Page 22 of Moonlit Fate

“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…ifI 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.

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