Atticus
The grounds were coming together nicely, Atticus thought. He stood on the steps to the porch, his father beside him, surveying the gardens as Jarine and his mother strung decorations from the blooming fruit trees. Omegas scuttled around them, taking orders from their Mother Luna.
Were they assisting so much as they were getting in the way? He raised a cool eyebrow at one of the younger Omegas, a cowering girl whose hands shook every time Nearyn gave her an instruction. And, though his mother looked upon the girl kindly, Atticus wanted to throttle her. It was hanging bunting; there was nothing to be nervous about.
“Walk with me,” his father said abruptly, clapping a heavy hand on Atticus’s shoulder. “Let’s take a turn through the gardens.”
“I’m not some doe-eyed girl you’re trying to woo,” he muttered under his breath, but he allowed Alvaro to lead him down the steps and away from the bustle of the pack house.
Walking this way hurt. He avoided the winding garden paths as often as he could. He could still all too clearly feel the lump in his throat and the swelling in his heart as he’d left behind his correspondence with the Lone Wind pack for something greater. For… for her.
Instead, he focused on the preparations for the Pink Moon. Jarine had begun to spell the trees to bloom in different colours, each a resplendent image of growth and sunlight. Gossamer spilled from their bright boughs, dangling in shimmering strands towards the crisp green grass below.
With the threat of the Red Ripper pack rising, it seemed like a waste of Jarine’s power. Atticus would have much preferred that she spend her hours in his office, describing exactly how and when she planned on showing them exactly who the strongest pack in Eldda was.
Though his southern allies had little news for him, his spies had reported a flood of wolves leaving their packs – all for no apparent reason. Atticus had begrudgingly shared this information with Lone Wind, who in turn had reported a loss of two wolves since the last full moon. With the next mere days away, Atticus knew Blood Moon had to fight, and they had to win.
He’d scoured the maps marking out territory lines, tracing borders with eager fingertips until he’d found someone – anyone – he could bully in a demonstration of his pack’s might. His wolves would be going further afield than they’d had to for last month’s full moon, but he hoped that Wild Ravine would put up more of a fight than White Oak had.
Secluded in the east and surrounded by wasteland, they’d have to leave the day before to make the journey, leaving in small groups that Atticus hoped would go unnoticed. With the threat of Red Ripper, everyone was already on high alert. But this battering would do more for him, for his pack, than playing it safe would.
“Any purpose behind this walk?” he asked eventually, the surging tide of emotions in his chest fuelling his already short temper. He kicked at a loose stone. It ricocheted off a picnic bench. Alvaro sighed.
“You’re miserable, son.”
“No, I’m not.”
Alvaro raised his eyebrows, and it was Atticus’s turn to sigh.
“Fine. But I’m… I’m working on it.”
They came to a natural halt beside the bench, and they settled on it, one on either side. Atticus folded his arms across his chest, waiting for whatever council he knew was coming.
“You’re lost without her. Your mother and I are concerned.” At Atticus’s frown, he held up a single finger. “That’s not to say you aren’t hiding it well. You’ve improved. But hiding a problem does not mean that it’s solved.”
“There’s nothing to fix. I made my choice. She’s gone.”
“But–“
“I don’t want to discuss this any more.”
“Fine. Then let’s discuss the coincidence that, just as Red Ripper are recruiting traitors to join their pack, Lily disappears.”
“What?” Atticus jerked as if he’d been stung.
Alvaro placed his palms flat on the table and leant forward. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“She left because I rejected her.” Saying it aloud hurt, but he would not – could not – consider the alternative.
“I’m not saying that’s the truth of the matter, Atticus. I’m just saying that the timing is suspicious.” He clasped his hands together, and his hazel eyes glittered with gold as he stared intently at his son. “We look out for one another in this pack. And, no matter the cause, Lily left us.”
Atticus stood. “Do you really think she would have left Blood Moon for a band of half-crazed, power-hungry rogues? The same girl that refused to fight with us? I rejected her because she was worthless to me. She would be even more so to them.”
