6. Aria

6

ARIA

T endrils of steam curled lazily around me, the fragrance of lavender and chamomile infusing the air with a calming embrace. I sank into the bathtub, the warm water lapping against my bare skin. It did nothing to wash away the chaos of my mind. It should have been soothing, an escape, but my mind was refusing tranquility.

Atticus’s face, his piercing eyes, swirled behind my closed eyelids. He claimed we shared a crescent moon birthmark, but I hadn’t seen his, had I? Who knew if he was telling the truth. It had been days since I'd seen him, yet there was no way to expel him from my thoughts.

I exhaled deeply, my breath mingling with the humid air as I summoned droplets from the surface of the bath. The water rose obediently, suspended in mid-air at my command. The pack would never understand this gift of mine, this ability to maneuver and play with water. They feared anything that deviated from the norm. A grin spread across my face as a wave of rebellion washed over me, providing a greater warmth than the bathwater. I skillfully manipulated the droplets, fashioning them into intricate figures that twirled and spun in a liquid carousel.

My fingers trailed through the water, guiding the small aquatic performers in their aerial ballet. The figures twirled, spun, and bowed under my direction. For a moment, the spectacle mesmerized me, offering a brief respite from my anxiety.

As the water figures continued their delicate waltz, my thoughts inevitably returned to him. Atticus, the rogue who had stumbled into my life, bringing with him questions, desires, and that haunting connection. Our matching birthmarks… it should’ve been impossible. I’d always been told that marks like mine were exceptionally rare. My father had been so proud of mine, believing it to be a gift from the spirits themselves. Mine was on my collarbone, a pale sigil that now found its echo on his hip. It was as though the gods were deliberately tormenting me, presenting their riddles in the form of living, breathing beings.

I slowed the carousel of water, the figures melding back into the bath. I leaned my head against the cool rim of the tub and closed my eyes, searching for solace in the enveloping warmth and aromatic fog.

With a reluctant groan, I opened my eyes. The thick steam clung to me, wrapping me in a misty embrace that was supposed to offer comfort. The softness of lavender and chamomile failed to meet the mark.

As the water lapped at my skin, I imagined it was the phantom caress of his hands, rough yet tender, that had traced the contours of my face with surprising gentleness. A tremor coursed through my body.

Fine. If fate wanted to play games, I’d see how far this thread unraveled. My resolve hardened. I needed to see his mark and confirm the truth. Even as the idea of seeing him surfaced, so did the undeniable pull toward him.

My hand drifted, as though drawn by a force beyond my control, tracing the contours of my collarbone before venturing lower. With each inch of skin I explored, memories of Atticus threatened to overwhelm me. His laughter, the wicked gleam in his gaze, the way my name rolled off his tongue, coated in honey and hidden thorns.

My fingers slipped into the water, sensing the heat gathering at the apex of my thighs, the dull throb that demanded release.

I tried to think of something else, but it proved useless. Atticus had infiltrated me, his image branded behind my eyelids, fueling my desire until it roared through my veins.

I sighed, the sound turning into a deep, primal moan as I succumbed completely to the fantasy. In the privacy of my bath, I chased the pleasure he evoked inside me, my movements becoming more insistent, more purposeful.

“Atticus,” I whispered, his name a sacred incantation that hastened my unraveling.

My body tensed, muscles coiling tight as a drumbeat before the crescendo hit, sending waves of ecstasy crashing over me. It was a release as much as it was a betrayal.

As my stolen ecstasy ebbed away, a tide of self-loathing took its place. How could I have let myself be consumed by desire for Atticus? A rogue, no less. Yes, he was handsome with an untamed, captivating rawness, but he did not fit the criteria for the mate of a future alpha. A quick fuck, maybe, but nothing more.

“Stupid,” I muttered.

Reluctantly, I got out of the tub, the tile floor cold beneath my bare feet. The steamy haze of the bathroom seemed to mock my turmoil, the scent of my arousal lingering in the air as I grabbed a towel.

“Tonight is about Larkin,” I told my reflection, trying to steel myself against the pull of forbidden yearnings. I dried off and wrapped the plush towel around me, its softness a poor substitute for the touch I truly craved.

With slow, deliberate movements, I dressed for the evening, each layer of clothing armor against the onslaught of emotion that threatened to breach my composure. Tati, ever the dutiful assistant, fussed over me, her hands deftly arranging my hair and smoothing out the lines of my dress.

