Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 32
The act is hard and demanding.
I whimper at the connection. The taut anger displayed in Atticus's initial arrival is still present throughout his body as he crushes me into his chest. Tension rides through the quaking of his muscles as he drags his lips across mine. A heavy pant falls from my mouth due to his rough ministrations.
It is evident with the next bruising onslaught of his lips and teeth that this is no mere kiss, but a reprimand in itself. It’s in the way his hands guide my every movement. The pressure of his embrace. The coiled tension that rides so high across his body.
There is a desperation to our connection, and I am only too willing to yield to his guidance.
I place my hands tentatively against his chest, reaching upward to curl my arms around his neck. If this is to be our last kiss, I will make the most of it. With equal fervor, I kiss him back. Our tongues duel in battle, fighting for dominance that I’ve no hope of winning.
His hand clenches harder in my hair and a hint of pleasure-pain triggers at the sensation as Atticus drags my head to the side to kiss me deeper. Teeth bite down on my bottom lip, the pointed assault doing far more than show me his turmoil. A heat ignites between my thighs and, pressed against his body as tightly as I am without room to move, only makes the burn brighter.
When he pulls back, a sharp intake of breath steals through the air between us.
“I didn’t know what happened,” Atticus pants, resting his forehead against mine. “The house was a mess, and I thought….”
I shake my head and tilt my lips upward, intending to soothe instead of claim. But Atticus twists his head at the last second. I swallow down the hurt and attempt to step back, but the steel band of his arm does not relent. My eyes squeeze shut in confusion.
“I just need a minute,” he mutters.
Atticus's hold tightens minutely as he gathers himself while I stay plaintively still in his arms.
“Sorry.” His arm drops, and Atticus takes a step back, running both hands through his hair and making the hair stand on end. “We didn’t know what happened. We didn’t know you were even in trouble,” he says, his anger directed somehow at himself.
I would question the “we” he speaks of, but it's clear he speaks of himself and his wolf. There are streaks of gold in his eye, after all, and my own wolf presses forward to study its mate.
My lips part to speak, but there are no words I can think of to say. Because as clear as it is to me that he is speaking for himself and his wolf, it’s equally apparent that his frustrations lie in the current state of our soulmark bond.
If we were at least sealed, he would have come running. He would have known something was wrong.
“Let’s go home,” Atticus says, and so we do.
++
I awake alone in bed. The fact isn’t as much unexpected as it is disappointing and unwanted. Besides the rampart of events from the other day keeping me up all night, it is the scorching kiss Atticus delivered to me that won’t stay out of my mind.
Why? Why did he have to kiss me?
I’m more than prepared for the backlash my actions have brought me, but this strange circling of Atticus and me drives me insane. As much as I long for him to hold me close and help pull me from the grave I have dug for myself, I know my hopes will go unfulfilled. At least I thought, but now, I'm not so sure.
The shutting of the front door startles me from my reverie. I lurch from the bed, tossing the comforting warmth of the blankets away as I dash to the window. Pulling the curtains roughly aside, I watch Atticus stride toward his car. He catches my eye as he enters the front driver seat.
I don’t realize I’ve leaned forward to gaze at him too far until my nose and forehead bump the cold glass. I startle back, eyes wide, but manage to catch the sharp bark of laughter from outside before it’s stifled by the car door closing.
Where is he going?
There isn’t time to dwell on his sudden departure, for the unexpected sound of the television turning on captures my attention. My lycan senses alight as I tread softly to my bedroom door. Pressing an ear to its surface, I linger until I hear equally soft footsteps downstairs.
My brow furrows in response. Surely Atticus knew someone had been inside before he left? But who?
Slipping on an oversized sweater over my thin camisole and swapping my sleep shorts for some joggers, I pad downstairs. A quick perusal of the entryway reveals a new coat and pair of snow boots next to ours. A woman’s jacket and shoes, if size and style are anything to go by.
“Winter?” a familiar voice calls.
It takes me a moment to place it, then my frown softens. “Callie?” I call back, making my way to the family room where the television resides.
She's made herself at home on the couch. A plate of crumbs sits on the coffee table before her.
“Hi,” I say, albeit hesitantly.
Callie doesn’t bother to turn around, but she does toss up her hand in a half-hearted greeting. Her bracer is fastened around her wrist.
“I’m here to help ward off any surprise visitors and sound the proverbial alarm via the soulmark connection,” she says, eyes glued to the morning news. “Not that I think it’s completely necessary. They’ve got a couple of wolves watching the house from different spots on the cul de sac.”
“Great,” I mutter sarcastically. Wolves and a warrior to keep watch… or are they here to follow me?
“Did you say something?” Callie asks, passing me an inquisitive look over her shoulder.
“No,” I refute, and lean against the large entryway. “Did Atticus make you that?”
She hums an agreement before speaking. “Just some microwave waffles.”
I place a hand over my stomach. “I’m just going to make myself something to eat,” I say, and take my leave.
