Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Atticus

Atticus’s honey-brown hair rippled as his fist thudded into Ralphin’s jaw. His Beta stumbled, and he spat blood onto the grass before hissing, “What’s got into you?”

Everything about Ralphin was annoying him today. The cock-sure swagger of his walk, the sheen of his black hair, the glint in his onyx eyes – all of it made Atticus’s gut swell with rage. He bared his teeth at Ralphin, hardly allowing him a chance to adjust his defensive stance before baring down on him again, slamming first his right and then his left fist at him in a quick, brutal one-two that forced Ralphin back against the wooden fence.

“Spit it out,” Ralphin growled, dark eyes narrowing. A bruise was already blooming across his tanned chin and cheek.

Atticus held his positive firm, jerking his head for Ralphin to stand up to him, to fight. His Beta was one of the few wolves in the Blood Moon pack he’d trust with this information, but he was in no mood to divulge. He cracked his knuckles, but said nothing.

“Fine.” Ralphin dusted himself off before bounding forwards into an offensive stance, hands raised, smirk back in place. “Don’t tell me. But you know I’ll give as good as I get.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Atticus could hardly see through the rage brimming within him, tinting his vision red. It turned Ralphin – his Beta, his best friend – into nothing more than a gleaming target. His hold on himself was slipping with every word, every taunt, and every second that he couldn’t get the sight of Lily’s crumpled face out of his head.

He’d broken her. He’d felt it, the beginnings of love, the irrevocable ties of the mate bond – and he’d broken her. And, he thought, side-stepping one of Ralphin’s better kicks, he’d broken himself, too.

He couldn’t feel his heart anymore. The tug had gone, too, along with all the warmth and comfort that had swelled as he’d followed its path to find her. His mate. His rejected mate.

He growled, low and hot, and struck Ralphin hard and deep in the chest. Ralphin swore, ice-cold flames flickering to life in his eyes. He swallowed. Atticus held his breath. Perhaps he’d gone too far –

Ralphin grinned, slow and wicked and full of raw delight. Ralphin grinned, and then he bore down on Atticus, fists blurring as they thumped and punched, teeth clacking with the force of his attack.

Atticus lunged, a muscle feathering in his jaw as he thrust back at Ralphin. He saw red, unable to think, unable to feel, beyond the pull and flex of his muscles hitting and kicking and clawing. He saw Lily, brown eyes wide and glittering with tears, her full mouth turning down at the corners before she turned away. The morning sun beat down on his bare skin, and his forehead glistened with sweat.

He felt the ghost of the bond, a whisper through the trees, the last vestiges of nightfall slowly ebbing away into a cracked and splintered dawn. His chest ached, empty and hollow; he was no longer on the training field with his Beta, surrounded by his pack. He was with Lily, alone together in the garden, the scent of fruit trees rich and heady as he leant towards her, lips puckered in expectation of a kiss.

A smack to the temple thrust him back to reality. He shook himself, the pain rolling off him like droplets of water. He blinked, at last seeing Ralphin’s arrogant face, the gleam in those damned onyx eyes. The bastard thought he was winning.

Something shattered deep within Atticus. He roared, the sound sending birds scattering from the wide boughs of the trees edging the field. It was carnal, purely animalistic – the roar of an Alpha wolf, ready to dominate any and all who crossed his path.

His knuckles burned with the force of his punches. His core ached from holding him steady against Ralphin’s barrage. But he had to withstand it, to allow the sea to crash upon his shore. If Ralphin thought he had the upper hand, he would start to slip.

Atticus’s knees ached with a phantom fall. Fire filled the cavity that had once been inhabited by his heart. He’d made the right decision, he lied to himself, he had, he had –

He lost himself in the violence of their brawl, his body nothing more than an echo of his sorrow. There was nothing but the brunt force of his attack, the steadfast weight of his defence. There was nothing but pain, and Atticus fought until the physical overtook the emotional.

“Atticus. Atticus!” It sounded like his dad. Atticus could barely hear him over the waves crashing in his ears.

He was flame, he was fire incarnate; he was the rolling waves of the ocean, shuddering out of existence upon the land –

“Atticus.” His name was nothing more than a barked command.

He was the wild wind upon the moor, soaring above, tearing apart everything in his path; he was the earth upon which mortals lived and died, weathering every storm, every war –

Rough hands tore him apart. They held him back, firm and strong, wrapping around his straining biceps. Atticus frothed and eddied, desperate to return to the fight, to the peace of being nothing more than muscle and bone and blood.

“Breath, son.”

So he did. Slowly his panting eased, the rapid sawing of his chest turning to aching, trembling gasps. His vision cleared, and acid burned his throat. Ralphin was crumpled on the ground at his feet, face swollen and battered, purple and black marring the slick, tanned lines of his features. His breath was little more than a death rattle.

“Ralph?” Atticus grunted, crouching beside him.

“I’ll be fine,” he coughed, holding his middle finger up at Atticus. “No thanks to you.”

Atticus grinned, slapping him on the back. “Sorry, mate.”

