Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 8
How will Atticus react?
I temper the swell of excitement that stirs from the idea and stand. I can’t delay any longer. When I join Atticus downstairs, I spy the look of desire apparent in his eyes. The look alone provokes a spine-tingling rush to skate across my nerves.
“You look phenomenal.” Atticus’s voice is drawn to a husky whisper. He takes my hand and presses a kiss to the back of it before helping me into my dove gray peacoat.
“Thank you.”
We exit to the garage and let synthesized pop carols fill the void of silence between us. It's pleasant, for a time. And then my thoughts warp back to my parents' expectations. Where pleasure coursed only minutes before, dread appears gradually to gnaw it away.
How do I walk this sword's edge? To disobey means dire consequences. To obey means to betray a pack who has never done me harm. I chew the inside of my cheek, keeping my consternation off my face as best I can.
My parents want information… so why not give them knowledge and details they can’t possibly make use of?
It won’t be the first time I’ve skimmed the truth about conversations or details to appease my parents’ hunger for knowledge. This route doesn’t come without its own risks. I have faced the punishment for such leniency before and it came with mild bruises and their version of solitary confinement.
No technology.
No books.
No contact with people outside my parents.
But I have pulled off the feat before too and know how to manipulate my deliveries now to fool my parents.
The more I contemplate the plan, the more it brightens my spirit. This may be the way to assuage my parents’ demands without damning the Adolphus pack completely.
“Does your family do anything special for the holidays?” Atticus asks.
I blink in rapid succession, torn from my plotting then glance at my husband. “Nothing too special. If anything, the holidays guarantee a measure of peace in my house. No fighting is allowed. No mischief. Just family time.”
“That’s nice,” Atticus responds. The car turns into the alpha's subdivision with snow crunching noisily beneath the SUV’s tires. “I suppose tonight’s gathering feels a bit strange to you then, doesn’t it?”
I shrug. “Not entirely. Usually on Christmas Eve or the day after Christmas, we spend time with the pack’s beta and third, along with their families. This isn’t too different than that.”
We come to a stop in the long driveway, pulling up close to the house.
"Shall we?" Atticus asks, already unbuckling and exiting the car. I nod and follow.
Entering the large house, we are hit with a blast of heat and a surplus of delicious smells. My mouth waters at the scent of roast beef and buttery garlic in the air.
“Merry Christmas!” Zoelle greets, entering the foyer with a large smile. “Come in and take off your coats. You can hang them just over here.” She points to a coat rack already laden with several items for us to add to its load.
“Merry Christmas,” Atticus says, pulling Zoelle into a quick hug. I’m swept into Zoelle’s embrace next.
“Merry Christmas, Zoelle. Thank you for having us.”
She pulls away, her hand waving off my gratitude. “Of course,” she chirps. “I’m just happy you two could make it. We weren’t sure if you would want to spend your first Christmas alone or not.”
“The more, the merrier, right?” Atticus interjects, a faint blush creeping up on his cheeks at Zoelle’s commentary. The pretty dark-skinned witch laughs. Her dangle earrings chime lightly as her head bobs with the movement of her laughter.
“Everyone is in the Great Room. We’ve got a few appetizers out and several drink options, so take your pick. We won’t be eating for a while yet.”
The Great Room is decked in red and gold accents that make the large tree in the far corner stand out further. My eyes draw naturally to the alpha and see him loitering near the liquor cart with Ryatt. They both wear similarly amused expressions and clink their glasses of liquor in comradery. Sitting nearby on an overstuffed couch are two rather serious-looking individuals.
My forehead crinkles as I attempt to recall their names. They had been at the wedding, but I had been introduced to so many people their names slipped my mind.
“Would you like a drink?” Atticus asks. His hand rests in the middle of my back where my skin is still bare. I nod.
“A Pinot Grigio would be lovely if they have it.”
