Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 21
All manner of stress deflates from my body as Atticus slowly sets me down. I feel weightless, yet strangely alive. He presses a hot kiss to my cheek, breathing heavily still.
“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong tonight,” he says hoarsely. “But you will eventually, Winter.”
I barely comprehend the command in his voice, weakly nodding as I catch my breath.
“Oh God,” I whimper, tucking my face into his coat. “I can’t believe this just happened." My eyes are wide as I stare at him. My meltdown. His assuasive words and touch. A blush covers me from head to toe. "Atticus, we’re in a family neighborhood.”
Atticus pulls back an inch, and the winter wind sweeps between us to dose us back to reality.
“I guess I got a bit carried away," he admits. "Let’s go home before the neighbors come yelling.” He presses another kiss to my check and opens the passenger side door for me.
There is little time to feel awkward as we complete the remaining distance to home in less than a minute, and for that I’m grateful. But the feeling swiftly departs at seeing the house lights on.
“I was really hoping she stayed out later,” Atticus says, turning off the car and unbuckling once more.
“Me too,” I say on the back of a sigh, following him out of the car.
A wave of warmth hits us as we enter through the front door. In the air, scented candles and burning wood mostly mask the underlying note of alcohol about the space. We share a look as we peel off our outer layers.
“Lucy… Knox?” I don’t bother to hold back my wince as I creep toward the front sitting room where the fireplace is set to a roar.
“Just me,” Lucy says, appearing at first as just a silhouette through the connecting kitchen hallway. As she emerges, I immediately notice her less-than-pristine state. It isn’t that she’s a mess—not by any means—but her hair is tousled as if from constant musing. And her makeup hasn’t been touched up since we last saw her.
Of course, the full glass of wine in her hand leaves little to the imagination of just what Lucy has been doing to pass the time.
“Hi,” I say slowly as I step into the room to survey any damage. There is none, but that's no surprise. Lucy isn’t the type to cause physical destruction. Her preference lies in barbed words and underhanded manipulations.
“You’re back,” she drawls, crossing over to the fireplace. “Wine? I can open another bottle.”
“Sure,” Atticus says as he enters from behind me. He surveys the scene as well. "Why not?”
She saunters back out, arching a brow at me as she goes to the kitchen. I offer a reluctant nod to her.
What’s going on? I mouth to Atticus. He shrugs and expresses his own confusion with lifted shoulders and eyebrows. Lucy is back before we have time to mime out more of our perplexity.
"Thanks,” I mutter, more out of habit than actual gratitude.
“Thank you,” Atticus says, and pulls me over to the couch to sit. Lucy remains standing, plucking her own glass from its temporary position on the glossy mantle of the fireplace. “So… how was the rest of your day?”
Time stretches on for an inordinate amount of time. Long enough that I’m unsure if Lucy will deign to answer. Her sights won't retreat from my face.
I struggle not to squirm. Do the remnants of my panic attack show on my face. Ruined and smudged mascara perhaps? Too red of a nose? Or does the scent of my release waft off me despite the wind's toilsome work?
“Knox left,” she says at last.
Lucy brushes her long hair over one shoulder and proceeds to take an extended drink of her wine. What remains is less than half of the dark ruby liquid. Atticus drapes his arm over the back of the couch, casting me a sidelong glance that I almost don’t notice in my shock.
“He left?”
“You’re not deaf, Winter,” Lucy scolds in a near perfect imitation of my mother. So much so my mouth snaps shut at the rebuke. “Yes, he left. We received a call shortly after you two left. He arranged for transportation and had your pack's third escort him through one of your border's little cracks."
“We assumed you two would be around longer,” Atticus comments.
“Me as well.”
We all take a drink to avoid the silence squeezing in from all around us. As the moment goes on without the sound of our voices to fill it, I realize how unbearably warm it is in the room. I wish to change but fear what subject might be ventured into if I leave the room.