“Larkin will be so taken with you tonight,” she chirped.

“Will he?” I said absently, my gaze fixed on a distant point as if I possessed the power to see through the walls and catch one more glimpse of the wild rogue.

“Of course! You two are perfect for each other.” Tati smiled at me. “A match made to lead.”

“Right. A match,” I said flatly, the word ash on my tongue. Perfect on paper, perhaps, but the absence of passion between Larkin and me was glaringly obvious to anyone who observed us.

“Are you sick?” Tati leaned in closer to me, placing her hand on my forehead, her eyes filled with worry as she studied my face.

“No, I’m perfectly fine.” The smile I offered her was as brittle as thin ice. “Just pre-date jitters, I suppose.”

“Ah, understandable,” she said with a knowing nod, mistaking my anxiety for excitement.

“Thank you.” I dismissed her with a gentle wave. I needed quiet, a moment to put on the mask of the dutiful daughter, the future alpha who would sit across from Larkin and entertain the pretense of our union.

As Tati left, my heart sank, and I sighed heavily. The room suddenly grew colder. A quick glance in the mirror showed a poised, polished woman, but beneath the surface, a fire raged, stoked by memories of a rogue who had ignited something dangerous in my soul.

The chime of the doorbell pulled me from my reverie, the sound jarring against the quiet of my chambers. A primal part of me wished to dive into the lavender-scented waters and hide in my bath while the world outside this sanctuary dissolved into oblivion. Taking one last look at my reflection, I squared my shoulders and walked toward the inevitable.

I padded through the hallway, my heart thudding heavily in time with my steps. The idea of Larkin waiting for me in the dining room, sitting beneath the soft glow of the chandelier, should have excited me, or at least comforted me. Instead, I felt like I was an actor in a well-orchestrated play where every line was rehearsed, every gesture calculated.

Larkin. His name alone conjured an image of steadfast, unyielding order. He was loyal, strategic, with a mind as sharp as a blade—all good qualities.

Trying not to groan at the sheer dullness of it all, I descended the staircase, the expensive fabric of the carpets whispering against my soft-soled slippers.

Love was not a luxury afforded to those who lead.

The family home, with its grandeur and history, had been transformed tonight into an intimate cocoon of courtship. I looked over the dining room, noting how the space had been manipulated to evoke an impression of privacy and closeness. The staff had put in a commendable effort, but it did little to ease my restless spirit. Chaperones lurked in the shadows, their presence felt but not seen.

“Good evening.” Rising from his seat at the table, Larkin exuded confidence. He looked as if he belonged here, already comfortable in his position.

“Good evening.”

“Shall we?” He gestured at the table, and I nodded, allowing the mask of the perfect future mate to settle firmly into place. As we settled into our seats, the subtle clinking of silverware and the gentle rustling of linen napkins set the stage for an evening where every word spoken would be weighed, every glance scrutinized by eyes unseen.

But beyond these walls, in the wild corners of my heart, the rogue’s touch lingered, a tempestuous reminder that fate had a twisted sense of humor.

“Your father has high hopes for this union,” Larkin said, brimming with a charm that had been honed over many such discussions.

“Indeed.” I studied him from across the candlelit table.

He leaned forward ever so slightly and took my hand, his thumb skimming circles on the skin of my palm. “With our union, we can really strengthen the pack’s position in the region.” His words radiated with ambition and eagerness for power.

Ugh.

“Strength comes in many forms,” I explained, carefully extracting my hand from his. “And unity is not solely forged through bonds of matrimony.”

“True, but consider the alliances we could secure, the respect we’d command.” A persuasive smirk played at the corners of his lips. I suspected it was meant to flatter, and I’d bet all the gold in the treasury that other girls in the pack found his half-smile irresistible. It only left an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

His inquiries flowed, one after another, a river seeking the way of least resistance. He posed questions about the pack’s resources, its defenses, the vulnerabilities that only those in the inner circle would know. The genteel conversation cloaked an underlying interrogation.

I responded, each sentence measured and laden with the caution of someone walking a tightrope. I felt more like I was being investigated than wooed. There were no questions about my dreams, no inquiry into the passions that set my heart beating. Larkin was not interested in Aria the woman. All that mattered were the ways in which our mating had the potential to elevate him in the pack.

“Strategic alliances are important,” I stated coolly. “But they are not the only consideration when it comes to leading.”

“Of course not,” he replied smoothly.

