Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 5
"Adele, let's go. Winter, farewell," he says stiffly and walks past us without another word. His face, I note, is as red as my mother's.
"Do remember to call, Winter," my mother says loud enough for everyone to hear. "Often, if you must."
Running Wild
Chapter 3
It's an awful end to a rather lovely wedding. The Blanc pack leaves upon my parents' abrupt departure. Only a handful of them wish me well and say goodbye. Lucy's self-righteous airs as she air kisses my cheeks before leaving is almost too much to bear.
The Adolphus pack do their best to reinstate the peace and reset the mood to a cheerier tone, but their efforts are a waste. The more drinks pressed into my hand to appease my obvious distress only proves to make me sadder.
Even the champagne has turned against me, I realize sullenly.
My head rests against the cold glass window of the limousine taking Atticus and me back to his home. Our bridal suite at the town's most beautiful boutique hotel is forgone once my stomach took a turn for the worse. Atticus assures me we have it for a few nights, and if we want, the following night we can spend our time there. But for tonight, he thought it best to bring me back somewhere undoubtedly safe: his house. Well, our house.
"We're here," Atticus murmurs, touching my arm with gentle care.
I step from the limousine onto wobbly legs. I’m immediately aware that the ground is too slippery for my drunken feet to find adequate purchase. But I don't have long to worry about my plight. A hot palm slides around my back to my middle, hooking me into Atticus's side and shepherds me forward.
"You have a pretty house," I mumble. And it is. The house is a Dutch colonial painted some darker shade of blue with white trimming around its windows and on the posts. It's darling, like a real-life dollhouse.
"We have a pretty house," he corrects, sweeping me up into his arms. The sky above is finally free from clouds, and the stars blink back down at us, as well as the luminous moon.
My wolf quivers with anticipation of the coming full moon, but it fades from my system almost as soon as it comes.
"Pretty," I mumble once more, sinking into Atticus's embrace. He unlocks the door on his second attempt and brings us inside. When the door closes behind us, he sets me down, and the world slants sideways. "I think I need some water," I say, mouth suddenly tacky and dry.
Before I know it, I'm seated on some couch in the next room and a glass of water is thrust into my hands. I take a grateful drink and then another.
"I think Ryatt and Quinn were a bit too enthusiastic about making sure you were 'well hydrated,'" Atticus says. He takes a seat on the floor in front of me, lounging back on his forearm and sipping at his own glass of water.
I pause with my glass halfway to my lips and study Atticus. He's abandoned his suit jacket and tie, or perhaps lost them. Either way, the view is a pleasant one. His shirt, no longer crisp and perfect, hugs the muscles of his arm. Just as his vest does to his chest. When I drag my eyes to his, I note the purple shadows beginning to form beneath them. A flutter stirs in my stomach as I see the warmth still present in them.
"It was nice for a while," I tell him around the lip of the glass, gaze drifting south once more to his chest.
"Do I have a stain somewhere?" Atticus asks.
"Huh?"
A goofy grin spreads across Atticus's face, and he runs a hand through his hair, ruining its stylish combed-back appearance. "You're, uh, sort of staring... at my chest."
The deep chuckle that follows my blush is one of pure masculine satisfaction, and I strive for some semblance of modicum in my drunken state. "I was just looking at your pocket watch. Well, the chain of what I assume is your pocket watch," I tell him matter-of-factly.
His goofy smile remains, but he obligingly ceases his laughter and takes out his watch. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it to me. I fumble to catch it, spilling my water on the couch and my dress.
"Whoops."
I awkwardly set down my glass, and by the time I have righted myself, Atticus is offering me his handkerchief. I blink at it in confusion, taking it as well.
"For your dress," he explains. My mouth forms an O as I dab at the fabric of my dress and then the couch. Satisfied with my work, I take my time inspecting the brass and gold accessory. I'm well aware the entire time Atticus studies me.