“Who called?” I ask, shooting for nonchalance and failing miserably. Lucy cocks a knowing brow in my direction, along with an answering smirk that is savage. She flicks her gaze away, but not before I catch the bitterness that rises within them. “My mother or father?”
Lucy’s stares down into the fire, her hair coming to block the view of her face. I find myself growing annoyed at her upright position. As does my wolf. It does not appreciate her stance, for both Atticus and I rank well above her. To stand above us so literally is a slight, but in her drunken state, I’m unsure if the snub is intentional.
“I don’t see why it particularly matters,” she finally says, turning her sights back upon me as I begin to fan myself. The bitterness has washed away from her dark eyes and in its place is a mocking cynicism I know well.
I narrow my regard. “If it was my parents, I hope he passed along our obvious greetings and well wishes.”
“That hardly seems necessary. You speak with your parents often enough, don’t you, Winter?”
Our glares do battle, but far shorter than their usual fare. Lucy scoffs, breaking the intense connection between us and rolls her eyes.
“So….” Atticus clears his throat, his eyes darting between us. “It wasn’t Winter’s parents, who called Knox back?”
If it wasn’t for the dulcet quality of Atticus’s voice—a sure signifier of the beta’s influence—I doubt the tension between us would have died down. While I lean into Atticus’s side and feel my anger dissipate, Lucy visibly fights the calm.
“Spare me your pathetic attempts at coercion,” she spits, crossing her arms over her chest. Her wine sloshes precariously up the sides of her glass, but its low content saves her from spilling. “I’m well versed in the tricks and cons wolves of your status use to get their way. I learned long ago not to pay mind to those who pretend to play nice to lull others into a sense of false security. If you want to know, Atticus, ask like a regular person would.”
I do not expect… that.
The two stare at each other, both frowning but with far different connotations behind each furrowed brow and downturned mouth. I place a hand on Atticus’s thigh, letting my own subtle influence reach out to comfort him. A part of me wishes to do the same to Lucy, but I know my empathy will be rejected.
After all, I am the only person in the room who truly understands the truth of her words. If I wasn’t the daughter of Blanc pack alphas, there’s no doubt in my mind I would have been put through the same gauntlets as Lucy and her sister. As it is, I went through my own minefield.
“Was it Winter’s parents who called for Knox?”
She pauses for an infuriating amount of time, but Atticus withstands her power play. Not once does his body language indicate frustration or annoyance, merely a showing of perplexity in the frown he wears.
“I don’t see who else it could have been, Atticus. After all, they are the alphas. We adhere to all their many whims and desires—isn’t that right, Winter?”
I try not to stiffen, really I do. But there’s no stopping the subtle squaring off of my shoulders at Lucy’s address.
“For all we know, it could have been his parents—”
Lucy snorts and prowls over to the wingback chair nearest to the fireplace. “You know as well as I, Winter, that Knox ranks even higher than his parents in the pack. And he’s not one to be swayed by sentimental familial matters to divert him from his cause. Your mother called,” she drawls, circling to the front of the chair and sinking down into the plush seat cushion. “And like the good lycan he is, went running back.”
“Why weren’t you asked to return?” Atticus asks.
Lucy shrugs, but the bitterness I spotted earlier creeps back into her eyes. “The why doesn’t matter. I wasn’t, and so I’ll remain on guard for Winter here until I am asked to return.”
“You have a lot of faith in your alphas,” Atticus goes on. We watch as Lucy tenses, her eyes set to narrow in a challenge on our persons. “I’m sure they’re very proud to call you, pack mate. Such loyalty and devotion are not easily gained.”
For a moment, Lucy’s rigid guard falters. She swallows and turns her gaze back to the flames. I can’t imagine what goes through her mind at Atticus’s softly spoken words without a single trace of influence in them. When her eyes return to us, they are half concealed by the cover of her chestnut hair.
“And in those who are lesser, it is easily forgotten what we owe to them by right.”
