Atticus
There was a knock at the door.
Sighing, Atticus stretched his long legs out under the table. His office was smaller than his father’s, and he’d filled the shelves and surfaces with books – books on strategy, books on war – and rolled-up parchments that he’d pull out when a meeting was boring him, flicking idly through the reams of paper to drown out anecdotes of past pack negotiations. Still, the room stretched before him as the unexpected knock startled him from his thoughts.
He’d been thinking about her. About Lily. About her scowl, and the wicked way her brown eyes would narrow at him. The glint of sunlight streaking across the floorboards and wooden desk had reminded him of how such light would make her hair shine golden-red in places; in turn, his mind had drifted to the way she’d flick her braid over her shoulder, both coy and irritated all at once. Perhaps she’d merely been irritated, but Atticus had preferred to read more into it than that.
Wolves only got one mate. And, though he’d rejected his, Atticus knew he would always yearn for her. He’d decided that was okay. So long as he could hide the heartache, it would be okay. He would be a stronger leader on his own, a stronger Alpha. And if some small part of him protested, it was easy to shove that tinny, annoying voice away.
At least, he told himself it was easy. He ignored the sting of pinprick tears and the maddening ache in his chest, and the urge to sprint into the woods and not return until he’d pummelled his way through half the forest.
Rolling up the territory map he’d been half-heartedly looking at, Atticus called out, “You may enter.”
“Thank you, Alpha.” A man with short hair and olive skin scuttled into the room, and Atticus’s heart dropped. Maveln swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, his eyes and lips swollen with tears. Atticus pretended not to notice, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his broad chest.
“Please, take a seat.” Lily’s dad swallowed again, and he took a deep breath before approaching the desk. “What can I do for you, Maveln?”
He nodded his thanks at Atticus, and his hands shook as he settled his palms flat on the armrests. “It’s Lily,” he said eventually. “She’s… she’s gone.”
Atticus said nothing. His hands tightened into fists, hidden by the bulk of his biceps.
Maveln’s eyes searched his. “I assume you gave her permission to leave?”
The air in his lungs turned to ash. “No, I – I did not. She did not ask.”
Silence swelled, filling the space between them. Then –
“I am sorry.” Maveln ducked his head, ashamed. “I knew Lily was… different, even difficult, but I never believed her to be capable of this.” His jaw clenched. “I cannot believe her to be a rogue.”
“It is not your doing, Maveln. Lily is an adult, and her choices are her own.” Guilt rose in his throat, but Atticus forced it down as he continued. He had to tell him – he had to. “And I believe that my actions may have influenced those choices.”
Maveln’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
Red rage clouded his vision, but Atticus slipped a cool mask across his features. “The Moon Goddess deemed Lily and I to be mates. I did not agree with such a decision.”
“You – you rejected her?”
“I did.”
“How could you?” It was rare to see Lily’s fire in her father, but the reminder of their relationship – of their shared blood – made Atticus’s chest tighten. He did not dare reveal the ache in his heart, even as Maveln crumpled before him. He had done this, and yet the guilt was overshadowed by the wretched, miserable pain of loss. There was nobody to be angry at, nobody to swear and shout at, but himself.
It was why he’d beaten up Ralphin. It was why, since then, he’d stormed out into the woods, longing to shift, willing his skin to sprout fur and his bones to crack and break. But he could not shift, just as he’d known he wouldn’t be able to. So, instead, he’d run. He’d run until his chest heaved and his lungs ached, and then he’d pummelled the thick, gnarled trunk of an oak tree until his knuckles bled.
They had already healed, and it was taking everything in him to not storm outside once more, to pick up where he’d left off when his Gamma, Trove, had found him, cajoling him into coming back to the pack house. It had taken everything in him to refrain from slamming his bloodied hands into Trove’s simpering face, to rip his broken fingernails through his scruffy, too-long hair, to beat the light out of those usually teasing eyes. Seeing his third in command so serious had shocked him from his haze of anger, for just long enough that Trove had managed to calm him down.
Usually, that would have fallen to Ralphin, but he was still with the pack medic. Guilt swarmed again, and irritation swiftly followed.
“Because Lily was not worthy to be my mate. You said it yourself – she is difficult. How could I be with a wolf so unwilling to fight? She would not stand up for me, nor for my pack. For our pack. She would not make a good Luna, Maveln. It may be hard to hear, but it is the truth.”
Maveln stood. The chair rocked backwards against the abrupt motion. His mouth flapped open, but no words came out. He pressed his lips shut, watching Atticus with beady eyes all the while.
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry for the part I played in this.” Atticus stood too, swallowing back his ire. Maveln was loyal, and a decent fighter. It would not do to lose him as well. “The loss we both must bear will weigh heavy on my heart.”
Maveln snorted. “The loss we both must bear? It seems that Lily dodged a bullet. Clearly, you have no empathy, Alpha,” he sneered. “I have lost my only child – the only part of my mate that I have left. I request an immediate dismissal, so that I may find her in the wilderness and bring her home.”
“I cannot grant that. You are a vital part of this pack, Maveln. I do not wish to lose you as well.” It took everything in Atticus to refrain from thumping him, but a twisted surge of hatred filled his veins. Was this not a better revenge for his horrible – albeit true – words? Maveln had spoken out of turn, with disrespect lacing every cold syllable.
And, though he would not admit it to himself, Atticus did not wish for Lily to return. Though her absence stung, it was a numbing, ice-cold flame, rather than the direct lash of a sword through muscle that seeing her - that being near her - wrought.
“And,” Atticus continued, sitting down gracefully, holding Maveln’s gaze, “you cannot think that speaking to me – your Alpha – in such a disgraceful manner would afford you my sympathy, now, could you?” He raised a cool, unimpressed eyebrow. “Had you asked nicely, perhaps I would be inclined to acquiesce your request.”
Maveln snarled, but Atticus held up a single finger, silencing him.
“I would think twice before disrespecting me again, Warrior Wolf. I would also seriously consider the consequences of your actions should you decide to follow in your daughter’s footsteps and leave the Blood Moon pack without permission. I will take responsibility for Lily’s abrupt departure, and hold back my forces from finding her, but I would not be so forgiving should I find that you have left as well.”
The unspoken threat dangled in the air between them, silent but menacing. Maveln’s shoulders sagged and, defeated, he nodded. “Very well, Alpha. I shall remain with the pack. It is my honour to serve Blood Moon.”
“Good.” As the fire in his chest idled, Atticus crossed the small room and squeezed Maveln’s forearm. “I meant what I said. It was my fault that Lily left, and I shall bear the responsibility for that. I also understand the repercussions you may face for my decision, so I will not spread the information around freely.”
“Thank you, Alpha.” There was still steel in his tone, but Maveln seemed calmer.
“I truly am sorry.” Beneath it all, he was. Sorry that Lily had been so unworthy of him. Sorry that he had been so unworthy of her, too.
The silence stretched and settled. Their eyes locked, and, after a terse, too-long moment, Maveln gave a stiff bow before departing. Atticus did not spare a second before he too left, storming across the grounds and into the woodland trimming the cabins to the west.
He did not stop until his fists met unyielding, rugged bark. His knuckles screamed as the skin tore; sweat dampened his brow; yet Atticus did not break until bone crunched and, at last, the physical pain overwhelmed his heartache.