Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 39
An indescribable shiver draws a lazy path down my spine.
I can feel Atticus’s pleasure. And his returning lust.
“Well,” I rasp, “I’m not quite ready for bed just yet. Are you?”
The Challenge
Chapter 22
The weekend comes again far faster than I would like with the days racing by like the end of the world is hurtling at us. In some ways, it is. We plan to confront my parents and garner the tonic’s ingredients and its full list of effects. If they cannot provide us with the details, then we will demand to know who they purchased the tonic from and go from there. Our plan to do this leaves me immeasurably nervous as it will be me doing the confronting.
As for the issue of the curses, we will only have Luna attempt to talk to the tree if all goes well with my parents and the opportunity presents itself. Hope both fierce and strong swells in my chest as I rehash the plan once more in my head. Everyone in the pack and coven is counting on our success, but none more so than me—I have promises to keep after all.
I stare at the cream-colored batter sitting next to the stove in a pale green ceramic bowl. Pancakes shouldn’t be this hard to make.
If my pancakes aren’t cooked through enough, then they are most certainly burnt. Only two have managed to come out a pretty golden color and are suitably fluffy, though their shapes are a bit abstract.
They sit alone on a plate on the island, becoming cooler by the minute.
Atticus needs to wake up soon if he wants to enjoy them properly. Just the thought of the man brings a crooked, self-satisfied smile to my lips. I duck my head, hiding my blush from the world as I think over the week we’ve had.
Though riddled with a healthy amount of anxiety over what is to come, things between Atticus and me are good. Really good. I haven’t felt this light in years… or loved… or sore.
My blush deepens as I recall our kitchen escapades just two nights ago.
“Atticus, if you don’t stop, I’m going to get you all wet,” I say, trying for something stern even as I grin like a lovesick fool.
Firm hands glide across my stomach in a tease. “The point is to get you all wet,” he purrs back.
His hands continue to move at a hypnotic pace, drawing south as my hands still their idle work in the sink. One more warning lies on the tip of my tongue but is stifled by a tremulous noise from the back of my throat.
Restless energy swims through my veins at his intimate touch. The plate I wash slides from my hands and lands with a clatter against the stainless steel sink. I rock against the pressure at my sex. The motion is gentle and unhurried.
The cut of the counter against my stomach slowly increases its pressure. A hiss escapes me as the sculpted body behind me relentlessly presses forward. A cold draft plagues the kitchen and rides over me to leave goose bumps in its wake while new skin is exposed to its pursuits. Atticus’s shirt that I borrowed this morning finds its way pushed far above my hips. His free hand scratches a delicate path down my exposed flank and hip.
“I like you in my shirt,” Atticus tells me in a voice that makes me lick my lips in anticipation. “But I like you much better in nothing at all.”
Digits, long and lean, stroke my tender folds. The action makes my knees tremble, and immediately I am grateful for the sturdy body behind me. When those same fingers plunge within me, dragging out my nectar to swirl over my nub, a weak cry tumbles past my lips.
His name follows closely behind in a whimper.
With his cock digging into the small of my back, I lean further against him, leveraging myself against the sink.
“Don’t tease,” I beg.
Because that is what I am immediately reduced to, and have been for the past few days—begging for mercy at his studious touches and excruciating patience. Until, that is, my begging turns into desperate cries of the wanton nature.
A knee nudges my legs further apart, and then a more insistent length presses against me. Atticus's hot breath at my ear stirs my blood into a frenzy. As his second hand continues its work down south, the other crawls north between the valley of my breasts to wrap loosely around my neck.
My labored breath sounds in return, leaning into both avenues of his clutches and bending my body to do it. He lets out a strangled growl, fingers pressing just a touch more heavily against my neck.
With a shifting of hips, he enters me sharply to draw a pleased noise from both of us.
My toes curl and strain against the mosaic tile. They push me up onto their tips when he thrusts again just as forcefully. I hook an arm over my shoulder and grapple for Atticus’s neck to hold on to for dear life as he proceeds to fuck me against the kitchen sink.
A chorus of moans and grunts fill the spacious room. They build just as the momentum between us does. My fever pitch arrives quickly, those lean fingers still strumming against my clitoris and the hand at my neck demanding my complete submission to his will.
There was never any doubt in this… but giving in to his power is thrilling. Intoxicating.
As the sounds of our flesh meeting in angry slaps break into the symphony of our sounds of pleasure, Atticus holds me tighter. And when I fall, he is quick to follow.
Needless to say, learning each other this past week has been enlightening. So has finding ways to tease and ride the electric surge that occurs with every brush of the soulmark.
We also—
“Shit!”
With fluttering feet, I dance back over to the griddle, quickly tossing the ruined pancakes off onto the designated trash plate. For breakfast’s sake, I should stop dwelling on our sex marathon.
Drawing my mind from the soulmark is another task entirely.
The week has brought to light the dozens of regrets I have in my life—from the way I so easily bent to my parents’ will, to my most recent deceptions and actions coming to a head with Zoelle. Yet, it is allowing myself to be fooled and afraid of the soulmark that I regret most.
