Oddly Fated Mates: Freya and Atticus

Chapter Seven

Freya

Only one bedroom. For some reason, that very obvious fact never rendered its way into my brain. Of course there would only be one bedroom. We're supposed to be here to mate.

Maybe there's a guestroom or something.

I guess as a last resort I could sleep on the couch.

But when I make my way upstairs, I realise that I won't need to do that because this house is like Grandma's. There are four doors up here, so plenty of room to make up another bedroom.

Placing the boxes down on the hallway carpet, I steal a deep breath, steadying the frustration, confusion, and anger welling beneath the surface. And then I open the first door.

A bathroom. With a large bath, a corner standing shower, a double sink, and another door on the other side. The decoration is muted, creams and light browns and mild oranges, but it's a space big enough for two.

That thought clenches my fists and grits my teeth.

Back into the hallway, I open door number two and cough slightly at all the dust in the room with a scowl. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the room, and old dusty tomes sit on them, ready to be analysed and read and devoured. A quick browse of the titles, some of which are in Latin, tell me this room is meant for me. Grandma must have had these books moved here this morning of overnight somehow, because these texts are for a High Matriarch. From the history of High Matriarch magic, to the legends of our peoples, to books on potions, growing herb gardens, and how to harness the sun's power . . . This is basically my childhood studies in a single room.

But none of the knowledge matters. Not if I can't access Fate magic, and I don't think I ever will be able to. But those words have never been spoken out loud—not to Grandma and certainly not to Alpha. Not even to myself.

The next room is the expected gym that's in most people's homes in one form or another. Wolves run hot and full of energy. Burning off that energy is important. But this gym has a window wall on the front side of the house, letting in all the light of the warming sun, and I can imagine working out in here under the moonlight, letting my wolf preen and bake.

And, bonus, there is a sofa corner with a small fridge and some lounge chairs. I could make a bed out of that if need be.

There's only one room left, and I know it's the main bedroom. Its ornate dark wood smells like the cedars from the forest. My hand curls around the doorknob, but for the life of me, I can't bring myself to turn it. Behind this room is everything Fate expects Atticus and I to be. Everything the pack expects us to be.

But we never will.

And I can't bring myself to face that just yet.

So I drag my boxes back down the stairs in a huff to check out the rest of the house.

Atticus is banging around in the kitchen, the marble worktops taking a thrashing as he finds places for pots and pans and cutlery and plates and cooking appliances I didn't even know existed.

I can cook to get by, but I'm no chef.

He spins to face me, frustration on his features. "What do you want?"

What do I want? To be left a-fucking-lone in my own home and to have a bed to sleep in. "To not have to deal with you every day for the rest of my life, if you really want to know." My arms cross over my chest as I stand taller. "But I guess my wants don't matter."

"Your wants are the only ones that matter," he mumbles just loud enough for my wolf hearing to pick up on. He turns back around and continues with the task at hand.

"You think I want this?" My voice edges louder, frustration and an afternoon of hauling boxes back and forth ebbing to the surface. "You think I want to be stuck as your mate? I'd reject if I could."

Atticus flinches, his brown hair flicking as his fists tighten. "Yeah? Then there's the fucking door!" He flings his arm out.

My teeth sharpen as my tail shifts into existence and a rumbling snarl leaves my lips. "Don't test me."

He strides toward me, plate in hand, and frowns. "Why? Gonna lock me in a closet for a whole weekend? Trip me down the stairs so I break my arm? My face? Gonna turn every friend against me so I'm even more alone than I already am? Or were those just high school specials?"

My fingers shift into claws that I hold tight, my breathing ragged. "I'll do worst than that, pup."

Atticus's nose shifts into a snout as he screams, "Then bring it on, bitch!" The plate smashes at my feet as he throws it in my direction.

Before I know it, I launch my self at him, throwing myself the last foot left between us and pinning him to the ground. As I raise my clawed hand into the air and Atticus screams in rage beneath me, trying his best to buck me off, something strange happens.

My hand shifts back into a fist.

My wolf . . . She doesn't want to hurt him.

But I don't care what she wants.

His eyes throw fiery orange daggers at me and he continues to snarl and spit fire, still trying to get me off of him by throwing his hips up, trying to buck me off. But I grab his hands and pin them to the kitchen tiles as I throw weight into my position to pin his legs.

He's not getting away from me.

He's mine.

My mind whirs, flicking between rage and the bond, violence and lust, and I can't seem to turn it off.

So when he tries once again to buck me off, in vain, I take note of the growing hardness beneath his jeans and the angry flush of his cheeks and the panting breaths exhaling from a mid-shift back to his human nose.

My hips shift ever so slightly, an almost imperceptible movement, but it's enough to lance a slither of pleasure through my body that fuels the inferno raging inside me.

I want to quell the thirst, to extinguish its flames, to get rid of this confusion. But I can't seem to let him go. Can't move from atop him.

"Hit me then!" he yells, still furious at me for some reason. "It's what you want, isn't it?"

"Always," I growl. And my fists clench in his open palms. But it's my head that moves as it throws itself at his.

And our lips meet in a frenzied rush of anger and heat, a fire of red and oranges mixing together so hard I can't tell them apart anymore. All I know is that this wolf is mine to punch, to kiss. And I'll flay the fur off any wolf who tries to get in my way.

My tongue demands his lips open, and he complies, letting me slip through and clash our teeth together.

His hips grind into mine, needy, insistent, as his throat half-growls, half-moans into my mouth, his fingers curling around my still-clenched fists.

I slay him with sharp lashes of my tongue. I own him with harsh snaps of my hips, pinning him into place.

But it's the genuine growl that rips from his lips that pushes my head back in shock and anger and frustration.

"Get the fuck off of me."

Reason and sense come back to me like a lit pyre, and I jump off him and meet his raging gaze.

"Don't ever fucking touch me again."