Lucy spares me a sidelong glance. I gather a pithy retort to the tip of my tongue, but Atticus speaks instead.
“I’m afraid I have to disagree. It isn’t the fault of the wolf if they lose faith or trust in the alpha, but rather the alphas, who have not done enough to prove their worth to the pack. And for that matter, blame may fall on the betas’ shoulders as well, for it's their task—our task—to care for the well-being of the pack.”
Lucy finishes her drink, her lips smacking together once, then twice after she sets her empty glass on a nearby side table. “Winter, I was wondering… why exactly are your things in two different rooms?”
Bitch.
“Snooping around?”
Lucy leans back in the chair, one leg crossing over the other with practiced ease. “I was bored.”
That’s what you get for forgetting to lock the room, I scold myself. “You can’t just do that, Lucile. This isn’t your house, or pack, for that matter, and—”
“Oh really, Winter. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Her face is transformed by a wicked smile, and a devious glint twinkles in her eyes, courtesy of the firelight. “Unless it's Atticus doing the twisting of course.”
The growl that emits from my mouth is a warning. “Lucy—”
“A toast to the perfect fucking couple.” Lucy reaches for her glass, but upon discovering it empty, lets out a massive sigh. “I need more wine.”
She goes to stand, but Atticus is faster. “How about water?” he suggests. He’s halfway out of the room before Lucy can comprehend and deliver a comeback. In the end, she flops back into a slouch.
“Eager to please, isn’t he?” she sneers.
I cast my eyes to Atticus’s figure as it turns the corner of the short hallway to reach the kitchen. Then they fall to my cousin without kindness.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss.
Her pretty brown eyes still hold their devious glimmer, and she levels a wink at me. “I’m just having a little fun, cousin. Your mother bids it.”
The sound of rushing water from the kitchen holds half of my attention. I don’t have long to question Lucy, especially if Atticus only means to get her water.
“Why was Knox told to return?”
“Certain responsibilities befall certain family members when betrothal contracts are being drawn.” Betrothal contracts? For who? Surely not Juniper... Lucy’s sneer returns at my distraught look. “You know this could all be resolved if you merely did as you were told. Do your duty, for the sake of the Goddess. Come to heel like the good girl you've always been.”
“Lucy.” Panic stirs in the back of my throat and ends up in the delivery of her name. I shoot my eyes deliberately to the hallway where Atticus’s footsteps sound. “Don’t—”
“Have you even told him, cousin?”
“Told me what?” Atticus asks, mouth downturned as he enters the room. He spears me with a questioning look before crossing to hand Lucy her water.
I can’t help but notice the way her fingers reach out to graze the back of his hand. Or the way she bends her neck so submissively to his presence. Seriously?
“Oh, everything.”
“Lucy, that’s enough.” I stand, setting down my glass of wine and walking to the far end of the room, lest I become too tempted to smack the smirk off her face. It serves her right, my wolf urges.
My cousin’s smile is both vicious and rounded in misery. Her glassy eyes focus on me, and only me, as she joins us in standing upon doe-like legs.
“She’s told you about her history with Knox, hasn’t she, Atticus? Maybe in your many letters. Or while you’ve been getting to know each other more… intimately?”
Atticus places his hands in his pocket but remains mostly unmoved by Lucy’s slurred words. “She hasn’t. But that’s a conversation we’ll have in private.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, surprised at the heat in my voice. “We dated briefly in high school. That’s it.” I keep my sights on Atticus, watching as his shoulders relax from their rigid line. I’m gifted a tiny smile and breathe a touch easier.
“Apparently you dated long enough to break his heart,” Lucy says and takes a step forward. “But even breaking the heart of the pack’s golden boy couldn’t ruin your reputation, could it? Always little Miss Perfect.” Her sharp laugh fills the room, dressed in years of built-up animosity. “How do you compete with perfect?”
