Chapter 76: Chapter 76

Atticus

The sound of Lily’s howl made something earthen, something primal, roar to life in Atticus’s chest. He howled back, an Alpha calling to his Luna, to his mate. There were no complications here, like this: there was just the craggy silhouette of trees above and the rumpled earth below, with darkness filling every cavern in between.

It was not the darkness of hate or shadows; it was the cool balm of the shade on a summer’s day, the comfort of solitude shared with another. Atticus revelled in it, his huge black body blurring with it as he moved through the woods.

It should always have been this way. This was right; Atticus felt it in every part of him, in the pulse of his blood and in the shards of his bones. As Lily slowed, he did too. They were one: light and dark, shadow and sun. He nudged her with his nose, playful, joyous. This was right. This had always been meant to come to pass.

Her words from before stung, but they had lost their barb as she’d shifted with him. This was all he had ever desired – from before the time she had come forth as his mate, even. To see Lily running with his pack was one thing, but for her to trust him with this beautiful form of hers, white like starshine, was another entirely. This was a gift for him, and him alone. His heart swelled, so rapidly that he feared it might burst. But it did not: it bloomed like roses in the spring, and he thought that this was it. His second chance.

He heard her words in his memory: “I never loved you, Att. I could have, though.”

It was enough. For now, it was enough.

It was hope.

* * *

Atticus puffed out his chest as he strolled along the porch. Considering just the two of them had decorated for Mabben, the pack house didn’t look half bad. Nothing could bring down his mood today. Nothing.

Autumn had come to Blood Moon, turning the leaves crisp and golden. A light breeze stirred them, sending a single one twirling to the dew-damp grass.

Of course, without Jarine, the pack witch, to enchant the decorations, there was much lacking that would usually be there. For Mabben, hawks would be contained, in constant flight, and strung from the trees and from the porch. But Atticus had seen a hawk that morning, as dawn had broken across the horizon, and the look on Lily’s face as she’d watched it soar across the pale sky had been more magical than any enchantment ever could be.

The citrine bunting, however, had been well within their capabilities. In honour of the festival, Lily had braided strands of the dyed fabric into her braid. Her hair had shone red as the sun had risen – her fire, made manifest.

“You’re beautiful,” Atticus had whispered, embarrassed to say it aloud but unable to keep it in. Lily had blushed, her thin cheeks flushing prettily, reflecting the shades of the dawn across the curve of her face. She’d reached for her fingers, twisting them strangely. Atticus had only wondered why for a second before his eyes had found her face again, and had focused on her full, red-tinted lips.

“Thank you,” she’d murmured, her own gaze still latched on the horizon, still following the path of the hawk.

That had been the first time she’d slept towards the centre of the bed. Something had changed between them. Atticus knew it. He hadn’t tried to touch her, not even to brush the backs of his knuckles down her cheek as he’d so desired, but he’d smiled at her and bid her goodnight as the sun had come up.

Not four hours later he stood outside, surveying his grounds. For the first time in months, he felt like an Alpha again. Like he was in control once more. As he strode down off the porch and towards the trees, the morning sunlight casting them in deep shades of bronze, he let his relief flood him. Nothing was out of place. There had been no attacks in the night – though he doubted anyone even knew they were here.

A creak on the wooden boards of the porch made him turn.

“Hi.” Lily smiled crookedly, one side of her mouth hooking up. Her brown eyes shone gold in the morning light; the autumn colours of the land were reflected in her, all phoenix fire, new beginnings and beautiful endings. That was what Mabben was about, after all.

“Good morning.” Atticus cleared his throat; it was still rough with sleep.

“It looks good, doesn’t it?” Lily nodded to the decorations. She’d strung the glass jars that would usually have held the birds from tree to tree, and the glass glinted. If he looked at it from the right angle, Atticus could almost imagine that the shine of sunlight hid the feathered frame of a hawk behind it.

Though there were far less than usual, Atticus thought it was the best Blood Moon had ever looked. Lily was everywhere, her delicate hands knotted into every piece of bunting. He swallowed, suddenly nervous.

“It does.” Was that his voice, all… Soppy? He cleared his throat again. It was just the after-effects of having next to no sleep, that was all. “We did a good job of it.”

Lily nodded, her freshly tied braid slipping over her shoulder. It was longer than he’d ever seen it. It was the only part of her that had grown in her captivity. The rest of her remained frail and, though her eyes smouldered, it was not with the same brutality they once had. For a non-violent wolf, Lily held the capacity to burn the world in those gold-brown eyes.

Her hands shifted, parchment crinkling within them. Oh.

“Do… Do you mind?” She bit her lip. Atticus’s heart squeezed painfully. “I’m worried about him. Worried about what…” She trailed off and looked away.

“You can speak freely.” He wanted to snatch the letter from her and rip it up, but that would win only this battle – not the war. Instead, he closed the gap between them, the wood beneath his feet groaning as he sidled up the porch steps, and curled his hand over hers. “I know how you feel about… Him.” He swallowed back the nickname he wanted to use.

“I’m worried that he’ll think I left him of my own volition,” she said, and the steel in her tone surprised him. “And I need to know that he’s okay.”

Anger curdled in his gut. Why did she still care about him so? It had been a month since she’d last seen him, since she’d last spoken to him, and yet he had been here, at her side, leaving the windows open at night so she didn’t feel trapped, remaining stoically by her side as she healed –

Atticus snatched the letter from her hand. It crumpled in his fist. “I’ll send it for you,” he snapped. “Your little Alpha Idiot will know I stole you away.”

And then he stormed off, feeling Lily’s eyes burning into his back with every step.

* * *

“Stupid little Alpha,” Atticus muttered to himself as he bound the wrinkled letter to the bird’s leg. “Stupid, pig-headed, idiotic, mate-stealing loser.”

He tied it off and stepped back, swallowing his pride. Lily needed to know that Alpha Nothing was all right. Until then, she wouldn’t fully be his. He would do the right thing by her – even if it were for his own twisted reasons.

“Take this to the Sea Pine pack,” he said to the bird. Its beady eyes blinked, and then it nodded. Its claws tightened on its perch before it pushed away into the sky, leaving behind a single grey feather, coloured like an oil spill at its tip, in its place.

Atticus sighed, shoving a hand through his honeyed hair. He was Lily’s first; he would be her last. This was nothing but a blip, a trial to bring them closer in the end. Saying it to himself didn’t make him believe it, so he said it aloud also.

“You’re mine,” he muttered, crossing to the window and looking out at the grounds. Lily sat alone, her back against a tree, her head in her hands. His breath snagged in his chest. “You were always mine, Lily. I never wanted to reject you.” He scraped a hand down his face, feeling the pull and resistance of supple skin. “I thought I had to. But I know now that I was wrong.”

Her head shot up. Had she heard him?

No.

There was a rumble in the distance. Footfall – and excited chatter.

Atticus’s keen eyes narrowed on the middle distance, searching out Ralphin or Trove or his parents. Was it a belated attack? No – there would be no werewolves in their shifted forms, now, not after the sun had long since risen. They would have come in the night, not waited until they were men once more before striking.

Unless Red Ripper had caught wind of his decision to go against their agreement, and had come to ensure he didn’t. He set his jaw. They wouldn’t take Lily away from him. Not again.

But it was human figures that dotted the horizon. A flash of onyx hair. A swathe of honey and gold. Laughter.

The Blood Moon pack were home.