FOUR | SPRING

Atticus

The grounds looked lovely, Atticus thought – if a little overdone for his taste. It was only the Worm Moon, after all.

The ornate gardens surrounding the pack house had been bedecked in glossy aquamarine bunting, draped from tree to tree and around the veranda which trailed around the outskirts of the house itself. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he surveyed the flapping sparrows, held in place by a magic he did not understand, nor wish to.

Miniscule glass bottles had been filled with thyme, and they had been strung along a stretch of glittering lanterns, the vials clicking against the glowing light bulbs. He stretched his aching back, and rolled his neck. He grinned, slow and smooth, as his joints cracked.

Taking White Oak down had been easy – as expected. It was a good confidence builder for the latest group of young wolves that had recently come of age, and a solid reminder of Blood Moon’s prowess for the older, more experienced wolves.

No matter how respected he was, Atticus thought it was always important to look strong to those who followed him. A leader was weak without a loyal pack, and his family had held Blood Moon together for generations by use of a firm hand and brutal displays of their power.

Even if he’d spent a good chunk of the night looking longingly back towards the pack grounds, aching to see a white wolf sprinting through the woods towards him. He’d only caught a glimpse of it – of her – once, and her beauty had hit him like a punch in the gut.

He’d wanted to speak to Lily the following day, but she’d sneered at him and held her nose up, gliding past without a second look. Cruel, beautiful eyes had scorned him, and he’d forced a mask of cold indifference to take the place of the pathetic longing that had threatened to overwhelm him. He’d told himself that it was simply because he was still without a mate – old, especially for an Alpha – and he was latching onto anything remotely interesting.

And, he admitted to himself, watching a trapped sparrow flap its wings, she was interesting. Perhaps its was merely because she didn’t fawn over him like the others, but… he’d prefer it if she did. He couldn’t deny that he liked the attention, that he enjoyed all the gaping, the blushing, the shy gazes slung his way by the other she-wolves. And he wished that Lily would look at him like that, too.

He clenched his jaw and pushed away from the veranda. Buttery sunlight draped the grounds in soft warmth, dappling through the boughs of light-strung trees and flooding the bright spring grass. He rolled his shoulders and slid an easy grin onto his lips.

After the success of last night, not much would be expected of him today. There would be no drawn-out meetings, no stern words between family and foe. There would only be celebration of the night before, revelling in their domination of another, weaker pack.

He smiled to himself. The Blood Moon pack had never been stronger.

“Atticus.” A firm, warm hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Father,” he replied, his tone colder than his smile – a formality. His eyes softened as they met his mother’s gaze, her green eyes so similar to his own, and the hard line of his shoulders relaxed.

“Mother,” he greeted, before gesturing to the surrounding revelry. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, warmth flooding her face. “I feel the Worm Moon is often overlooked, but I do so enjoy all that it stands for.”

Alvaro shook his head at Atticus, but he too was grinning. His bronzed skin was ridged with scars, made more prominent by the sweep of the long, dark hair tied back at the nape of his wide neck. “It falls so close to Ostran that it hardly seems worth all this effort. But if it keeps the pack happy, I suppose I see no harm in it.”

Atticus snorted. “They hardly earned all this last night. White Oak hardly fought back.”

His father raised an eyebrow at him. “Was that not to be expected?”

Atticus shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Any victory is a great achievement for the pack,” his mother chided gently. “And all are worthy of celebration.”

He thought back to last night’s battle – if it could even be called that. Little blood had been spilled, and though many of his wolves had returned home with energy to spare, despite his cold, haughty front he had been glad to return with such a small loss of life. The killing had been easy at first, but each death settled on his shoulders, an extra weight that he would carry with him forever.

But he had a part to play, and a duty to uphold. No matter the cost, he would do it. To make his parents proud, to make his ancestors proud, and to keep his pack not just alive, but thriving. The greatest pack in the continent of Eldda – and possibly the world.

“Of course.” Atticus inclined his head. “The birds are a work of art indeed,” he said after a pause.

“I wish I could take the credit,” his mother sighed, sweeping her golden hair behind her shoulder. “They are Jarine’s work, I’m afraid.”

“Nearyn,” Alvaro murmured to his mate, his eyes – deep hazel that glittered gold in the sunlight – tightened and creased at their corners. “You entrusted her with such a task?”

“A good test of her skill – and of her intentions,” Atticus interrupted before Nearyn could speak. “To be gifted with the creation of living art is one thing, but understanding its limits, and how far she will use it in our name is quite another.” He examined his nails, already bored of discussing Jarine. Witches were useful, and an important mark of power, but of little interest to him.