Before his father could retort, he pushed away from the picnic bench and marched away from the gardens – and away from the memory of her.
* * *
Atticus stormed towards the training fields. Anger rose from him in hot breaths. No matter what she was, Lily was no traitor. She’d left him, she’d left him -
No. He’d rejected her. The fact settled around his heart like a millstone. There was nothing more to it than that.
His thoughts clamoured to be heard, each scratching at the inside of his skull, nails scraping. Pausing only briefly to heave up a weighted training staff from the pile of weapons discarded after that morning’s session, Atticus drove himself forward, ignoring the rising wave of his temper.
Inside of working through the simple, familiar motions with the staff, he swung it back and forth like an axe. Stomping across the fields, he moved in choppy, short motions, relishing in the pain thrumming up and down his muscles.
This was who he was. This was what he’d been made for.
“So sorry to interrupt,” someone interrupted, and they did not sound sorry about it at all. With a long-suffering sigh, Atticus let the staff fall to the ground with a solid thump.
“Address me by my title,” he growled, “or not at all.”
“My apologies, Alpha.”
Slowly, Atticus turned. Stood before him, hands on hips, was… Maveln?
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you want?”
Maveln bristled. Folding his arms over his chest, muscles straining and bulging, he levelled Atticus with a pointed stare. “To know why Leythan was at my door with the dawn this morning, inviting himself in – to my home – to ask stupid questions about my daughter’s whereabouts.”
Despite their similar features, Maveln rarely looked much like Lily. But, today, he had been filled with her particular brand of fire – and it made it hurt to look him in those gold-flecked brown eyes. Usually timid, Atticus had only seen him fuelled by his rage like this once before, after the death of his mate, and it had never been aimed at him.
But Atticus was not one to be spoken down to. He was a curling hurricane, and he fought every storm with a bigger one of his own.
“Have you considered,” he purred, allowing his fury to build with every word, “that your daughter – the very same girl that staunchly refused to fight for us, to fight with us, at every turn – has disappeared, potentially running into the arms of our enemies?” He clucked his tongue. “The secrets she could share. So, Maveln,” he said, his voice rolling with disdain, “I’m sure you can imagine why her whereabouts are of particular interest to us at present.”
Maveln’s hands clenched into fists. “You let her go.”
“Perhaps I was behaving foolishly – as, might I add, you are now.”
“Do not talk down to me, Atticus.”
Pulling himself up to his full height, Atticus looked down at Lily’s father. “Do not disrespect me again,” he said, each word brimming with venom. “I am your Alpha.”
He felt a smug sense of satisfaction when Maveln bowed his head.
He sucked in a great, gulping breath, and raised his head only once he’d composed himself. “My… my apologies, Alpha. It won’t happen again.”
“No,” Atticus said. “It won’t.”
Maveln fell to his knees before his Alpha. “I want to find her too,” he mumbled.
Atticus kicked him. Maveln jerked, though he did not move his hands to cradle his ribs.
“Speak up,” Atticus said.
“I want to find Lily. Perhaps we can help each other.”
Atticus snorted out a laugh, though his chest ached with hope. Maveln knew her better than anyone. With his help, they might have a chance. But, instead, he said: “What could you do for me?” Prodding him with his toe for good measure, he sighed. “Get up. Looking down at you does nothing for my neck.”
Maveln scrambled to his feet, wiping calloused hands across his dusty knees. “I know her. I know what she took. Maybe, from that, we can glean some information – something, anything.” Desperation edged into his voice. “I need her back. She’s all I’ve got.”
Sympathy stirred deep in Atticus’s heart. He stamped it out before it could grow and fester.
“Fine. Come to me when you have something, anything,” he mocked, one cool eyebrow raised. “But remember, Warrior Wolf. I do not take kindly to insubordination. Consider this your final warning.”
Atticus kicked the fallen staff at Maveln, and then turned on his heel and left.