FIVE | GARNET

Lily

Dawn broke across the horizon, light slanting into Lily’s bedroom and spilling across the wooden floor. She rolled over, slinging an arm across her face to cover her eyes. She didn’t want to wake up – not today.

But the light was insistent, and it nudged her awake. She blinked away the sleep from bleary eyes, and sighed as she pulled herself upright. The other wolves all longed for this day – but not Lily. A scowl tugged at her soft mouth, and she crossed her arms across her chest, her duvet pooling at her waist.

The bedframe was cool against her back. She focused on it, centring her nerves and brimming emotions on the bite of cold nipping at her skin. Before, she’d had no qualms about celebrating her birthday. But that had been when her mother was there to celebrate it with her. This birthday – her eighteenth – marked the third year that her mother had not been there, and Lily doubted that it would be any better than the last two.

She wrung her hands together, toying with the edge of the duvet. Her room was plain, save for a smattering of fairy lights draped along the bedframe and around the window, and a photo frame that had lain facedown for three years. She didn’t have the heart to put it away, but seeing her mother’s blue eyes – like the sun-warmed ocean – and her familiar smile, red-tinted plump lips so much like Lily’s own, made her heart ache and her throat bob. So there it had remained, just like the empty vase downstairs.

Lily didn’t want to think about what else this particular birthday marked. Not one bit.

She slumped back down into her bed, tugging the covers over her head until they blocked out the hazy sunlight. She wasn’t sure if she was glad her birthday fell on a Saturday this year or not: she wouldn’t have to go to the pack school, which was a relief, but it meant that she’d have to spend the day with her father instead. Perhaps she could slip away for an hour or two to meet up with Rose, but every second that she was away from her father would eat away at her.

Her birthday dredged up memories for both of them. And, despite their differences, they were all the other had left. They would endure it together.

“Lils?” There was a timid knock at her bedroom door. Lily groaned at the sound of her dad’s voice.

“I’m awake,” she mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Can I – can I come in?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was croaky with sleep, and she cleared her throat as he elbowed open the door. She pushed back unruly waves of dark blonde hair behind her ears, trying to brush through the tangles with her fingers before he could get a good look at her. There was nothing to be done about the purple bruises beneath her eyes, but she hoped he wouldn’t notice those. He usually didn’t.

“Happy birthday!” He cried, his worn, tired face breaking into a grin. He balanced a tray between his hands, upon which was a small cake topped with what Lily assumed to be eighteen candles, and a neatly wrapped present nestled beside it.

She sat up, for a moment forgetting her woes. Her heart soared at the effort he’d put into her birthday breakfast – the cake looked freshly baked, with warm icing melting down its uneven sides and pooling around its base.

“It’s vanilla,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed, smiling a little. “Not our most adventurous year yet, but – I thought traditional might be nice. For, well, you know – it’s a big one this year, Lils.”

She nodded, the spark of joy sputtering and fading. Every year, they’d have cake for breakfast, all sat on her bed together. For the last few years, there had been someone missing. Lily stared down at her duvet, the bed suddenly feeling emptier than when she’d been in it alone. She bundled a handful of fabric into her fist, her eyes turning glossy with unshed tears.

“Are you – do you want to blow out the candles? Make a wish?”

She sucked in an unsteady breath. He held the cake close to her parted lips, and she blew as hard as she could. One candle remained lit, its flame flickering defiantly.

It didn’t matter. She hadn’t made a wish.

Her dad blew out the last candle for her, holding his smile in place even as his shoulders sagged. There was a tentative truce between them today, and it would remain so long as neither of them spoke their minds. Lily knew that her dad missed the way she had been before, bright and bold, often snarky and curious but never flat and disinterested as she was now. But she also knew that he couldn’t resent her for it. Not when he too had been irrevocably changed by his mate’s death.

Holding their truce close to her heart, she forced her lips into a smile. Today was hard for them both, and she didn’t want to make it any harder for her dad. Not when he’d tried so hard to make her happy.

“Is that for me?” She asked, nodding to the present. She could remember a time when such things had truly excited her, and she used those memories to inform the performance she put on now.

“It is. Here,” he said, balancing the tray across his lap and passing her the present. She turned it around in her hands, and held it up to her ear and shook it. He grinned, and, for a moment, he looked younger, brighter – almost as he had before.

“Hmm,” Lily said, giving it a delicate sniff. “Nope – no idea.”

“I guess you’d better just open it, then.”

“I guess so.” She paused, wondering how she would mask her disappointment at whatever it was. Try as he might, her dad had never been great at gift-giving; it had always been her mother who had taken charge of birthdays and celebrations. To reveal this to him would crush him, crush the little bit of life and joy he had left, so she steeled herself, preparing for anything.

There was one emotion she had not prepared for, however: genuine, unadulterated joy. She tore off the paper – eager to appear eager – and stared wide-eyed at the small gift. In her palm sat a small, golden ring, which curved up into a point to fit a tiny, round red crystal into the gap. She slipped it on, tilting her hand back and forth, watching the dawn light glitter across the crystal’s glossy surface.

Sweet nostalgia made her heart ache. She recognised this ring, and had thought it had been lost long ago.

“This was always going to be yours, Lily,” her dad murmured, shuffling closer to her on the bed. “I thought it would mean more to you to have a piece of her than another novelty clock.”