Ralphin dragged himself to his feet, spitting blood. He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand before speaking. “If I still look this rough at the next Mating Ball–“

“Then you shall have my eternal forgiveness,” Atticus cut in smoothly, running a sweat-soaked hand through his hair.

Ralphin rolled his eyes. Atticus winced. “Sorry,” he muttered, eyeing an oozing cut leaking blood onto Ralphin’s neck.

“What happened?” He’d forgotten his father was there, tone dripping with disapproval. Atticus’s shoulders sagged. The wounds Ralphin had inflicted finally started to sting, and his face and fists were especially sore. But they could not hold a candle to the seeping darkness filling his heart.

Ralphin raised an eyebrow. Atticus focused on him. Even with his ugly, distorted face, it was easier to look at him than his dad. No matter how much Atticus respected him, Ralphin would always be his subordinate. His father, however…

“Perhaps we’d better take this back to the house,” he said quietly.

Turning, Atticus surveyed the assorted members of his pack. His mother was staring at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Beside her, the latest pack witch, Jarine, rubbed soothing circles into her back, her beaded hair jangling with the slight motions. Though she wasn’t a wolf, she was a part of the Blood Moon pack, and was encouraged to train with them regardless.

Similar expressions of shock and fear painted every face that stared back at him. Atticus swallowed hard, bile coating the back of his throat. He’d wanted his pack to fear him, to respect him, but this – this wasn’t what he’d meant.

And, even as the shattered remnants of his heart dropped, he still searched for her. He still tore apart the crowd for Lily, nerves rattling his brain as he scoured every familiar face. Of course she wasn’t there; he’d rejected her.

He turned to his dad and nodded without meeting his eyes. “Let’s go,” he mumbled, and turned on his heel and left without waiting for a response.

* * *

Alvaro’s office was draped in buttery mid-morning sunlight. Dust motes span and twinkled in the golden rays slanting through the window. Atticus felt like a child as he lingered in the doorway, eyes tracing the familiar lines of the broad desk, neatly stacked with papers and folders, and the wooden shelves towering behind it.

“You can come in, you know,” Alvaro said gently, turning to face his son with a smile. He gestured to the empty chair in front of the desk, and Atticus took a seat opposite his father. The scrape of the chair’s heels sounded too loud, and he steeled himself for what was to come.

He’d cleaned up before coming here, showering quickly and wincing against the pain of hot water lancing his cuts. He’d apologised to Ralphin, too, who’d laughed it off. “All part of being a Beta,” he’d shrugged, the lesser cuts and bumps already starting to heal.

Nearyn had ushered him towards the pack medic, shushing his arguments with soothing words and careful touches. Atticus had mouthed a playful “Good luck,” to him, which had only earned him a glaring eye-roll.

Alvaro sighed as Atticus settled himself in the hard-backed chair. His shrewd hazel eyes appraised his son, narrowing as if he was trying to read a particularly complicated passage from a book. In a way, Atticus supposed that he was.

“I’m sorry,” Atticus said, leaning forwards and resting his hands on the desk. “I shouldn’t have let myself go like that.”

Alvaro shook his head. “We all make mistakes. Yours will be easily resolved.” A flicker of a grin tickled his lips, and Atticus saw the shadow of the young man he’d once been, before responsibility had eaten away at him. “It’s good for the pack to see your strength, in any case. And it’s better for you to take it out on poor Ralphin than any of the weaker wolves.” His broad shoulders shifted, and a muscle in his neck tensed. Atticus’s stomach filled with ice.

“I noticed one particular wolf was not present at training this morning.” His eyes bore holes into Atticus’s. He leant back and folded his arms, biceps bulging through his jumper. “I can’t help but wonder if Lily was the reason behind your… outburst.”

He had to get it over with. He had to rip off the bandage, come clean. The sooner this mess was put behind him, the better. Atticus sighed.

“She was,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the polished wood of the desk. It shone in the daylight, cleaned daily by one of the lucky Omegas who got to work so closely to the Alpha and his family. Atticus didn’t know their name; he didn’t know any of their names, not really.

Alvaro said nothing. He simply watched, waiting for Atticus to talk.

“Lily was my mate,” he muttered eventually.

Alvaro beamed, pride limning his hard features. “That’s wonderful, Att – wait. Was?” The smile died on his mouth.

“I rejected her.” The words tasted like ash. He wanted to spit them out, to scrub his teeth and tongue until he could no longer taste the remnants of her, the remnants of what they could have been together, what they could have meant to each other.

The light in Alvaro’s eyes dimmed. “Why?”

Atticus pulled himself upright, copying his father’s straight-backed position, crossing his arms across his chest. Perhaps that would conceal the hole where his heart should be.

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself,” he said. There was no venom in his voice, merely a lazy drawl that he knew would get his father’s hackles up. “Lily does nothing for this pack. She does not fight for us. She is worse than even the weakest Omega.” He sneered, even as his chest caved in. “She was not fit to be my mate.”

And despite the fact that he hated this, hated himself for this, he knew this was how it would have to be. He would have to become tougher, firmer; he would have to be nothing more than the battle-hardened warrior and cruel manipulator most of his pack thought him to be.

It was the only way to block out the pain.