Atticus walks off, and coming immediately to take his place is Quinn. The beautiful blonde wears a sparkly midi dress and an impressive pair of heels.
“You look ah-mazing,” Quinn says, her blues eyes sparkling. She tips her champagne flute in my direction as the corners of her lips tip upward. “No drink?”
“Atticus is grabbing one for me,” I respond politely and fuss momentarily with the hair framing my face. Quinn makes a knowing noise in her throat as she sips her drink, and I color unintentionally.
Quinn’s personality is hard to forget. She’s outgoing and outspoken and delights in making her companions redden. Her soulmark Ryatt is the same, though his mischievous streak stretches farther than Quinn’s.
“You might be waiting a while,” she says. I glance over to where Atticus stands between the Adolphus brothers, looking pleased as punch… and without my requested drink in hand.
“That’s fine,” I say.
Quinn’s stare is acute, and as it trails over my stiff form, I watch her smirk grow. “What exactly did you rank in your old pack?”
My head snaps to the left to face Quinn straight on. “Excuse me?” I don’t mean to bristle—years of etiquette have surely taught me better—but I do. I'm unused to such a question, for I've always been top ranked.
“Your rank?” she repeats politely and takes another sip. Her smirk transforms into an impish smile that lingers around her lips as she waits for my response.
“Fifth,” I tell her, though it fluctuated to sixth and seventh at times.
Perhaps I would have been higher, or more likely lower, if my parents hadn’t pushed me so hard when I was younger. I came to realize growing up that my wolf spirit was unlike others. Sometimes it barely felt like a presence in my mind, and more of a shade that at times nudged me toward its will.
“Oh.” Genuine surprise coats her exclamation. “Is it odd being a beta now?”
Yes, because it begets more power. And yet it isn't really odd at all for I am already "soft," as my parents like to say. June prefers the term empathic, and I would agree with her.
Unconsciously, my eyes go back to Atticus. “No. Not really.” I fiddle with the emerald ring on my third finger. “Atticus is a good beta. As long as I follow by his example, I’ll do just fine in the role.”
“Good plan.”
As if he knew his name was just on my tongue, Atticus strides over to us—chilled wine in hand.
“Thank you—” His lips skim my cheek, halting the rest of my thanks with the simple touch.
“You don’t mind if I talk to the guys a bit longer, do you?”
I shake my head. Atticus smiles widely and cups my hip to deliver a squeeze. My pulse kicks at the touch, and I swallow thickly as his thumb glides leisurely over the curve of my bone.
"I knew this marriage thing wouldn't be difficult," Atticus teases, earning a laugh from Quinn and a blush from me.
“Apparently!” Quinn says. "Now, get going. We're having girl talk."
His strong fingers contract again around my hip before he retreats. But it is the smile he leaves us with that puts me in a stupor. Or maybe it's his rear end that has me mesmerized. Atticus possesses fine assets... assets that lawfully belonged to me.
Assets that I shouldn't be lusting after with the soulmark curse and my parents' plan hanging over my head.
An elbow knocks playfully into my side. “You did good, girl,” Quinn says.
“Thanks,” I respond automatically before another rush of brilliant scarlet covers my cheeks. My mouth falls agape as I scramble to cover from such an ill-mannered response. “I mean—”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” she assures me. Her words are followed by a resounding snort, and Quinn tosses her glossy blonde curls over her shoulder. “I’m all about the appreciation of the male form. While I've made it a habit to solely appreciate my man, there is no denying Atticus is a catch. He’s got that all-American look going for him with the thick brown hair and blue eyes. And that smile—wow. He could totally star in one of those teeth-whitening commercials.”
I can only stare at Quinn as she rambles on. I didn’t think it possible, but by the end, she wears a rosy stain upon her cheeks as she watches my unchanging expression of disbelief. She clears her throat and thrusts her shoulders back, regaining some of her lost composure and confidence.
“So, these past few days you and Atticus finally got some alone time. How has that been?”
