Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 29
“I dreamed of you. Of us.” An ache resonates in Atticus's voice, one that is bone deep. I pull in a tight breath, blinking away the surge of guilt that wells in my eyes. “I don’t know how you can fix this, Winter. I don’t even know how to begin to forgive you.”
A rough laugh barks from him as he sets his sights back on me. My gut gives another painful clench.
“Do you realize the position you’ve put me in?” he asks.
My retort lives a short life on the tip of my tongue. Searching his face, I capture all of the frustration and anger and disappointment in the strain that lines his eyes and mouth. I shake my head slowly, inching forward regardless of the danger that comes with such an action.
“We’re the betas. We’re supposed to be the heart of this pack, and you went and stabbed all of us in the back. Not just me or Zoelle and Xander. All of us. But it’s me who will need to provide an example of forgiveness for the pack… to present ways for you to earn back everyone's trust. And I don’t know if I can do either of those,” he says, voice low and rough.
“I said I’ll fix this, and I will. There has to be something Lucy knows about the tonic. Something she’s not saying. Let me talk to her and I can—”
Atticus gives a sharp shake of his head, and when his phone buzzes, he lets out a grateful sigh. “No,” he tells me, not sparing a glance in my direction as he reads the message sent to him. “I have to go. They need me. With Xander in the state he is, we need our strongest wolves to pull together. The pack can’t afford to be weak, not with the Wselfwulfs pounding at the border.”
His walls come slamming down around him as he shoves his phone back in his pocket and makes his way back to the foyer. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. Those crystal blue eyes of his not bothering to see me standing there, flush with disappointment.
And then… “Not with your parents plotting our downfall from within,” Atticus mutters just as he passes.
I can only stand and gape in response, watching his strides lengthen down the short hallway.
“What did you just say?”
The words spill past my lips before I can stop them. Being as they are drenched in indignation, Atticus stops. With a shaky exhale, I give chase, following after him with a frown so severe it pushes away some of my numbing guilt.
“Nobody knows how closely my parents have been working with the Wselfwulfs,” I say in an even voice. “Yes, they support their cause, but they would never dare play such an active hand in aiding them, not with their position on the Celestial Court. And they would never support an attack against their own daughter.”
Even as I say the words, they ring false inside of me. Defending my parents leaves a terrible taste in my mouth, but the action comes second nature after all these years. I wish to take them back as soon as I say them, but Atticus rounds on me as I reach the end of the hallway. He is ready for this particular fight.
“Are you sure about that, Winter? Because targeting you seems like a great way to entice a war. Threaten the last of the Blanc line? Do you know what hell Xander got from your parents after they sent your cousin and Knox down? They demanded full retribution on their daughter’s behalf… They wanted us to go after the Wselfwulfs.”
My world has the audacity to flip upside down.
“What?”
He takes a step forward, his finger raising to point accusingly at me before he releases a frustrated growl and rakes his hand over his face instead. His expression is torn between ire and great reluctance.
“They wanted us to ‘defend your honor’ by attacking them. They tried to order Xander—”
“No,” I protest, shuffling forward. “No, they wouldn’t do that. My parents wouldn’t send out enemy wolves to attack me. They wouldn’t demand… they wouldn’t.”
I swallow thickly, unable to look at him as thoughts collide in my head. They wouldn’t… would they? And yet, the truth of the matter is undeniable. My mother’s nonchalance at the entire event on the phone makes horrifying sense to me now.
But still, I can’t bear to admit it.
“They wouldn’t do that to their daughter." I tell him hotly, even as traitorous wetness begins to stain my cheeks. Even when I know I should be apologizing and begging forgiveness for breaking his trust. It all keeps coming back to my parents and this senseless need to justify their actions.
His jaw clenches, and his tone remains stern. “Winter.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I shout, my finger jabbing in the air as I brush past him, ready to march up the stairs and hideout in my old bedroom. Apologize you idiot! a voice inside me screams. It’s not about you! “They wouldn’t—”
His hand hooks around my upper arm and twirls me back. I barely stop myself from slamming into his chest. Our gazes clash in a maelstrom of emotion, and our heavy breathing drives at one another without remorse.
“Don’t do this, Winter,” Atticus growls back, his frustration and anger out in full force. “You just told us they’re holding your cousin hostage and plan on making her marry some way older guy. A man you not-so-subtly implied abuses his wives. Why is it that you can't fathom the idea that your parents would collude with the Wselfwulfs?
"Why are you still defending them after everything they’ve done? You don’t think they’d rough up their own daughter to push their agenda? You’re a pawn in their game, just like June. Stop making excuses for them. Stop defending them!”
I’m ready to go on, but my arguments lose wind as I see his genuine perplexity at my adamance. I shudder a breath and squeeze my eyes tightly shut.
“I’m not defending them. I just….” My words briefly stall as I search for the right words. “I just can’t believe it, Atticus. I’m their daughter. Their only daughter. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for everything they’ve done and everything I’ve done for them.”
Doubt and pain eat away at my resolve, and my tears come faster as I lean toward his body. What kind of people use their children in such a way?
And what does that make me for going along with it?