In the silence that followed, a single question throbbed in my mind: Where did love fit into the equation of power and unity?

The polite smile I had worn throughout dinner finally crumbled as I excused myself. I stood up from the table, and Larkin, ever the gentleman, rose from his seat and took my hand. Instead of shaking it, he surprised me by raising it to his mouth. His lips grazed my knuckles, but I felt nothing.

His touch was an insincere, superficial display, and the smile he gave me never reached his eyes.

“Goodnight, Aria,” he said, his eyes lingering on my lips. “I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to kiss more than just your hand.” He turned and left the room.

“I bet,” I muttered to myself. I felt so uncomfortable in his company.

Slipping outside, my feet found reassurance in the cool grass as I ventured into the gardens. Here, beneath the blanket of stars, the stifling expectations and propriety lifted from my shoulders temporarily.

I inhaled the lingering sweetness of night-blooming flowers. The gardens were my reprieve, a place where I could simply be Aria, free from the constraints of my duties.

Yet even here, surrounded by the serenity of nature, an unsettling energy prickled at my skin. It was as if the forest was bracing itself, tense and waiting. I strolled along the winding paths, looking toward the tree line. The whispers of the leaves carried a disharmony, a clashing melody that sang of change and disruption.

I stopped at the ornamental pond, watching the constellations reflected on the water’s surface. My own reflection stared back, a ghostly echo distorted by the gentle ripples. The expectations of my pack, my impending marriage to Larkin… it all loomed over me, a never-ending tide, each wave eroding the shore of my autonomy.

I searched the darkness beyond the garden’s edge. A chilling silence hung all around. It seemed like an omen of trials yet to come.

A figure came into view, interrupting my thoughts and startling me. Larkin.

“I thought you’d left.”

The night had drawn its cloak around the garden, making the shapes of the flowers and trees blur into indistinct silhouettes.

“I wanted to say goodnight again.” Larkin reached out, tucking a stray lock of my silver hair behind my ear with a tenderness that was so damn fake. “You truly are beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Why couldn’t I simply enjoy his attention? Each carefully measured compliment, every planned caress, grated against my spirit. It was unfair to him, this scrutiny that I subjected him to, nitpicking his every move while he was only fulfilling the role assigned to him.

The more I admonished myself to appreciate his efforts, the more I resisted. This routine had been deeply ingrained in me since childhood, with every step and move committed to memory. Yet, now I found myself faltering.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, leaning in closer to me. Larkin’s lips brushed against mine, a gesture meant to seal an evening. I remained motionless, my body rigid, my mind frantic with the effort of trying to find passion where there was nothing but emptiness. When he kissed me, it felt as cold and lifeless as the vast expanse of starry space.

“Goodnight,” I said, detaching myself from his embrace with gentle insistence. His arms clung around me for just a beat too long. “I need to get inside.”

I turned away quickly, not trusting myself to look at him any longer, afraid he’d see my insincerity.

As I headed back to my room, my intuition—a steadfast companion that had never failed me before—urged caution. I had always possessed a keen sixth sense about people’s intentions, and as much as I wanted to trust Larkin, I simply couldn’t bring myself to do so.

I made my way back through the manor, passing the ancestral portraits lining the walls, the eyes of past alphas following my retreat with silent judgment. Their painted faces pierced through me, seeing the disarray of my soul.

As I made my way past the great hall, I caught sight of my father. His presence was commanding, the epitome of what it meant to be alpha. The grand fireplace framed his silhouette, the flickering flames casting his shadow across the floor, elongating it into something formidable and foreboding. The authority he exuded had always been a source of pride, but tonight, that same authority felt like shackles tightening around my wrists.

“Father,” I greeted him, my voice devoid of the warmth I usually carried when addressing him.

“Back so soon?” he asked in surprise. “How was your evening with Larkin?”

I bristled at his casual question, at the obliviousness—or maybe even indifference—to the internal struggle his question stirred in me. How could he not see the conflict on my face, hear the strain and agitation in my voice?

“How could you ask that?” My voice was sharp and accusing, cutting through the stillness of the hall. “How can you just plan out my life without considering what I want?”

He scanned my face, as if seeking the dutiful daughter he’d expected to find before him. But she was not here tonight. Tonight, it was only me, the Aria who yearned for love and freedom, standing before him, raw and exposed.