His father hummed his agreement, though his face remained tense. Atticus dipped in and out of his parents’ conversation, idly watching the members of their pack – his pack – strolling across the grounds, staring in unabashed awe and wonder at the decorations.

“Perhaps it is time to take some sort of action,” Nearyn said, eyeing Atticus expectantly.

“Hmm?”

“Lily,” she repeated. “Is it a sign of weakness to allow her to miss every battle? I understand that things have been hard for her, but every member of this pack has made sacrifices to keep us safe.”

Alvaro tutted. “Now is not the time to discuss such things, Nearyn.” He swept a large, scarred hand across the view, gesturing towards children giggling in groups, mated pairs of adults strolling hand in hand, and to the broad smiles on every one of their faces.

She caught his hand. “This is what our strength affords us, Al,” she whispered. “A show of strength to keep us all safe, to keep us all happy.”

“I know,” Alvaro murmured back, catching her elbow and giving it a soft squeeze. “I know.”

Atticus cracked his knuckles and nodded towards the small crowd gathering around the unlit bonfire. “Come on,” he said. “We can discuss this later.”

They would write down their fears and throw them into that fire, releasing them and setting themselves free. And though he could remember being a child himself, walking around the grounds in wonderment and staring with eyes round as saucers at the enormous bonfire, he now thought it all felt a little bit pointless.

His jaw clenched as he saw a couple staring longingly at one another, entwined beneath the wide bough of a tree. Their faces were flecked in sunlight, and Atticus hated them for the love that shone in their matching, violet eyes.

He joined the gathering crowd at the bonfire, walking with a stiff back that had nothing to do with his sore muscles. He hadn’t prepared a speech – he liked his words to come from the heart, he said, though it was just something else he didn’t see the point in, not when he gave similar speeches multiple times each month – and he was scouring the grounds for words to inspire him when he caught sight of Lily, scowling in the sunshine.

He didn’t dare gawp at her the way he longed to. He snapped his eyes away before they could linger on the haughty curve of her shoulders, her long hair pulled back behind them in a plait that made the sharp lines of her jaw and cheekbones as cutting as a blade’s edge. The sun warmed her olive skin, almost hiding the shadows under her steely brown eyes.

His heart clenched, but still he turned away. Atticus faced his pack, and stepped up onto the small podium erected by the side of the bonfire. A flickering torch had been lit, ready for him to thrust into the wood after he’d praised the assembled wolves for their hard work, their courage, and their determination. Yes, he thought – that sounded good.

He settled into himself, his body feeling more his own once he’d forced himself to look away from Lily. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the ache he felt whenever he was near her, or thought of her. She was weak, and she would bring weakness to his pack if she did not soon join them in their battles.

Unlike Lily, Atticus understood his duty. No matter how pointless he thought the speeches were, he knew that they meant a lot to the pack. If they made the pack happy, he thought, his father’s earlier words ringing in his ears, then they were worthwhile.

“Blood Moon wolves,” he said, his voice loud and confident – and revealing none of the man beneath the mask. He stood firm, but his broad shoulders were relaxed as he grinned around at the members of his pack. He made sure to bare his teeth a little, white as clean-picked bones. The lines between fear and respect were blurred, and he was keen to keep it that way.

“Last night was a triumph,” he continued, his green eyes as bright as the spring leaves, their veins clear beneath the hazy sunlight. He was careful not to shout – that would look too eager, too desperate. “I am proud of your hard work, your courage, and your determination. We reclaimed our territory, and White Oak shall never attempt to cross us again.”

Through the woops and cheers he allowed himself one carefully monitored glance at Lily. Her scowl had deepened, her face pinched with ire at his words. He half expected her to spit into the bonfire and leave, but she was stood beside her father, who had put a steadying hand on her wrist. Good – at least Maveln had some sense. It was just a shame that he didn’t take a firmer hand with Lily, didn’t knock some of that sense into her.

Her fire could be beautiful – if she used it for the good of the pack. Instead, it burned her from within, eating away at her. Atticus tore his gaze away. It was a waste of time even thinking about her. He was certain that she would request his permission to leave the Blood Moon pack on her eighteenth birthday, and he knew that he should let her go. She was of no use to him – of no use to anyone. Even as his heart shuddered at the idea, he steeled himself. It wasn’t worth his time. She wasn’t worth his time.

And if his carefully designed mask slipped, just a little, he didn’t let it show. He played the part of the leader, of the warrior, well enough that he hardly heard the words of his speech as he said them. He hardly felt the flame licking at his knuckles as he lit the bonfire, but he did feel his heart tear as he imagined nodding, his face blank, cool, as he told her to leave.

He gave everything for the Blood Moon pack. Lily gave nothing.