Something to eat turns out to be coffee and buttered toast. One cup of coffee turns into two as I stare mindlessly at the back door, running back through yesterday’s chaotic confrontation. How had the Wselfwulfs managed to get through the border again and so deep into town? They must have more help on the inside, but with Lucy out of the mix, who could it be?
Jason’s wild eyes and that hulking beast of a man—Adrian, I remind myself—had navigated the house with ease. Realization hits me gradually, but when it does, a low groan pushes itself out of my body. Lucy.
And Knox no doubt made a thorough search of the Adolphus house. My gut clenches at the thought, unless Quinn and Ryatt had been able to thwart his investigation.
“Hey….”
I startle, my coffee sloshing dangerously up the side of my mug. “Hi.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I insist, and set the drink on the counter behind me. “Did you need something?”
She gestures to the empty plate and then walks over to the sink. Our gazes cross paths several times, but neither of us speaks. When the silence becomes too much to bear, I force myself to talk.
“I’m going to clean up the living room,” I tell her, winding my way around the long end of the kitchen island. “It’s—”
“I’ll help,” Callie offers.
I stop and stare. “No, that’s not necessary.”
“I don’t mind," she says and with long strides walks ahead of me and down the hallway to the room in question. I follow quickly at her heels.
“Really, you don’t have to help.”
She shrugs. “You look like you could use the help.”
The short statement knocks me short. I stare at her back, watching as Callie places her hands on her hips to survey the damage. All the while, I try and gather what meager pride I have left.
“I thought you were just supposed to be watching me,” I comment.
Another shrug, this time without the accompaniment of an actual response. Instead, the Inuit girl begins to collect shards of woods from the floor.
“We’re going to need some trash bags,” she says, not stopping once in her chore.
We clean the room together. Most of the smaller debris can be vacuumed away—the bits of glass and splinters of wood—but the rest cannot, such as my furniture. Those pieces end up on the curb. The couch, coffee table, two lamps, and one of the chairs.
The sitting room is a shell without it all, I note with grim remorse.
Callie is busy tidying up the surface of the mantel, rubbing a wet cloth over a stubborn scorch-like mark on one of the corners. Her hair is half up in a messy bun, while the rest falls far down her back.
The casual wear she dons seems far more her personality than the outfit she wore on Christmas and New Year’s. Even from behind she looks to be a formidable woman, her muscles clearly working beneath the thin long-sleeve top she wears. Though no longer a warrior, she apparently still trains like one.
“Is there a reason you’re staring at my butt?”
My eyes widen on her rear end before snapping up to her smirking face. A flush brightens my dull cheeks as I stammer an apology.
“Like what you see?” she asks dryly, though her amusement is evident. She gives her butt a little shake from side to side and laughs at my mortified expression.
“Sorry,” I repeat, my flush growing stronger as I focus back on the simple task at hand. “I was staring off into space. Just ignore me.”
Callie turns to face me, her shoulder bumping up against the chimney as she leans against it. There’s an appraising look on her face, all of her amusement is gone.
“It’s kind of hard to ignore you when it’s my job to watch over you,” Callie says.
The embarrassment I felt moments ago flees for a different kind. This embarrassment couples with my ever-present guilt, and I busy myself with tying off the few bags we’ve filled. As I grab the filled bags to bring to the garage, the telltale sound of scratching and ripping sounds. The bottom of a bag splits open and pointed glass shards litter the floor once more, along with the rest of the bag's contents.
“Seriously,” I groan, shoving the other bag back on the floor away from the new mess. Callie is at my side in a second, her half-full bag there to accept the garbage.
The air around us is disturbed only by the rustle of plastic and the clamor of glasses, wood, and other debris piling up against one another. Each small collision sounds louder than the last. I’m nervous I’ll start to develop a tick as it builds, my fingers grabbing more roughly at the pieces than necessary until we reach the final layer.
“Hey.” A soft tan hand wraps around my wrist before I can snatch up a piece of glass. “Be careful,” she scolds me lightly.
The attempt I make to pull myself free of her grasp is met with resistance, but my second attempt is a much neater extraction. There is a tightening at the corner of Callie's eyes at my action, one I mirror with the edges of my lips. Then, just like that, the tension slips from her face.
“I get it,” Callie says softly, her eyes flickering down to the broken glass then back up to me. “I get why you did it.”
I swallow and stand, dusting my hands off on my pants as she makes to rise as well.
“We should be using a dustpan,” I tell her after clearing my throat, hoping my change of subject will stick. With my recent luck, I should know better.
“I know what it’s like, Winter. I’ve been in the same position as you…. My family, they disowned me. They wanted to break my spirit and put me in my place, or rather, the place they deemed fit for me. They asked too much of me,” Callie says, her voice low and earnest. "I know that now, but back then it was all blurred."
My head moves to-and-fro.
“I get it,” she insists, stepping over the pile of glass and into my personal space. Her hand rests against my shoulder. “Our positions aren’t entirely the same, but I do understand the pressure your family put on you. I understand the impossible choice you had to make.”