The fire crackled and popped, filling the void with its rhythmic sounds. Shadows glided over my father’s face, softening the hard lines of authority that marked his features. It did nothing to quell my defiance.

“Because,” my father’s voice cut through the silence like a steel blade, “it’s about more than what you want. It’s about the pack, our future, your obligation as the future alpha. You know this, Aria.”

His cold, unyielding manner shattered the illusion of peace I had crafted around myself. His jaw was set, his eyes unwavering. His stance, immovable as the trees that guarded our lands, left no room for dissent or dreams.

“Why do I need a man by my side to be a successful alpha?” My shout bounced off the marble walls. “Why can’t I choose who I mate… if I mate? And what about my happiness? Am I to sacrifice that for the pack? Am I nothing more than a pawn in your political games?”

I inhaled the sweet scent of herbs meant to calm, but it had no effect on me.

“If Mother were here, she would understand,” I hissed, making my father flinch. His reaction was a small victory, a crack in his impenetrable armor, but he uttered no counterargument.

My heart raced, threatening to overwhelm me. Anger simmered beneath the surface, a feral thing clawing at the walls of my composure.

“I don’t love him,” I said with the kind of vulnerability I seldom allowed myself to show. “I don’t think I can.”

The echo of my own confession seemed to mock me with its truth. A single tear betrayed me, a scalding trickle down my cheek that dropped onto my dress. How could I pledge my entire being, my very existence, to someone who stirred nothing in me?

“In time, you will see the wisdom in this.” With that, my father left, his final statement ringing in my ears.

I retreated to my chambers, needing to escape the world where every interaction required careful performance under constant surveillance. The moon streamed through the window, dappling the floor with ethereal patterns. Staring into the mirror, I allowed the mask to fall, revealing the turmoil that churned beneath my stoic surface.

“It’s not just my future, but who I am. And I am not sure I can live with that,” I muttered.

I slumped onto my bed. The stillness of the night didn’t calm me. With each inhale and exhale, I fought against the tide of expectations that sought to drown me. My eyes were drawn to the window, to the mesmerizing sight of the night sky, and I lost myself in the moon’s gentle luminescence.

The scrape of movement against the stone balcony jolted me back to reality. I turned to look, and Atticus was poised on the precipice of my private world, framed by the night.

“Atticus?” I said his name in a whisper, half in question, half in acknowledgment of his audacity. There was no mistaking the fluidity with which he maintained his balance like a gymnast daring uncertainty on a narrow ledge—a shifter’s poise in its purest form.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed as I rushed toward the balcony doors. “Get out. You can’t just climb into someone’s bedroom.”

Atticus raised his hands palms up in a gesture meant to calm. His piercing, ice-blue eyes bore into mine, and there was an urgency in them that I couldn’t ignore.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry, this isn’t exactly conventional, but I needed to talk to you. It’s important.”

A flicker of curiosity flared through my stubborn anger, a potentially hazardous element in the passionate tinderbox. “This better be good.” I stepped back warily, granting him entry into my sanctuary.

With a fluid motion that betrayed his supernatural heritage, Atticus positioned himself in front of me, his height and the breadth of his shoulders filling the room with new tension. My heart thudded against my ribcage, a drumbeat of warning. Or was it something else? Desire, perhaps, mingled with a fascination that refused to be stifled, no matter how imprudent it might be.

“Speak, then,” I managed to say. The light spilled over him, casting silhouettes that played on the contours of his face, drawing his features with a starkness that rendered him both more intimidating and more alluring.

He took a step closer, and everything inside me screamed at me to maintain distance, to uphold the barriers of protocol and expectation. Yet, Atticus was the embodiment of everything forbidden and enticing, and in that moment, my bravado wavered.

“I learned something today. Something about a prophecy,” he said. “And I think perhaps it is about you and me.”

“Prophecy?” Color me skeptical. “What’s next? Are you going to tell me it’s written in the stars that we’re going to save the world with some ancient magic?” The irritation that had built in me all night found its unfortunate target in him.

He flinched slightly at my outburst, and I immediately regretted the barb. Atticus didn’t deserve my misplaced anger, not when he was brave enough to come here and break through the suffocating propriety of my life.

I rubbed at my temples. “Sorry. It’s been a day.”

Atticus gave a slight nod.

“Go on,” I said, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but the sincerity on his face caught my attention. “Tell me about this prophecy.”