I lift a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “We decorated the house and watched a lot of movies.”
Quinn’s drink stops halfway to her lips, and a curious expression crosses her face. The space between her brows lessens, and her nose crinkles upward.
“Huh?”
I stem any feeling of embarrassment, for there is nothing to be embarrassed about—even if Quinn’s mystified look makes me feel otherwise.
“We’re still getting to know each other. Plus, we're taking things slow.” And slow involves little touches here and there and drunken kisses.
Her look doesn't retreat at my explanation. “I thought you two have been writing to each other for years. What don’t you know about each other?”
“Letters are different than actual face-to-face interactions. You can portray yourself in any way you like in a letter, and the other person would never know if you were lying or not.”
“You think he lied to you?” Quinn asks.
I sigh, the only tell of my patience waning. “I’m just trying to say that things aren’t as smooth or as easy-going as you think. Atticus and I still have plenty to learn about one another before we move on to anything more physical.”
Quinn’s eyes go wide, and then a burst of laughter erupts past her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes. There are tears in her eyes. “I'm being rude, aren’t I? Again, I apologize. I blame Ryatt. He’s a bad influence and is desensitizing me to my loose tongue… not that he minds one bit how loose my tongue can get.”
My flush matches my dress, and when Quinn notices, she gives a cringe.
“I did it again, didn’t I?” she asks. I nod and take a drink. “So… you’ve been decorating and watching movies. Have you spoken with anyone from your pack recently? I hope they still aren’t upset over Irina and Vrana showing up.”
The shift in conversation is welcome, but her choice of topic is less so. I peek through lowered lashes at Quinn’s inquisitive gaze and interpret the upward inflection of her tone as not wholly disingenuous… but still, there is something that lingers behind her look and words. She’s fishing for answers, I realize as I hear her heartbeat spike in anticipation of my response.
The truth, I decide, won’t hurt me in this instance. Or my old pack. “I’ve only spoken with my younger cousin, Juniper.”
“Was she one of your bridesmaids?”
I shake my head. “She wasn’t able to come. Her parents came instead.”
“What did you talk about?” The question is delivered with an impressive nonchalance, and I force myself not to grin at her obvious interrogation.
“We talked a bit yesterday afternoon about the wedding. Except, I skimmed over the ending for her sake. She’s a ‘happily ever after’ at all costs kind of girl, and I didn’t want to ruin the illusion for her. We also spoke about her favorite subject: her boyfriend.”
Quinn’s posture softens. “Ah, young love.”
I laugh lightly, thinking fondly of my cousin. “She’s pretty great.”
“And she’s a lycan as well?”
“She is. The Blanc pack is large, and because we live in such a small town, a good fraction of the residents are in the pack.”
“Seriously?”
“We’re like your pack in many ways. Several of my old pack mates hold positions of power and status within the town—doctors, policemen, and council members. Or they own prominent local shops.”
Atticus catches my eye as he moves away from the alpha and the third and over to the couple on the couch. The Native American girl and the surly looking man offer kind smiles to Atticus.
“Who are they again?” I ask quietly.
“Who?” Quinn spies who I am speaking of and gives a knowing nod. “That’s Callie and Keenan. They had an interesting start, to say the least.”
“Oh?”
“Mm-hmm.” Quinn goes to take a drink but frowns down at her empty champagne flute. “Long story short, we sort of stole something from Callie awhile back. She came after it with her brother and a few others, but instead of finding it, she found the love of her life.” An entirely too smug expression crosses Quinn’s lips.
“You stole something from them?”
“Yep!” Quinn says. She is completely nonplussed by the note of incredulity in my tone. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Winter. I used to steal all the time, and I’m not a bad person.”
My mouth opens and closes at the blatant contradiction. After a moment, I seal my lips. Quinn doesn’t seem the type to be convinced otherwise from her statement. But perhaps I can get her to tell me what they stole… surely that information will satisfy my family.
