Oddly Fated Mates: Freya and Atticus

Chapter Eight

Atticus

I can still feel her hands writhing over my wrists, her hips grinding into mine, the snarl that lit me on fire and had my wolf preening under her command. It sickens me.

Can she not control herself, for fuck's sake?

Get that beastly wolf under control?

Apparently not.

The back door slams shut, and I get to my feet and sigh. The evil spell is broken. I need to return to normality. And normality means cleaning up my mess, finishing unpacking the kitchen, and finding somewhere to sleep for the night that isn't anywhere near my Fated mate. Lest she get any ideas in her sleep.

After the kitchen is looking perfectly homey—it clearly hasn't gotten the message yet that this is not a picture-perfect American dream—I head on upstairs and remind myself of the layout. It has been a few years since I snuck out here.

But everything it still intact: the main bedroom, the bathroom, the gym, and my library. The smell of age-old books hits my senses, washing me of the metallic peachy smell doused all over me. Seriously? Can't she smell of something better? Like flowers or trees?

But no matter how much I try to deny it, that peachy metal scent is all Freya, and I quickly find myself running my nose along my wrist. I yank my wolf back. No. We're not here to indulge. We're here to attempt some kind of peaceful life.

My wolf shudders at my control, reluctantly following orders. For now.

My fingers run along the spines of my collection that's taken me a good decade to collect, and I smile. This is my biggest secret, my greatest pleasure, and yet my heaviest burden. I was never born to be Alpha.

I leaf through a book on the history of the moon goddess and how she once assimilated the magic of an ancient witch, giving us the ability to shift into wolves; though, the older I get, the more I wish I didn't have that gift. When your wolf is weaker than a pup, it's more of a curse.

And to top it off, I can things other Alphas can't. That other wolves can't. Well, nearly all other wolves. I spin in the desk chair to face the window box I plan to grow some basic herbs and flowers in, starting with the Lily of Valley for mental stability and happiness and Roses for harmony, tranquillity, and psychic abilities. Oh, maybe some yellow roses would be a good addition—they might help promote friendship.

Because I will not be entertaining the idea of anything else. But the memory of her lips, of her control over my body, and how responsive I was almost instinctively makes my blood boil with something other than rage. Can it be possible the goddess is trying to make a match? That maybe we're letting our feelings get in the way?

"Argh!" I don't care. Even if I am getting in my way, then I'll be my own shield with pride. I can't mate with her. "But leaving means . . ."

"Banishment," Freya says from the doorway.

I flinch, not having heard her. "Fucking knock next time."

"On the door to my study?"

Her study? Right. She probably thinks these books are for her training.

"Unless these are yours." She gestures to the shelves where rows upon rows of books sit about the history of our pack, of werewolves, of how magic works, and a million other topics.

But I stay silent. I should lie. I should say or do something to reroute her suspicion. But I don't.

She looks me up and down, assessing my non-reaction. "Seriously?" She whistles. "I knew you were a giant nerd, but these are insane, Atty." The old nickname slips from her lips before she can catch it. And I know it pisses her off. Because she clenches her fists and forcibly exhales a frustrated breath before turning around to face me once again. "Look," she begins, "unless you want to be a lone wolf out in the human world, we need to find a way to get along."

I nod. "I don't . . . This is my home."

Those eyes gleam unshed tears for a moment, meeting mine in a haze of understanding. It doesn't matter how much she hates me, she loves her home and her people more. So even if it means sharing a house with her worst enemy, she'll do it. She'll stay mated to me.

But I don't know if I'm that strong.

She's here—in my space, in my life, wrapped around my sense—twenty-four-seven, and I can't shake the old feeling of familiarity. The scent I used to chase up trees. The eyes I used to seek out in every crowd.

The person who was once my greatest treasure. Who lost everything and then made me her enemy. Who tortured me, locked me in a box and threw away the key. And I could do nothing but scream into the void.

"This is like a nightmare I can't wake up from." A frustrated hand running through my hair falls to my lap. Defeated. "I don't want it to be you, Freya. Anyone but you." Tears threaten, but I force a growl out my throat.

"You think I don't feel the same?" She storm toward me, standing on the other side the desk like a warrior. "You think I wouldn't give anything to change Fate?"

"Given what you did to me downstairs, I'd suggest otherwise, yeah." I'm not an innocent teenager anymore. I didn't have to sit here and take her emotions like a battering ram. "You think assaulting me is okay?"

"Stop lying to yourself, Atticus." She made sure to spell my name out with her tongue. "You wanted it just as much." Her eyes graced my body with seething hated and frustrated lust. "I felt it."

"And I felt violated." My teeth clench, but I force the air through to form words. "Leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone."

"And what about when Grandma and Alpha come knocking, huh? What about when we have to attend parties, have to run this pack, have to produce the next Alpha and High Matriarch? What then, genius?"

My fist slams on the desk as I shoot up, standing to meet her. "I don't fucking know!" She's impossible. Always wanting answers, always throwing her emotions around the room like a child, always needing me to be something I can't possibly be for her. "I don't know."

"Well, we best figure it out, because Grandma will be here tomorrow with a casserole and all our friends, practically half the fucking pack, to celebrate our mating."

"What!" The words are practically a shriek.

"Don't yell at me, it's not my fault." She shrugs. "I can't control what she does, and it is tradition, after all."

My hand waves dismissively. "Fuck tradition."

She flinches, as though I just struck her, and for the first time in my life, I'm looking at her as High Matriarch, because right now, she looks hurt that I don't care about upholding tradition. Something she's had drilled into her her whole life.

Something I do care about.

I just don't know how to care about it with her.