Oddly Fated Mates: Freya and Atticus

Chapter Two

Atticus

The nerve of that fucking woman! Can't believe she just blurted out my issues without thought, as though it's not shameful enough without her making it worse. I'm sick of her bullying and teasing and treating me as though I've wronged her in some great way.

Like I'm the villain.

I storm through the main village and head to my house in the unmated male lodges that always remind me of alcohol and unnecessary fighting. Cue testosterone. My lodge is at the back, not far from the Alpha's and High Matriarch's lodges. Though, those are much larger. Once I've found my mate, I can move into one of the four.

My mate will be brilliant. Smart. Beautiful. Understanding. And will hopefully fill in some of my gaps. Oh how I've imagined her in my arms, wrapped around my senses, playing with my wolf in the forests surrounding our packlands, and watching her smile at my latest accomplishments.

She'll be magnificent.

If I ever find her.

It's been six months since my Lunar Cycle when I turned 21, and I know that's not long—some of the men in the lodges have been waiting for years—but after searching both this pack and the neighbouring ones, I've lost some of the hope that used to wake me up in the morning.

When I walk into my modest lodge, looking despairingly at the basic furniture and empty pizza boxes, I catch a glimpse in the mirror of my Lunar Mark curving around my eye in the shape of a crescent moon with music notes dancing around the outside and trailing to my cheek bone. It's one of the largest I've seen, other than Dad's. But then that makes sense for the alpha's son. A big mark for a big wolf.

Or it would make sense, if my wolf were any larger than a golden retriever.

The rest of me pales in comparison to the rest of my pack, too—even Freya. Argh. Especially Freya. She's built like a tank. But my reflection shows nothing but scrawny arms, a little chest and ab muscle I've worked my entire life for, and legs no bigger than matchsticks. A scrawny body harbouring a scrawny wolf.

My legs let go of my body, and I fall onto the sofa, shoving empty soda cans aside.

It's two hours until nightfall, when Freya's Lunar Cycle will begin and I'm expected to be nice to the girl who's spent the last six years tormenting me. I'm supposed to be in training, but after this afternoon at the High Matriarch's, I don't really want to face my future pack.

None of them know, of course. They've never seen me shift. But every time they look at me funny or treat me differently because I'm not a typical-looking Alpha, it does nothing but make me feel like a failure. Like I've somehow let the pack down before I've even taken up the mantle.

"Stop wallowing, Atticus!" Dad yells through the door as he enters. "And get to training!" He doesn't stay; he just expects me to follow orders, like everyone does.

Just once I'd like to stay here, not listen to him, and ignore his stupid Alpha ass. But just the thought of being compelled under his Alpha command sends shivers down my spine.

Never going through that shit again.

Sighing, I bring myself to my feet and try my best to shake off the bad mood. As though I can rid myself of my problems as easily as my wolf shakes off the rain.

Training—or torture, as I like to call it—starts with a five-mile run that I pant and wheeze through. When the other trainees take off for the next five miles, their wolves lending them the strength needed, I park my butt on the tree stump and fetch my inhaler from my shorts.

"Fuck . . . this . . . bullshit," I gasp.

"Son?" Dad asks through a scowl as he strolls up the trail from behind me. "You okay?" He rests a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "You ran like the wind that time."