I suck in a sharp breath, willing the sheen of liquid that clouds my vision to vanish. “Why are you telling me this?”
Brief confusion flits across her face before a kind of pity overtakes it. I try not to flinch. At least I succeed in this.
“I remember you telling me about your cousin before. June, right?” I nod and wipe hastily at my eyes with the heels of my palm. “You did this for her. Is she… is she going to be all right?”
Between Callie’s tone and the empathy laid bare in her body language, I crack. Hot tears spill down my cheeks. She is the first person to ask.
“I don’t know. Probably not.” The words are hard to get up my throat, let alone off my tongue and past my lips. They are thick like concrete, and pushing them out doesn’t release me from their weight. “I don’t know how much my parents know. And I don’t know what to make of the Wselfwulfs’ attempt yesterday. But I’m pretty positive no good will come out of the silence. They’ll make her suffer for it,” I say, trailing off at the end.
They will indeed, though perhaps not so obviously at first. My parents will start with small things to build up her tolerance before the more significant blows. The final will be passing June off to Jeffrey.
“Would it help if you spoke to them? Your parents?”
“No,” I say with regret. A clench of my jaw does little to relieve my tension. “The only way to help June is to get her out of there… and Toby too, if June were to have any say in it. He's her boyfriend—was her boyfriend.”
A hoarse laugh drags itself out of my chest, and Callie passes me a raised brow.
“June would probably think of it as the ultimate romance, escaping away with her boyfriend,” I explain. And this thought, amazingly, does lessen the heaviness from my chest.
Callie processes my comment. “So what are you going to do?”
Great question. I chew on my lip for an inordinate amount of time. What do I do now?
“Help wake Zoelle up,” I say. “I can feel the loss of her more today. Like there’s a piece missing from the pack bonds that keep it running smoothly, but without her, there’s a kink in the line. Atticus and Xander are doing their best to cover it up, but with their attention scattered, it’s slipping through more and more. I can feel it. As if it's an ache in my bones.”
“Me too,” Callie confesses.
One arm wraps around her middle, while her other hand finds a place at the back of her neck. The disconcerted action reminds me that Callie’s place in the pack is high. She’s fifth, as I was in the Blanc pack, which means she’s high enough to feel the loss of Zoelle more keenly.
“They’re trying to keep it under wraps for as long as they can so as not to scare the pack. But it’s only a matter of time until they find out what happened. They can’t keep it up it forever,” Callie says.
I nod. “Hopefully the witches can get the Wselfwulf to talk. I wouldn’t mind if they figured out what the hell is going on with my necklace too, though I know that’s obviously not the priority.”
“What necklace?” Callie asks as she squats back down.
The tinkling and scraping of glass is a gentle backdrop to my explanation. Callie’s gaze darts between her task and myself, until I kneel down across from her and begin to help once more.
“It’s a moonstone necklace. My mother passed it on to me as a wedding gift. Apparently, it hosts dark magic inside of it, the likes of which Aunt Mo has never seen or felt before. It… did something to her. Hurt her,” I explain with a growing frown. “She said the magic it holds was expertly cloaked.”
“That must be some strong magic for you and your family not to notice. Aren’t wolves sensitive to works of magic? Every time Keenan has to meet with the coven, he complains about how it makes him itch.”
An impish grin works its way onto my lips.
“It makes me itch too,” I admit, then sober. “But you’re right. The magic inside the necklace and the magic hiding it must be incredibly strong. I don't know why I couldn't detect it, being as sensitive as I am to magic. Yet, when I think back to each instance I wore the necklace, I suppose I felt a certain level of discomfort."
The times are few and far in between, but each time I can recall those days feeling worse than others. Callie stands, the last bits of trash put away. This time around, neither of us attempt to remove the garbage from the room.
“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her hands together to free them of any dust and dirt. “You lost me. You felt discomfort wearing the necklace?”
I flush and rise as well. “It wasn’t exactly discomfort,” I try to explain again, “but I was uncomfortable to an extent. As if my worries were heightened.”
“Strange...,” Callie says before she peers about the room. “I think this is as good as it’s going to get.”
With a sigh, I survey our work as well. The room will need some good TLC, but whether or not I’d have a hand in its makeup is questionable. I clear my throat. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Nah,” Callie replies, walking with me to the kitchen as I reclaim my mug and toss it in the microwave for half a minute. “Hey, do you think the necklace will be able to wake her up? Maybe the coven can siphon its magic, or whatever they do, and use it to wake her.”
My astonishment comes in a widening of my eyes. “I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “Maybe? But probably not if it's dark magic, right?" Callie shrugs helplessly. "Regardless, if it can't help wake her up, that doesn’t make it any less useful to us.”
“What do you mean?”
The microwave beeps its completion, and I remove the mug gingerly as I quickly run over my thoughts.
“I mean, if the Wselfwulfs wanted the necklace badly enough to come after it, it means something to not only them—”
“But the Blanc pack,” she finishes.
“Exactly.”
Her eyes spark with growing recognition. “You think we can use the necklace as leverage.”
