't the only parts of us to do so. In one fluid motion, Atticus surges forward and winds an arm around my back to pull me down. The momentum takes my breath away.
We seize onto each other as if starved, colliding in a sudden and desperate need for each other. This isn't just the wine, I acknowledge with a sharp inhalation. This is fate. And it burns across my lower back, aching to be delivered.
Atticus's mouth presses hard into mine, his body following suit, rocking against me with a passion that resounds deep in my bones. I find myself adrift, for Atticus is no longer my anchor, but a storm threatening to sweep me away. My legs wind about his waist, cradling him close.
To hell with taking things slow.
With a mind of its own, one hand threads into the soft hairs at the back of Atticus's neck before delving higher for greater hold. The other grips the step digging into my middle back that urges me to arch upward.
His mouth leaves mine in favor of nipping its way across my neck. I moan, boldly careening my head to the side to allow him better access. A hand kneads at my thigh, parting my leg further somehow with its workings before diving under the back of my sweater dress and skimming my—
"Oh!"
My eyes startle open as the world tilts around me. Atticus's hand flattens against the soulmark as he grinds his hips into mine, a growl of pleasure erupting from his throat. Oh God. Oh God. Oh—
"Atticus!"
His name breaks past my lips in a hiss as I tug at his hair. I'm unsure whether I do so to pull him away or to find some semblance of ground given the shifting of the earth.
Pleasure spirals across my skin. It whispers in my veins, filling me with want and need. I rock my hips back, unable to stop myself from the wanton act. His hand drifts away from my soulmark, and I'm surprised to hear the whine I emit at the act.
Every inch of my nerves have been set on fire, and it must be because of this that my hands find their way between us to do away with what keeps us separate. Atticus hesitates, his hand sliding away from my soulmark only to grip my hip with a strength that will bruise.
"Are you sure about this?" His question comes through clenched teeth. A strangled noise rises from his throat as his erection falls into the palm of my hand. His shaft is heavy and throbs with a need my core echoes. I wrap my fingers around his width, as much as I can, and stroke. "Fuck."
The coarse expletive makes me shudder and writhe beneath him. Atticus takes his cue, deliberately catching my eye as his hands push my sweater dress above my hips before they fall to the opaque tights I wear.
"I hope you don't like these."
I startle when he tears the delicate fabric down its middle seam, even though I knew full well what his words promised before he delivered. Next to ravage are my panties. When he lingers at the sight of me laid out against the stairs, chest thrust upward and legs spread in reckless abandon, he makes a noise of appreciation deep in his chest. Gold flecks emerge in his blue eyes, and I struggle to swallow down my anticipation.
"You're—"
I cut off his question with a kiss. I'm done with spoken words today... and Atticus's mouth and lips and teeth and tongue are far better suited for other things at the moment. We swallow each other's moans as he poises himself at my wet and waiting entrance.
My lashes flutter closed. "Yes," I breathe as we at last collide.
A hunger rides our movements, which are both desperate and fast. Our panting breaths skim across one another as we make the best of our unique location. I keep an arm slung across his back, gripping at his shoulder with my nails digging through the material of Atticus's shirt. The other holds its position on the edge of the stair, keeping the worst of its blunt angle away from my back.
Atticus's arm helps in this aspect as well.
His straining forearm takes the brunt of his forceful thrusts. My legs tighten on his trim waist when the pace increases and bursts of added pleasure chase our already mounting passion. His arm brushes against my soulmark more and more until Atticus gives into its addicting pull and hooks it around my back to press against the mark totally.
My cry of release pierces the quiet house unashamedly, with Atticus's own following not long after, his appetite undone by my own even as his hips continue to drive into me without restraint.
"Christ," he wheezes, collapsing on top of me. I squirm beneath him, and he slides to my side with an apology.
I’m sweaty and slick beneath what clothes remain on my body. I'm also out of breath.
I can't believe we did that.
My heart continues to slam against my chest as the silence of the house envelops us.
"Winter?" I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep mine directed at the ceiling. What have I done? "Are you all right? I... I didn't really think our first time together would be, well, here."
His breathless chuckles does little to ease the ache swelling in my chest.
"It was fine," I murmur and notice his flinch out of the corner of my eye. I turn to him then, allowing a small but sincere smile onto my face. "More than fine," I reassure him. "A little bumpy though."
My light joke washes away the tension from his face. Too bad it can't do the same for my sudden anxiety. I scoot off the stairs and stand, righting my sweater dress and peeling off what's left of my tights. Atticus rises as well, his attention weighing heavy on my every movement.
I clear my throat as I face him. "I think I'll take a shower and head to bed."
Atticus nods vigorously and rakes a hand through his hair. "Yeah, of course. That's what I was going to do to."
You foolish girl. Look what you've done.
"I'll just... go now," I say, my heart pounding painfully still.
Before my traitorous body can catapult itself into his arms once more, I turn tail and run up the stairs. My bedroom door slams behind me with far more force than I intend.
"Idiot," I scold as I stalk across my room then back toward the door. "This isn't part of the plan."
Before I can criticize myself further, I catch a whiff of something peculiar lingering in my room. Something odd, but familiar. I spot it immediately. A new vase of flowers on my dresser. The ones from earlier.
But how did he get them in my room? I wonder as I approach them.
"Daffodils," I mutter.
The sight of the cheery yellow leaves me in a stupor, and then I see the card leaning up against it.
W.
Narcissus poeticus.
-A
A frown creeps deep onto my brow before my eyebrows jump to my hairline. The book! In a flurry of movement, I cross the room toward my vanity where his gifted book still rests. I thumb through the pages, eyes running over words much too swift to properly catch sight of the ones I want. I miss the page in my frenzied curiosity and thumb back several to reach it.
Narcissus poeticus: New beginning.
My heart swells and cracks in the same instant.
How am I ever going to be able to betray him now?
I Spy
Chapter 9
Sex isn't a big deal. I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Now say it out loud.
"Sex isn't a big deal," I repeat.
So our lust had gotten the better of us last night, so what? It doesn't change anything between us. Not if I don't let it. And certainly not if I don't pluck up the courage to go downstairs and face Atticus.
Go, the wolf urges, and I fight back a sigh.
Unlike me, the wolf woke refreshed and surprisingly present in my mind. It wants to be at our soulmarks side even if it is only to take in his warmth and scent. At its first insistence this morning, I let out a yelp of surprise, still unused to its voice so long absent from my mind. Plagued by my neuroticism, I shut down its request a tad too hard.