He hesitated, then began to speak. “During my run, I encountered another rogue wolf, one who spoke of changes in the forest, shifts in the balance.” Atticus’s tone held an undercurrent of seriousness that stirred something elemental inside me. “He talked about a prophecy of two shifters who will shift the balance of power. When I mentioned it at dinner, Hale—an old friend, someone I trust—said he’d heard of the prophecy and told me what little he knew. He said that those chosen are marked…” He stuttered to a stop.

“How are they marked, Atticus?” My stomach filled with a thousand butterflies. I had an idea of where he was going, but I needed to hear it from him, no matter how incongruous it sounded.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away from those eyes that seemed to hold the entire ocean within them. He kept them on me as he answered, “He mentioned birthmarks, that those chosen by fate will have marks shaped like the crescent moon. Like ours.”

I stared at him, unblinking, unable to look away. A kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight in my stomach, making my insides churn. This had to be some kind of cruel jest. A test of my faith, perhaps? But no, I didn’t get the impression that Atticus was one for elaborate pranks. That much was painfully obvious.

“So, this prophecy involves us? You and me?” My voice wavered with the incredulity that swept through me. Then, a strained laugh burst from me, as if trying to dispel his claim.

“Yes.” There was no hint of mockery in his tone, only the raw truth of what he believed. Or knew. It was hard to tell which frightened me more.

The room was suddenly smaller, the walls inching closer as his revelation bore down on me. My birthmark, a unique brand I’d carried since birth, now linked me to this man, this rogue who had dared climb into my life as easily as he had scaled the walls of my balcony.

Atticus pointed to me, then to himself. “We both have the crescent moon birthmark. It can’t be a coincidence. I’ve never encountered another shifter with a blemish or birthmark on their skin, let alone one that’s identical to mine.”

This rogue wolf, a man whose very presence turned my world upside down, claimed a connection that defied all logic, yet somehow made a strange kind of sense.

“And what is this prophecy? What does any of this even mean?” I asked, voice trailing off into a soft murmur.

Atticus inched closer. Each word he spoke was measured, deliberate, reverberating with a resonance that vibrated through my core. “I don’t know what it means. I just know it feels right.”

“Let me see it,” I demanded. “Your birthmark. Show me.”

Atticus hesitated briefly before his hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease.

“What are you doing?” I asked, blushing as his intent became clear.

“Showing you,” he said simply, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that did funny things to my insides. The fabric whispered over his skin as he lowered his pants just enough to reveal the crescent moon birthmark on his hip.

My breath hitched. It was identical to mine—the same size, same shape. All that differed was the location. Everything else matched, even the color. Heat curled in my belly, not just from the steam surrounding us, but from the sight of him standing there, so vulnerable and yet so sure.

“See?” he said.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away, the mark and the man drawing me in. The world outside this room, with its expectations and constraints, faded into insignificance. Here, now, it was just me and Atticus, tied by a mark we didn’t understand.

“Identical,” I said. The revelation was as unsettling as it was enthralling. What did this mean for us? For the pack? For who I was? “Atticus, you should go.”

I didn’t want him to leave. A magnetic pull existed between us, one that had been written in the stars long before we were born.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asked. It was a challenge, tempting me to admit what my body so clearly craved.

And then, without thought, without permission from my rational mind, I closed the distance. With a boldness that surprised even myself, I reached up, fingers tangling in his hair, and pulled his head down to meet mine. Our lips crashed together in a kiss that was everything I never knew I needed.

It was fire and ice, night and day, a collision of contrasting sensations that somehow fit perfectly. Where Larkin’s kiss had left me cold and detached, Atticus’s kiss had the power to consume me entirely. His mouth moved against mine with a passion that spoke of longing and recognition, as if our souls had known each other across lifetimes.

I forgot the titles that awaited me, the responsibilities that shackled me, the future that had been meticulously planned out for me. There was only the taste of him, the feel of his teeth as they nipped at my lips, and the undeniable truth that this wild, all-consuming connection was exactly what I had been searching for all along.

“Atticus,” I said against his mouth, a confession, a plea, a name that was the key unlocking parts of me I hadn’t known were locked. My hands roved over his chest, his muscles taut beneath my touch, and I indulged in the mere idea of climbing him, of getting closer than the constraints of our world would allow.

His arms wrapped around me, strong and unyielding, and I clung to him, drowning in the sensation of being utterly, irrevocably wanted. This wasn’t just a kiss; it was a silent vow, a promise of more. A promise of everything.