Atticus shuffles closer to Lucy, ready to intercede if necessary. “I think it’s time we all turned in for the night.”
“Well, I think it's time Winter shared with you the big family secret,” Lucy announces. She raises her arms out in front of her, like some kind of announcer introducing the next act. “Come on, Winter. Don’t you think it’s time for a little bit of honesty?”
Her shot hits. So accurately, in fact, she manages to snag two birds with one stone. Atticus stares flabbergasted at Lucy as if taking in the true depth of her character for the first time. I’m equal parts furious and shocked.
“You awful, bi—”
Atticus rushes to stand between us, both arms extended to halt our progress. “Enough,” he orders with the full weight of his rank behind his word. “What the hell is she talking about, Winter?”
My mouth opens and closes, unable to fish out the words. After all, how can I be sure of which family secret Lucy eludes to? By the smug look on her face, she's predicted my dilemma accurately. My nails dig into my palm.
Mother didn’t send Lucy to protect me. She sent her to act as a ticking time bomb and do what she does best. Cause mayhem. And her fuse had just run out.
“She means the lycan curse,” I manage to say even though I can feel my throat closing in on itself. Darkness reigns briefly as I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. “We’re the reason for the curse on lycankind. The Blanc pack is.”
When I open my eyes, Atticus is staring open-mouthed at me. And Lucy, acting grossly satisfied, smiles softly and bids us goodnight.
++
Atticus won’t make eye contact with me. I hate it. I hate to think that my long-winded confession of my family’s sordid past is the source of all lycans’ true grief. Unused to this guarded side of him, I leave the room to gather my thoughts and the flower book.
When I return, Atticus is standing in the same place I left him a minute ago, with his back to the door and his head bowed.
He turns to face me slowly, a curious frown on his face when he sees me.
I shuffle my feet awkwardly. “Are you mad at me?”
His eyes widen, but eventually he shakes his head. “No, but I’m… frustrated. At you and myself.” A thick lump forms in the back of my throat, and I turn my steel eyes downward. “I thought it would be so much easier than this. That we would have our happily ever after right off the bat. I know it’s naive and juvenile… that all relationships take work, even ours.
"I just thought—I hoped it was going to be different. I guess a big part of that came from thinking my enthusiasm would be met more equally. It was on New Year's Eve and tonight. Tonight felt like something big between us too.”
I flounder for the right words to say, struck by both his confession and the smolder he wears that darkens from the sparkling ocean to the deep sea. I cannot ignore his challenge—this new line drawn in the sand.
It’s his way of drawing me out from behind the wall I've built. If only he knew how badly I wish to tear down that wall myself.
A coarse shiver runs over my body, from the back of my neck down to my toes. Then it dares to race all the way back up as Atticus appreciates my somewhat breathless state with a meaningful look.
And then he peels off his shirt.
How he maintains an ounce of coloring on his skin given the season, I cannot understand. But it does not lessen my appreciation of him. I swallow, eyes lingering on the stacked lines adorning his stomach up to his broad chest where a dark set of intertwined circles rests on his right pectoral. Our soulmark.
As I stand dazed, he prowls forward. “I hoped with all of our recent talks you might be persuaded into making things a bit easier for us,” he says, his voice low.
“Oh?”
He smirks, the act is entirely too sinful and tempting. I take in his features. His hooded eyes. The cut of his jaw in the bowed angle of his head. How the dim light catches the warm, natural highlights in his golden-brown hair.
Atticus doesn’t stop when he reaches me, but rather stalks around to my back. The stealth of his touch would have me believe his fingertips never graced my hip, but I see them falling out of reach and sight.
“We can move forward, Winter. We can seal the soulmark.”
His suggestion draws a gasp from my lips, but it isn’t just that. In a bold move, his phantom caress darts across my lower back. I’m entirely too aware of how clammy my skin remains beneath the thick sweater I wear. Tonight's activities have left me sorely in need of a shower to rinse the day and night off my skin.