“What did the pack take from Callie exactly?”
Quinn’s sights narrow upon me, and she folds both arms beneath her chest. “Oh, just a piece of jewelry. Irina has it now.”
I intend to ask more, but a hearty laugh pulls my attention away from the task. Atticus sits on the couch arm, his head tilted back to release his amusement in broad laughs. Callie and Keenan chuckle along as well, their faces pleasantly flushed from the attention they receive from the beta.
My staring catches Atticus’s attention and our eyes draw together like magnets across the room. Goodness, but he is handsome. His skin holds a cool golden color that the winter season can’t seem to banish, and it's only more pronounced along the daring line of his clean-shaven jaw.
Unable to tear my eyes away from him, I begin to note the effect my “observations” have on Atticus. His spine straightens ever so slightly with his chest expanding to stretch the cable knit sweater he wears. The leg he has casually dropped over his knee slips to the ground—ready to move closer should I give a hint of interest.
“I said it once, and I’ll repeat it,” Quinn remarks. “You did good, girl.”
I flush and look away. “I’m going to get another drink.”
“Great idea!”
We walk together to the drink cart. I take my time searching the wine selection that's out. Everyone seems to have relocated around the seating area, spacing themselves out among the couch and chairs available. A fire roars behind them, the flames reaching high into the chimney and delivering pleasing cracks to chime in with the music playing in the background.
“I can’t wait to eat. Zoelle is the best cook, and she’s been slow roasting a rump roast for hours now.” I glance at Quinn. She stares off into the direction of what I assume to be the kitchen. I might be imagining it, but I swear I see a bit of drool threaten to spill before she eagerly licks her lips.
Quinn closes her eyes and lets out a happy sigh. “Ryatt wants to move out—and Zoelle and Xander want us to as well, even if they’re too nice to say it—but we can’t cook.” Quinn laughs and finishes topping off her champagne with a dramatic touch. “So I keep finding reasons to not move so Zoelle will keep feeding us.”
“Clever,” I say, plucking the Pinot Grigio from its ice bucket and refilling my glass.
“My sentiments exactly!”
Before another word can be spoken, the doorbell rings. It chimes through the house, bouncing off the high ceilings and against clean walls.
“Coming!” Zoelle shouts. She races from an open doorway at the far end of the room and to the entrance hall.
“It must be the aunts,” Quinn comments, sipping casually at her drink.
“Who?” I ask, watching curiously as Zoelle vanishes from sight. Excited exclamations draw from the room moments later. My lycan hearing picks up many footsteps and voices crowding in.
“Zoelle’s grandmother and her best friends. Everyone calls them the aunts, Aunt Mo and Aunt Lydia respectively. They’re the—”
“Trinity coven matriarchs. The Elder Triad,” I finish for her. My mouth sets into a grim line. I know of them, but who doesn’t in the supernatural community? A minute later, Zoelle ushers them in further. “I thought tonight we were celebrating with pack only?”
Quinn walks forward toward the three older women when my words bring her to a stop. She casts a winning smile over her shoulder. “They’re unofficially officially part of the pack.”
The others rise as well to greet the matriarchs, but I find my footsteps heavy. I consider Zoelle an exception to my family’s general thoughts on witches—that they are no good troublemakers, and that's the nice way of saying it.
In truth, I find it difficult to look on witches fondly for the curses placed on our kind and my family knowing a witch to be responsible for our plight.
A witch long since dead, a voice in my head reminds me. Zoelle has been perfectly sweet to you so far… Don’t make an enemy out of old fears and superstitions. It’s my simple self-scolding that lifts the weight from my lead feet and brings me to the outskirts of the now gathered group.
And that’s when I see her. The creature I've only ever read about in stories—a fairy.
Her startling violet eyes lock on me.
“Oh.” My whispered word is swallowed by the rowdy greetings in front of me.