"It's quite old," I finally manage to say, peering at him through lashes that are growing heavier and heavier by the minute. "Is it a manual wind watch?"
Atticus nods in surprise. "It was my great-grandfather's. I have it taken in every now and then to make sure it keeps running smoothly."
I make a short humming noise in the back of my throat as I lean over the couch's edge to deliver the heirloom back to Atticus, not expecting to lose my balance in doing so. He catches me as I windmill over, and a short shriek surges out of me as I tumble into his hard chest.
Half on and half off the couch is an uncomfortable place to be, and so I scoot my bottom half off as well. The process takes much less effort, but the landing is far less comfortable.
"Oof!"
"That's a lot of skirts," Atticus remarks, attempting to help me find a more comfortable seat on the floor between himself and the couch. The bottom half of my dress disagrees vehemently at the course of action, and soon, I quit my efforts.
"It's pointless," I tell Atticus, batting his hands away as he continues to try and right my skirts. "You don't have to do that." But my words don't reach him, and I sulk back against the couch, watching as he fusses with the long train. "I said, 'You don't have to do that,' Atticus."
He passes me a wry smile and finishes rearranging my volumes of skirt into something far more manageable. "Of course, I do, wife."
His light teasing brings a pleased flutter to my stomach, and I fidget with my hands. "I don't think husbands are supposed to do that. Tidy and clean." With my admission, I direct my attention to my fidgeting hands.
Atticus goes back to his earlier position, sprawling out further this time on the wooden floor and propping his head upon his hand. I swallow, my eyes drifting over the mightier swell of his bicep in this position. When I meet his blue eyes, there is a different sort of warmth creeping into them.
"And what is a husband supposed to do for his wife?"
My heartbeat gives a hard thump at the retort, and I stall to think of an answer. My fidgeting hands go up to my hair and begin to pick out the bits of ivy and greenery. They also dislodge all the pesky bobby pins keeping everything in place until I'm free to start untangling all the knots.
"A husband is supposed to provide for his wife."
"And a wife?"
"A wife is supposed to take care of her husband."
"And these are mutually exclusive roles?" Atticus's voice is a mixture of confusion and teasing, and I find my sights drawn to him unconsciously.
"They're... they just are what they are," I say. My answer is wrong. I know the moment I say the words out loud, but I refuse to take them back. I straighten my spine, ready to defend my answer if necessary.
Right or wrong, drunk or not, my answer is what I grew up being taught, and nothing will change it.
Atticus leans in toward me, moving like some lithe feline as he treads into my personal space. "Anytime you want me to take care of you, Winter. Just say the word, and I'm yours."
He seeks something out in my eyes at his confession, but I'm not used to a confrontation like this. I don't know how to respond, or what the right answer to give is. Or if there is one. With a gentle exhalation, I pull away from his silent inquisition and search out my water. There isn't much left, but I down the rest of the contents anyway.
"How about I show you your bedroom?"
I blink in surprise but accept his request when he stands and holds out a hand to me. Somewhat speechless, I follow him upstairs. I'm thankful the room doesn't try and spin or tilt out of my reach as I climb unfamiliar steps into a dark hallway. Atticus leads me left, and at the first door, we stop.
"This is your room," Atticus tells me. "I sleep at the other end of the hallway in the master bedroom. So, if you need anything, like water or... uh, or anything else, I'll be there, just knock."
Atticus's evolving bashfulness is intriguing. His cheeks turn pink, and his hand becomes warmer around mine. I blink, his previous statement completely slipping away from me as his warmth sinks into my body. I lick my lips, still parched.
"Can we talk about one more thing before you go to bed?"
Again I blink, pulling my thoughts forcibly away from the sheer amount of heat he projects. I understand we lycans run hotter than the average human, but Atticus is on another level. The flame of life burns brighter inside him than any I've met before.
"Winter?"
"Yes?" My response comes quicker than I mean it to, but Atticus quirks a grin and brushes some of my snowy white curls over my shoulder. I still at the action and acknowledge my cheeks to be the same color as his.