Going through with the sealing, marking, and binding opened not only my eyes but Atticus’s.
The soulmark bond softened the connection between us. Atticus confessed just the night before that it was too difficult for him to stay upset with me over my misdeeds. When I asked why, he calmly replied that he could feel the vast depths of my remorse and guilt.
As I pour the next ladles of batter out, I hear footsteps come trotting down the stairs. Atticus enters the kitchen moments later, a bright smile already on his face as he observes me cooking.
“That smells… awful.”
Our faces split into identical grins, and he comes over to me. Atticus brushes my snow-white hair over my shoulder and places a kiss at the back of my neck right between the sixth and seventh vertebrae.
“The majority haven’t turned out so well,” I concede, but then happily turn around and point to the plate I’ve left on the kitchen island. “Those, however, are perfect.”
He hums a happy acknowledgment with his fingers skimming just below the indentation of my lower back, right below my soulmark. I spear him with a playful glare and step out of his reach, spatula brandished before me like a weapon.
He snatches the spatula from my hand and flips the pancakes. They retain a nice golden-brown surface. This time, the happy hum comes from my throat.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?”
The question is asked so casually it takes a moment for it to sink in. My cringe is unable to be hidden. Atticus's brows pull sympathetically together, and his palm comes to rest on my cheek.
“Not really,” I mutter with a sigh. “But I suppose I’ll find my strength somewhere along the way."
Tomorrow we leave on our journey to Quebec, and what a long journey it will be. We’ll be driving, given the fairy that we plan to travel with is somewhat of an illegal alien.
My concerns, already expressed a multitude of times to Atticus, lie in the confrontation I am meant to lead. I still find it difficult to believe that both Atticus and Xander support this aspect of the plan with knowing how well my parents bent me to their will in the past. Yet, after having a day or so to let the plan sink in, I came to realize my pivotal role for what it really is: a test of my loyalty to the Adolphus pack.
I won’t let them down, no matter how daunting the prospect is.
“You’ve always had the strength, Winter,” Atticus says.
I meet his bowed head halfway and our lips meet briefly. Briefly because the smell of burning butter reaches our sensitive noses at the same time. And definitely not because of the loud clearing of a throat that sounds from the other side of the kitchen. We part with strained smiles, Atticus directing his at the griddle and mine at Jax.
The sorcerer was pushed upon our hospitality by none other than Xander himself. The alpha claims he can’t deal with the added stress of someone in his house pestering him. What Xander really means is that he can’t deal with the added annoyance of Jax. I can’t say I blame him.
Jax Stormrow is a troublemaker.
Atticus compares him to Ryatt often but fails to explain accurately the danger he also associates with the sorcerer. Perhaps it is his magic—gifted by whatever Gods he prays too—that makes Atticus wary. I know it makes me wary.
Jax is dressed in dark wash pants, a white button-down, and deep maroon vest. My eyes travel down his trim form and stop at his feet. The derby shoes are a matching maroon and polished to gleam.
“Breakfast?” Jax struts up to the island counter and snags the plate of good pancakes with a charming smile. “You shouldn’t have.”
His hazel eyes twinkle with mischief, and before I can snatch the plate back, he’s spun around and walks to the table.
“Would one of you bring me a fork and knife, please?”
I sigh but do as Jax asks.
“Here.”
He takes the silverware from me in his own time, making a perusal of me as I did him. “Trouble sleeping?” He clucks at my blush. “I can make you something for that. It will put you right out.”
I glare, but it fades along with the color on my face. Jax's eyes continue to twinkle, but that mischievous gleam isn’t as kind as before.
“Too soon?” he probes, digging into the pancakes.
A snarl catches in my throat. I’m only able to hold it back from years of experience. Instead, I stiffly walk back to Atticus’s side. The familiar weight of his arm around my waist is an immediate comfort.
“He’s definitely worse than Ryatt,” I grumble, making sure I’m just loud enough to hear.
“Rude,” Jax pipes up around a mouthful of pancakes.
I watch him chew, that charming smile turning to a cheeky grin. It suits him more, and his close-cut beard that looks more like fashionably trimmed scruff only adds to its captivating quality. By the dimple etching into his left cheek, he knows it.
“I rather think of myself as a prince charming,” he continues, combing his fingers through ash brown, wavy locks that could use a cut. “Though, I must say, it would be beneficial to be able to speak with the witches who performed the retrocognition spell. Their notes don’t paint the picture I’m looking for. It’s more of a Picasso than say a Jan Vermeer.”
It’s the tenth time Jax has asked. Atticus heaves a sigh.
“We’ve been over this. The Trinity Coven won’t allow you inside their homes nor to speak with their witches. You’ll have to make do.”
“And how go the witches attempt at waking our sleeping beauty?” he asks. Atticus and I freeze momentarily, but the sorcerer catches our tell. “Any new developments?”
I fidget and fuss with my hands for a few seconds before clearing my throat and answering. “The witches are confident they took down a layer of the tonic’s magic. One of several, as it happens, but in doing so, they left her vulnerable and unstable, which is why they wrapped her up in their own magical sleep.”
