Chapter 63: Chapter 63

Atticus

Atticus was angry at three things.

The first was his father, for obvious reasons. He was a big-headed know it all, trumpeting his opinions loudly throughout the forest even though his love life and his decisions were, quite frankly, none of his business. Alvaro practically bristled with contained rage, though his eyes were endlessly sad as he stared at his son. That only made Atticus more angry.

The second, though he would not admit it to anyone but himself – and even that was a struggle – was, in fact, himself. He was so close to Lily – so close he could almost feel her, could imagine the press of her soft skin against his, could feel the heat radiating from her body into his, could imagine how small she’d feel in his strong arms – and he was wasting time in allowing this ridiculous argument to continue. It was his fault he had lost her in the first place. He would not make the same mistake again.

Most of all, though, Atticus was angry at the interruption. Some puffed-up idiot had come crashing through the undergrowth, all low growls and shining eyes. Was this another man come to hurl his opinions about freely, to throw them high like dandelion seeds and watch them catch on the wind? They would not land, Atticus thought, and they would never grow.

It was dark, but Atticus could see the unnatural shifting of the man’s eyes, from grey to a black so dark he could see his own reflection shining in it. A jagged scar ran down his face, and something in his gaze made Atticus sober. He was war-hardened and broken, and those men were always the most vicious – snapping like trapped, terrified animals.

“Alpha Atticus?” he barked, gruff and bubbling with barely contained hatred.

Atticus didn’t know what he’d done to offend this very aggressive man. Coolly, he surveyed his frame – easily as big as he was, he was unhappy to note – and took in his clenched fists and the muscle feathering in his jaw.

“Who’s asking?” He ignored his father, and focused on sounding as casual – as arrogant, as sure of himself – as he could. He doubted this intruder was in any way a threat, but it was better to over-sell himself and scare him off.

“Alpha Elijah Pine of the Sea Pine pack.”

His rage was immediate and all-encompassing. His anger burned white-hot, too-bright light flaring across his vision as the intruder’s identity settled somewhere deep and heavy in his chest. It took everything in him not to leap at Alpha Elijah and claw his head off with his bare hands. This was the man that had stolen his beloved. This man had taken her and twisted her, until his Lily was no longer his own.

But Atticus was used to squashing his emotions down, and though it was not easy to hide his fury, his desperate need for vengeance, he managed to put all of his seething into the single eyebrow he raised at the man he so despised.

“Is that so?” he asked. He tensed his muscles in his thighs, in his back, in his arms. He was ready to pounce. “How convenient for me.”

“Convenient?” Elijah clearly couldn’t hold himself together the way Atticus could. His words were strangled by his too-thick throat. He, Atticus knew, was weak.

“I can kill you here and be done with it. So much less messy this way.” Holding Elijah’s stormy gaze – the idiot had probably had a witch mess with his irises to make him look more intimidating, Atticus thought – he cracked his knuckles, relishing in the snaps and pops of his bones.

Atticus smiled slowly, baring his teeth as his lips pulled back. There was nothing friendly, nothing jovial, about the carnal look he gave the offending Alpha. There was only thinly-veiled disgust; the sands of time were running thin for Alpha Elijah Pine. He stood back, watching, to see how he how much he could rile his opponent up.

Elijah drew his sword. “How right you are,” he said through clenched teeth. “I would not want to waste my pack’s lives – no matter how badly I wish to see you dead.”

Beside him, Atticus’s father stepped forward. He was every bit as intimidating as Atticus – perhaps more so, with his experience carved into his face in both wrinkle and scar. “Speak to my son like that again and I shall have your head, boy.”

There was a moment of terrible, pregnant silence. Lightning shot through the trees, crackling and bursting, making the tiny hairs on Atticus’s forearms rise. He tensed his muscles. He had nothing to be afraid of. Wolf or not, Atticus was one of the best-trained fighters in Eldda – and one of the strongest. And, fighting Elijah, he had a cause – a true cause, unlike so many of the reasons he gave for attacking other packs at the full moon – that made his honed instincts and muscular body into a deadly weapon.

And then Elijah swung a sword at him, its steel glinting even in the darkness. It, too, seemed to shine with ethereal light; Atticus did not have time to see the firelight reflected in the metal as it carved through the forest towards him.

Years of fighting alongside Alvaro meant that Atticus knew, instinctively, that his father would pick off the weaker wolves that cowered behind their Alpha. He could focus solely on Elijah, without fear that the others would join him.