"Tomorrow is a full moon. Normally, the pack would run together in our wolf forms as one because it strengthens our pack bonds. Unfortunately, with the current climate between our pack and the Wselfwulfs, doing so is too dangerous. Instead, we run on a schedule to make sure each wolf gets the chance to run while making sure our borders are constantly watched."
"I can feel the moon's power rising already tonight," I say, my words slurring together in the middle. I scrunch my nose and try harder for the composure I can usually call at will. "During the carriage ride," I explain, "and after."
Atticus doesn't let go of my hand. For a moment, he just stares down at me. His eyes flit over every centimeter of my face. When he maintains his silence, I find my voice.
"Was that what you wanted to tell me? About the running schedule?"
He blushes heartily. "Actually, I wanted to ask if you will run by my side tomorrow night."
My jaw lowers at a snail's pace. The same blush that crowds up Atticus's neck and cheeks infiltrates mine, and I shrink back as a wave of shyness hits me.
Why does he have to be so sweet? If he wasn't, then spying on his pack might not hurt as much. My eyelids close as I release a sigh. It would help tremendously if his pack weren't as sweet as him either.
My mother thought this pack wild and uncouth, but they've only proven so far to be lively and amiable.
"All right," I agree.
When my eyes open, he is smiling benevolently down at me. It lights up his entire face, reaching from the high-stretched corners of his lips to the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. I am spellbound by the expression on his face... until my mother's words come back to haunt me.
Should you disappoint us, there will be others who face the consequences of your actions.
His smile fades as I continue to stare at him with my mouth slightly agape. A hand strokes my cheek, and my lashes flutter closed again. Who had my mother been referring to? Would Atticus be the target of her attack? I tremble as his thumb runs across my bottom lip and his heat closes in around me. What—
My body moves of its own accord to compliment his, and I press my cheek into his open palm. There are hardly any callouses to grace his flesh, but still, I'm able to sense the sure presence of power and strength that lies dormant in his capable hand.
My own comes to rest above his heart, with nimble fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. As my pulse beats in time with his, Atticus closes the last inch between us and our lips meet.
We shouldn't, for both our heart's sake. I know it to be true, and yet I can't stop myself. Isn't every woman's wedding supposed to be hers? And yet all the details and planning of the night haven't been my own.
I press into Atticus's body. This piece of the night will be mine.
At first, it is a tentative meeting on both sides. We learn one another in gentle caresses and small sighs as we instinctively curl into one another. Apparently, kissing is in the "moving slow" category. A hazy pleasure permeates my body.
His tongue drawing past the seam of my lips earns him a shuddering inhalation, and then Atticus's hand dives down my back to anchor me to him.
It is a dangerous move.
The lace backing of my gown allows the pads of his fingers to brush against my flesh between the delicate webbing. His fingers almost touch the three intertwined rings at the small of my back. A phantom spark shatters the spell around us. I jerk away and slam into the door behind me with jarring force.
"I'm sorry—did I do something wrong? Are you okay?" I cradle the back of my head with one hand, using the other to ward him off. "Shit. I'm sorry, I should have asked if you were okay with—are you hurt?"
"I'll be fine," I assure him and begin to grab for the door handle. "It's been a long day and an even longer night. I'd like to sleep now," I tell him as kindly as possible. Atticus's shoulders slump forward, and his hands thrust deeply into his pant pockets as he nods resolutely.
"Of course." He steps back.
I allow my teeth to dig painfully into the inside of my cheek. What am I doing? "Good night, Atticus. Sleep well."
"Sweet dreams, Winter."
I steal inside my bedroom before another word can be spoken. The train of my gown almost doesn't make it inside with me, but by some miracle it does.
I slump against the door, my face pressed into the wood as I listen to his reluctant departure. His door shuts with soft persuasion, and I crumble to the floor. Desperately I wish for a different life, one not bound to these damnable curses or my tyrant family.