Lily sniffled out a laugh, and choked down her tears. She smiled at her dad through bleary eyes. “Thank you. I – it’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He laid a hand on top of hers, and, for a moment, their truce seemed unnecessary. “She would be honoured to see you wearing it, Lils. Make her proud.”

And though Lily’s back stiffened at the insinuation, she decided she would make those words her own. She would make her mother proud, in all the ways that counted. Like the burning stone adorning her index finger, she would allow her inner flame to guide her, not consume her. And if her dad meant for her to fight, then he would be sorely disappointed.

* * *

Lily didn’t understand the tug she felt to go outside, but she showered and dressed quickly, following the urge to walk through the ornate gardens bordering the pack house. It wasn’t somewhere she went often – there were too many prying eyes, too many wolves trying to encourage her to join them at the next full moon. Some beseeched her; others growled and snarled and snapped. She preferred the ones that got angry.

Her dad nodded at her with a strange look in his eyes when she said she was going for a walk. He didn’t ask why or where; he simply smiled, with those odd, knowing eyes that followed her path as she stepped out into the morning sun.

She stared down at the ring as she walked, unwilling to make eye contact with anyone. She knew the stone was a garnet from when it had been her mother’s. A small, sad part of her tingled with the knowledge that it now belonged to her.

The tug came from her chest, she realised, as she bent to its will and turned sharply, cutting between the medic’s cabin and the vegetable garden. She kept her gaze down, wary of the Omegas tending to the crops. Though she ranked above them, some of them thought of her as lesser for not joining them on the battlefield, and they were unashamed of telling her exactly what they thought.

She would never admit to anyone how much it hurt her.

It was too early for her to visit Rose. The sun still skirted the horizon, and the grass was still damp with dew. Unlike Lily, Rose revelled in lazy mornings spent sleeping in. Lily couldn’t shake the nightmares away long enough for her to enjoy the feel of her bedding wrapped around her. Before, she had – and the two of them had been chastised for their lateness on many occasions. Now, withdrawn and quiet, Lily was always on time.

The tug in her chest intensified, as though a rope had wound around her ribcage and was yanking her down towards the uppermost corner of the training fields, and then abruptly off to the side, towards the looming pack house and the pretty gardens that bordered it.

She swallowed hard as she neared the house. It was huge and extravagant, with elaborate verandas and balconies twining around its exterior. Stone gargoyles sneered down at her, though someone with a sense of humour – likely Nearyn, the Mother Luna – had topped the gargoyles with little floral hats. Lily smiled at that, fighting against the rising nausea of the tug deep in her chest.

Whatever she was heading to, she was close. Each dew-drenched footstep felt heavy as lead as she ducked under a wide bough of sunflowers, following a curling pathway towards the centre of the gardens where a selection of picnic benches were strewn under the cover of fruit trees.

In the summer the pack would picnic there, picking the ripe fruit and placing it in their wicker baskets. Some – like Rose, Nearyn, and Lily’s mother – would eat the fruit straight from the trees, smiling all the while.

It was too early for the trees to bear fruit, but they were dotted with blossom: pinks and whites and pale oranges, speckling the barren branches with colour. Lily skirted around the edge of the clearing, the tug still pulling her forwards.

She stilled. Alpha Atticus was set in the very centre, his eyes closed against the sun. A whisper of a smile lit his lips, and the tilt of his head enhanced the already hard line of his jaw. Lily’s heart clenched, and she took a timid step towards him. The tug rejoiced, pushing her onwards.

His smile grew and, with his eyes still closed, he placed a hand over his heart. He swallowed, his throat bobbing with something that Lily thought might be excitement. She didn’t dare hope – didn’t dare dream that maybe, just maybe, the tug had brought her here for a reason.

The tug was dizzying. She could not think or feel beyond it as it swelled, a crashing wave rising, about to smack against the shore.

His eyelids flickered, the dark, sweeping crescents of his eyelashes stirring. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the honey-brown tresses back. It slipped forwards, and he grinned, shaking his head to flick it away from his eyes.

“Mate,” he murmured, closing the fist that sat atop his heart. “You’re my mate.”

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Lily thought they were beautiful: leaf-green and spattered with golden sunlight, and framed with thick, dark lashes. He was summer incarnate, brimming with the vivacious life of nature. He watched her with equal intensity, his gaze making her feel so naked, so exposed, that she blushed.

The smile fell from his lips. “Lily,” he said, his voice suddenly rough, abrasive. “You – you’re my mate?”

“Is that what this is?” She whispered, placing her hand – the hand adorned with her mother’s ring – atop her chest. “I don’t know why I came here,” she admitted quietly.

“Neither do I.” He stared at her, the colour slowly draining from his face.

She hovered, a deer on willowy legs, terrified to move, terrified to stay. “It feels… nice,” she murmured eventually, neither of them breaking eye contact.

“It does.” He swallowed again, and bit down on his lip. “Lily, I–“

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “Don’t.” She could feel him – feel him through the tug, the… bond, and she could feel the shuddering ball of words that he was struggling to form before he said them.

“I can’t be with you.” His voice broke, her heart with it. “You can’t be my mate.”

“Don’t,” was all she could reply, her hand clutching at the empty air between them. “Don’t do this.”

All emotion left his face. His eyes, cold where moments ago they had been warm, alive, met hers with nothing more than the disdain one might show an irksome gnat. He swallowed – the only trace of pain Lily could discern, if it even was that – and then he spoke the words that shattered her.

“I reject you as my mate.”