Atticus snarled, relishing in the pull of his muscles and the sudden, sharp intensity of his brain. Words came to him, singular in nature and imperative: duck, dodge, strike; punch, swing, block. The tang of blood rose into the air, thick and heady and metallic. Atticus realised a moment too late that Elijah’s blade had sliced cleanly through his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he grunted, slamming his foot at Elijah’s knee. The other man dodged, unnaturally fast, and brought the hilt of his sword towards Atticus’s temple.

Raw fury made Atticus snarl. “Don’t,” he growled, whipping his hand to out to grab Elijah’s wrist. They froze there, matched in strength, until Elijah pulled free.

He held his sword to Atticus’s throat. Behind them, the fight of the others continued: but even then Atticus knew it was lost. His father was strong, but he was unarmed and outnumbered. One last, dying wave of vengeance unfurled within him; Atticus lunged, caring not for the blade at his neck.

He slipped past the unforgiving steel, feeling the hot blood cascading down his neck more than he felt the wound itself. He was distantly thankful that the blade was quick, not dulled, not blunt, but his gratitude was short lived. The woodland blurred around him as he moved, flashes of firelight that should not have been there illuminating the bark and the greenery and the thistles for fleeting split-seconds before fading into obscurity once more.

His breath came in hot, wet pants. Atticus would not admit it to himself, but he had never fought someone so closely aligned to himself in regards of fitness and skill before. And Elijah had the advantage – he had a sword. Little nicks and cuts chipped away at his armour, and the speed at which Elijah wielded it was almost – well, almost frightening. Atticus shoved that idea down as far as it would go. He was not frightened of anything, let alone the puffed-up imbecile that had stolen his mate from him. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He was –

An elbow to the chest knocked the breath from him. He scrambled to right himself, clutching at the rough bark of the tree behind him.

Then he saw his father, Alpha Alvaro, kneeling on the ground between a weather-worn man and a young woman. All was lost.

But he was not a man of honour, so he felt no shame in bringing his knee up sharply towards Elijah’s groin. A hand around his neck, just tight enough that he gasped for breath, made him halt.

“Enough,” said Alpha Elijah, his voice vibrating with self-righteousness. Atticus wished he’d just kill him – it would be far preferable to listening to whatever sanctimonious little speech he was so clearly about to give. He writhed in his grip, but Elijah brought the tip of his blade to his belly and pushed.

Elijah’s chest heaved. The two men were stood so close that Atticus could hear the pounding of Elijah’s blood as it thrummed through his veins. “I can guess why you’re here,” he said, not loudly, not quietly, but measured enough to project clearly to everyone present. “And we are no use to Lily if we kill each other before she is found.”

Atticus wriggled. The sword dug into his gut. He stilled.

“Do not think for one second that I do not want to kill you, Atticus,” he whispered, spittle flying from his teeth and sticking to Atticus’s bared neck. “I do this for her.”

Atticus bristled. He had not used his title.

From his position on the ground, Alvaro snorted. “A likely tale.”

Elijah did not so much as blink. “I do not seek to harm you, Alpha Alvaro. I only wish to find my mate–”

Atticus spat in his face. “Your mate? She was mine first. You stole her from me.”

Elijah huffed out a little, unamused laugh. “She left you of her own accord. And with good reason, might I add.” He flexed his fingers around Atticus’s neck – reminding him who was in control. Atticus bared his teeth.

“She is mine,” he muttered, glowering at Alpha Elijah.

“She belongs to nobody.” Elijah’s throat bobbed. More words ran through Atticus’s head, though they no longer helped him fight: arrogant, self-serving, supercilious, stuck up, proud… They did not help him fight, but they calmed the rapid beat of his heart and soothed his anguished mind. He was so close to Lily – so close – and this fool was standing in his way.

Or was he? Atticus could be shrewd when necessary, and he feared that this was one of those times. “You are quite right,” he said slowly, making a show of relaxing in Elijah’s iron-clad grip.

“I propose…” Elijah chewed the inside of his cheek. “I propose that we work together. Then – and only then – Lily herself can choose between us.” Atticus expected Elijah to look smug when he said that, but instead his face creased with what seemed to be worry. How could the sanctimonious prick be worried? He had taken her once. If it had been Atticus, he would have been oozing with confidence that he could do so again.

Elijah sighed, and he met Atticus’s eyes with grim acceptance and defeat scrawled across the downward tilt of his mouth. “We have no idea what we will face through the veil.”

“The veil?” Atticus’s brow furrowed.

“It seems that I will be more of a help to you than you shall be to me.”