But if I can keep the man....
My hands close into fists around my skirt. This is my chance to extract myself from my parents' clutches. I only need to discover who they plan on hurting if I fail in their eyes to warn them of my parents' plot... while mollifying my parents' request for information in the meantime. I grind my teeth together as my eyes search the ceiling for a better answer. None comes, and I add a third aim to my list. Don't lose my heart to Atticus in the process, for my chances of success are slim at best.
++
By morning’s end, I decide I must be the only person on the planet who cannot be put at ease by Atticus's charm.
He chatters on and on while making breakfast, filling the space between us with meaningless small talk before it can turn to silence. Unsure of what to say or how to act given the decisions I made last night, I stay quiet for the most part.
Atticus is allotted half smiles from me instead of words. Eventually, my muted airs prompt him to leave. He's to help set up the run base tonight, after all, and he assures me he'll return in no time to fetch me.
I'm thankful for the peace and find solace back on the couch where Atticus set me last night. The long piece of furniture butts up against a sizeable window. It provides a perfect view of the quaint street and how it curves out of sight. An inch adjustment and my chin rests on the back of the couch cushion as my regard drifts in and out of focus on the snow-laden street and cute little houses decorating it.
I finger the necklace I wear, thoughts treading into territory I know well.
Who will my mother hold over my head to coerce my compliance?
What information can I provide to my parents that will be both meaningful and not at the same time?
How can I possibly ignore and deny the attraction between Atticus and me?
Doubt weighs in my stomach like heavy stones and makes my hangover more pronounced. I just have to keep my head above water and remain calm and collected.
Of course, it doesn't help in the least that these daunting tasks are made more formidable because I must keep them a secret. Should the Adolphus pack learn of my parents' ulterior motives, they will instigate a new war. And if my parents discover my disloyalty... I can't stand to think of what they may do.
My thumb traces the oval moonstone pendant, seeking a sense of comfort and finding none. I lift the moonstone to my inspection. It is nearly perfect, except for the semi-deep crack down its center that is filled with turquoise resin.
The necklace is a family heirloom and my mother's wedding gift to me.
Keep this treasure close to your heart as generations of Blanc's have before you. I know you will not disappoint me. Love, Mother.
Lights flicker to life outside. At ten past four, the sun is well on its course to descend past the horizon. Sometime in the next half hour, it will set, but for now, I enjoy the colors its rays paint across the scattered clouds. As the last of the streetlights flicker on, I pull myself away from the couch.
Atticus will be back soon.
The knowledge fills me with nervous excitement and anxiety.
A pair of lights swing through the living room windows and next through those that frame the front door. Atticus is home. Time to run... and meet the rest of the pack.
++
Atticus assures me the ride isn't a long one to Xander's, but we'll hit some light traffic due to the snow on the road. I don't mind. The town is bustling though the sun has set. Groups of women navigate their way around precarious patches of ice on the sidewalks, laughing loudly as they slip into the nearest happy hour spot. A few men boisterously shout at one another as they begin to engage in a snowball fight.
An elderly couple sits outside on a bench people watching as they pass a thermos between them.
Emotion thickens in my throat.
"Do they have any idea what's going on? That a war is right at their doorstep?" I ask. My fingers brush away the light condensation on the passenger window as they trail downward. Do the Adolphus pack realize their campaign to live as they wish is still catching international eyes?
The air about the SUV changes to something more tenuous. Atticus takes his time answering.
"The Wselfwulf pack hasn't done anything to the people of the town. They won't risk our true nature being found out for it benefits nobody of our kind, let alone the supernatural community. But we've had some difficulties in explaining certain deaths," Atticus tells me seriously. "When we settled here, the Trinity Coven was already settled in the town. They had been for a couple of generations. Before Zoelle and Xander found each other, the Wselfwulfs tried persuading the coven to help them recover their 'lost wolves.' It didn't go over well."
