Sun Child |✔|

|14|

There was never butterflies. 

Just fire. 

***

The drive is four hours.

I sit in the front, next to Atlas, while Lilah chats in the back.

She fills in the silence. Talking about the pack.

"The Alba Rosa pack is the fifth largest pack in North America," I turn to her, my eyes wide with the news.

I'm Luna of this pack.

She sees my fear and laughs, "Don't worry, we have a good system set in place, and everything runs smoothly."

I nod, but the growing uneasiness only rises more and more within my chest as Lilah continues speaking.

"I have a mother, her name is Grace. My father's name is John- don't mind him, he can be an ass sometimes. And I have a twin sister named Quinn. We aren't tight or anything and we can't read each other's mind like you would think."

She continues on and on, talking about how she took beta position from her Uncle, and how Atlas chose her himself.

I look at Atlas. It's his story I want to hear about.

"So why do you paint?"

The question startles me, and makes me glance back to Lilah in confusion. No one has ever asked me that question.

"What?"

"Why do you paint?"

I think for a second. "It...it lets me...escape."

I cringe at the words but Lilah nods, "training does that also."

I don't want to agree with her. I'm not sure I agree with her. Training just...didn't appeal to me. I knew that defense was important. I knew that better than anyone.

But within my pack, the grounds always held a fear for me.

A fear because that place was the start that lead to my brokenness.

"You will train."

Atlas speaks. It's the first time he's done so since the start of the drive.

"I will?"
It's voiced out as a question- not an affirmation.

His blue eyes stare into me as he continues driving, ignoring the road.

"Yes. Within my pack I have a system in place that all wolves are required to undergo two years of training."

I don't want to voice out loud how awful that system sounds.

How pressuring and brutal it seems when he says it.

"O...okay...."

The Luna's words ring within my head.

Adapt.

I can't fight him.

I know I can't.

Part of me knows that if he had decided that he didn't want me to bring my paints.

Then I wouldn't be bringing my paints.

I wonder briefly if this would still happen if I was more like Lilah. Would he avoid my gaze and avoid speaking, if I was more like the warrior behind me?

If I had, not the small soft edges around my stomach and arms, but instead the lean tone muscles?

If I had clothes that were easy to shift in and out of.