A monster, a horrible voice whispers in my head. You’re just as bad as them.
“I can see the wheels turning in your head, Winter,” he murmurs, the worst of his anger ebbing from his voice. Atticus takes a hesitant step back and releases my arm. I sniff and rub away what wetness remains on my face. “You aren’t them,” he says with a tiredness that speaks volumes.
I bite my tongue to hold back a refrain and opt for a curt shake of my head instead.
“Winter….”
I drop my chip until it almost brushes my collarbone. A terrible laugh tries to curdle its way up and out of me. “You don’t have to try and make me feel better, Atticus. I’m the one in the wrong. I’m the one who messed up and put lives at risk.”
The words stall on my tongue as my throat suddenly constricts. The hoarse laugh I attempt to hold back breaks loose. I sound insane. Mad. Maybe I am to follow my parents so blindly.
“You can say whatever you want,” I tell him, eyes drifting closed as I swallow past the constriction. “You can do whatever you feel is necessary for my punishment. I won’t utter a single complaint.”
“There are more important matters at hand than deciding a punishment for you. Besides, I think you're doling out your punishment harshly enough for yourself,” he says somberly.
I wrap my arms around my middle—not for comfort, but to hold myself together. “Some would argue against it.”
For a moment, I dare to think Atticus is tempted to reach out to me. I hold my breath and watch the tremble that runs through him, lips parting gently. When our eyes meet, the world falls still around us.
I exhale a tremulous breath, scared to remove my sight from him. “I’m sorry,” I say. “For everything.”
There is a softening in his eyes as he gazes back at me, and then what must be a thousand emotions flutter across his face. It dawns on me that though we are only a few feet apart, a vast chasm lies between us. I long to cross the distance to be in his arms once again, for it is the only place I've ever felt safe.
I’m not sure what he sees dart across my own expression, but it's enough to make him look away.
“I have to go,” he tells me again and brushes past me to fetch his coat.
I trail behind him, unable to stop myself. I find myself irrevocably drawn into his orbit—soulmark or not. Maybe that’s what makes everything hurt worse—knowing the feelings between us in this short amount of time have been real and strong and true.
“Will you come back?” I whisper.
He pauses. “Always,” he responds quietly. “Can I trust you to stay here while I’m gone.”
“Of course.” That he must ask makes the hurt sink deeper.
Atticus gives a curt nod. “I’ll be back.”
The house feels colder without him. A minute passes me by, and then another, and it is all I can think. It's cold without him near. Exhaustion weighs upon every inch of my body, and my hands seek to curl themselves around me farther.
Shuffling further into the front sitting room, I steer toward the couch. I slump down into my favorite corner spot.
How do I fix the mess I made?
The chances of my parents exchanging the information about how to release Zoelle from her magical sleep are slim… unless Xander is willing to pay the price for it. It is a fact that my parents might already be counting on.
Without thought, I curl my legs up to my chest, my arms slipping to wrap around them as I lose myself to each path I can take.
Dealing with my parents will have to be a last resort. The price for Zoelle is too compelling of an argument for the Adolphus pack’s surrender to the Wselfwulfs. My teeth dig in to my bottom lip at the thought.
I can’t let my mistake be the pack's downfall.
Somehow I'll find a way to fix this mess. I'll do whatever it takes, no matter the cost. The Adolphus pack deserves this from me. As for June… I will find a way to save her too. Somehow.
My wolf provides a soft echo of an agreement.
It’s an odd moment to feel the pressure of its thoughts among my own, but I’m thankful for its support and strength regardless. I'll need it.
Bright lights stain the sitting room for a brief time. Headlights. I squint out the window, heart thumping madly as only one thought or rather, person enters my mind. Atticus. I rush to the front door when I hear the slam of the car door.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask as I swing the door open wide. It slams against the wall with the force of my pull and the added aid of the wind. I put a hand up to block the glaring yellow of the headlights, trying to squint past my fingers in an attempt to adjust.
“Nothing’s wrong… not unless you refuse to cooperate.” My arm drops at the familiar voice.
A shard of ice pierces my heart as I recall it with aching clarity. The voice is on the cusp of manhood and far too confident to leave one at ease.
I react a split second faster than the fearsome youth I encountered weeks ago and slam the door shut before he can barge in. It's a struggle to lock the door, between his jarring insistence and my shaky hands, but I manage.
Taking a wary step away from the door, I eye it with distrust. How long will the lock hold? Is the Wselfwulf lycan willing to force it open and alert the neighborhood to his actions?
Will he have to?
I race off to the back of the house when the dangerous thought springs to mind. Mentally, I count off all the entrances to the house: the garage, the back door, any of the windows. There are too many to cover if he’s brought more wolves with him.
The back door is locked, so seldom in use, especially during the winter. I breathe a quick sigh of relief. It is short-lived. The doorbell goes off in a crazed set of repetitious chimes. I make my way back to the front door, heart hammering in my chest, and a butcher’s knife clutched in my hand.
“Come on, Winter. We just want to chat. We never got to finish our conversation from before.”
I say nothing. Instead, I move toward the window I so love to sit next to and pull its curtains shut.