Jax pauses with a forkful of pancake halfway to his mouth, letting his sights slant our way.
“That’s a new word. Unstable.” He lets the word roll off his tongue like a fine wine. “Unstable how, exactly?”
Atticus glances my way as I bow my head a fraction. His hand seeks out mine to provide reassurance. “She… stopped breathing,” I say.
Jax takes his time chewing and swallowing the triangular morsel, but then he begins to nod slowly. “And the plan for your hometown ambush? Let’s rehash it again, shall we?”
Three more perfectly cooked pancakes find their home on a new plate, which Atticus offers to me. After a delicate push to my back, I walk over to the table and join Jax with my breakfast.
“It will be the three of us, plus Keenan and Luna, to take on this mission. Thanks to Winter’s knowledge and experience, we can expect to catch her parents off guard in their house before they partake in the full moon run,” Atticus says.
“They don’t start their run until late at night,” I explain before Atticus can continue.
Atticus sends me a brief smile. “Once we’re inside, we’ll need you to seal the place up so that no one can get in—”
“And none can get out. Duly noted and well within my capabilities,” Jax cuts in.
“And from there Winter will demand the tonic’s composition and composer.”
Jax sets down his fork and levels a belittling frown at Atticus and then myself. “You,” Jax says, his hazel eyes assessing me without remorse, “are going to demand from your parents the tonic’s composition? What makes you think a beta, such as yourself, will be able to pull off such a feat? Isn’t that the entire reason I’m here to help fix the mess that you’ve so kindly put us in.”
Atticus lets out a growl as I flush with contempt.
“Xander is a stronger alpha than my parents,” I tell him, though working my jaw from its clenched position is a task. “Being as such, there is a more than fair chance that either Atticus or I could challenge their authority.”
Jax leans back in his chair, still eyeing us with apprehension before he shrugs and his expression falls. “I can work with more than a fair chance,” he announces pleasantly and digs back into his pancakes.
I toss a look over my shoulder at Atticus, my eyes pleading with him to join us. He gestures to his pancakes, and I let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Right,” Jax says. “So, you make your demands, but what if they refuse?”
Atticus smiles. “We aren’t leaving that house without the tonic’s composition or the name of the person who made it. The whole point of going is to get it, and so we will.”
Jax returns the smile. “I like your conviction. It’s quite rousing.”
Atticus snorts but says nothing more.
“Once we have what we need, if there’s time, we go to the golden birch and have Luna speak to it.”
“And if your little fairy comes through with reasonable information, I’ll take a crack at your wily curses,” Jax finishes. I nod. “Wonderful,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “And is there a plan B, perchance? In case, let’s say, your parents aren’t home or there’s an ambush waiting for us?”
I look to Atticus who is stacking his plate high with pancakes. He raises a brow back at me, the corner of his lip twitching. I turn my gray eyes back to Jax.
“You are our plan B. Should things go awry….”
Jax winks at me, though the sight is mildly off putting with the measure of menace behind it. “Understood. This will certainly be an exciting venture. I’ve pulled off many spells and potions during a full moon… but not with a pack of lycans in the near vicinity. But seeing as how the proper reversal of these curses relies at the very least on this famed tree and the full moon, there’s no avoiding it.”
My stomach turns. “I’m sure it will be fine,” I say.
Atticus comes and sits next to me, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder for a comforting second.
“You should really work on your conviction,” Jax tells me.
“Duly noted,” I mutter and stab at my pancakes.
Jax laughs as he sinks further back into his chair with lazy confidence. Cracks and pops sound in canon as the sorcerer works his knuckles into submission. Typically, the cracking of one’s knuckles doesn’t come off nearly as intimidating as is intended, but the flare of green sparks that emerge above his fists do just the trick.
“I can hardly wait,” he says with that damn charming smile.
++
We’ve been sitting inside the large SUV for too long. Someone on the street is bound to notice our car full of people that slowly fog up the interior windows with our combined breath and body heat. Straight ahead is a large home far more contemporary than its neighbors.
My parents' home.
Several cars line the curb in front of their abode and stack the driveway.
“Are we going in or not?” Jax asks from the back seat.
Atticus spares me a look before addressing the group. “Let’s recap,” he says, taking charge.
“What’s there to recap? We’ve been over the plan a dozen times. Head inside. Execute magical house arrest. Interrogate. Save the girl and break the curses. Easy," Jax says.
“And stay together at all costs. If we’re separated, they won’t hesitate to strike and take one of us out,” I say, my voice monotonous.
A light touch at my shoulder draws my eyes to the back of the car. Luna’s eyes are somber, but she offers me a small smile of support. The witches had not been pleased to release Luna into our care, not after the arrival of Jax. But the fairy had promptly informed them that she was not their property and they couldn’t control her—no matter how hard they tried.
Atticus described the scene as epic, after picking her up.
The fairy in question is bathed in a full body glamour, but unlike the witches itching trace of magic, Jax’s brings the hair at the back of my neck on end.
Gone are the vines and flowers that curl just beneath her skin, like dancing ink.