“Is that really necessary?” he asks, then drills at the doorbell again.
His attempt to distract and unnerve me through his actions only half works. With swift feet, I make short work of closing all the blinds and curtains on the first-floor windows.
“Let us in, Winter. No one is going to come to fetch you…. Your packs a bit preoccupied at the moment with other matters.”
I suck in a sharp breath and glare at the door. “What did you do?”
His laughter makes my blood boil. “Open up.”
“No.”
That puts a stop to his infuriating laughter. “Then I’ll huff, and I’ll puff,” he says, his voice pitched to a dangerous rumble. “And I’ll blow your house down.”
Knowing it’s coming doesn’t lessen the poignant force of his entry. The door cracks against the wall and the pair take a step forward. The young man who led my assault before stands with one of his sidekick: the hulking beast, with severe features and dark eyes. I stumble back a step, my knife held out low in front of me, and my lips pulled back in a snarl.
The beastly man regards me with little interest but prowls forward nevertheless. I shift back several steps to match each of his own and barely register the sound of the door closing.
“Heel, Adrian,” the younger commands, walking up behind the intimidating man with feigned leisure. His eyes gleam with wicked excitement as he runs his gaze over me. “Put down the knife, Winter. You’ll only hurt yourself.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Or what? You’ll come after us with your big, scary knife?” His condescending tone is unbearable. A soft chuckle preempts his next words. “You know, I don’t think we were properly introduced before. I’m Jason.”
“Get out of my house, Jason. And take your lapdog with you.” The lapdog in question—Adrian—lets loose a low growl that seems to shake the entire house, but he makes no move against me for the slur.
“I wouldn’t get him mad,” Jason advises. “He’s barely trained as it is.”
I eye them both, taking in their positions and plotting my best chance at escape. Jason’s disturbing smile halts my thought process.
“Don’t get any ideas of running. Adrian here loves to give chase. Besides, there’s no need for any more destruction. We’re just here to pick up something. A necklace.”
Though I make no outward indication of how the word brings to mind the moonstone necklace in my dresser drawer, it’s my heart that gives me away. It provides a mad thump at his words, one I’ve no hope of controlling.
He smiles slowly. “That’s right. I believe it’s a moonstone. Every pack knows from here to England how much your family adores them.” With a leer, he rakes his eyes across my chest, then lower. “You wouldn’t happen to have it on you, would you? My own alpha hasn’t received the agreed upon compensation from your pack, and she’s always been a bit keen on the finer things in life.”
“The necklace belongs to me,” I say, voice low.
“And now it belongs to my alpha.”
Our synchronization would be impressive in any other circumstance with Jason shooting forward and me darting back. I sprint down the hallway through the kitchen, aiming for the back door. Jason is hot on my heels and gaining. As I scramble past the kitchen table, he inches past me to skid to a halt in front of the back door. Panting, Jason's eyes shoot past me briefly to the lycan I know to be at my back before returning to me.
I stop a mere arm's length away from Jason and shift my stance in an attempt to keep both men in my sights. Adrian closes in slowly from the hallway entrance, ready to herd me into Jason’s clutches.
Not good.
“What did you say the last time we met? Something about she-wolves being light-footed?”
He releases a merry laugh as I make a second attempt to flee. It’s only by luck that I dodge Jason's groping hands and duck into the formal dining room off of the kitchen. My knife makes its presence known in a vicious swipe as Adrian joins the fray. The more massive wolf stumbles back a step or two with his dark eyes bleeding red for a second.
Red? What the hell?
I almost stop, my shock and fear grappling for the right to guide my next move. Fear wins out. I push through the room, tossing chairs behind me to hinder their pursuit and sprint around to the entryway. The sound of competing footsteps resonates loudly in my ear.
My eyes scan the wide entryway of the living room, anticipating a lycan to appear and thwart my escape and trap me in the room.
Despite my fear boosting my speed, I manage to reach the foyer at the same time as Jason. He pants with excitement as he skids to another stop, this time before the front door.
“Nice try—”
His taunt cuts short as I throw myself up and over the stairway banister and launch myself up the stairs. Seconds later, a hand clamps around my ankle and yanks with vicious intent. My cry pierces the air. I struggle to find purchase as I fight against the second harder pull at my person.
“And here I thought your parents taught you to behave,” Jason says menacingly, his fingernails digging into my ankle. I turn myself around on his next assault, my free foot using the momentum to smash into his face.
He howls and rears back, tumbling down the stairs with several curses. I don’t bother to admire my handiwork with the threat of Adrian lurking in the corner of my vision. Instead, I scramble up the stairs to my bedroom.
Shutting and locking the door behind me, I move to the nearest piece of furniture—a low dresser—and begin to push it in front of the door. The sound of their approach flays at my nerves, for it is done deliberately slow, yet loud enough for me to hear. I shuffle back until I hit the opposite end of the room.
I should have stabbed him—not kicked him.
I gnash my teeth and attempt to slow the racing of my heart. The scent of blood does little to calm me. I stare down at the knife. It’s painted with crimson, but it’s not the only thing. The palm of my hand is cut open—most likely from my fall on the stairs. But the sting of it barely registers. Even now.
