Page 55 of Moonlit Fate

“Morning,” I said, my voice hoarse. It was an odd feeling, this tranquility. Like wearing someone else’s clothes.

Atticus moved, his eyelids barely opening, but he gave me a lazy smile that set off a riotous fluttering in my stomach. He rolled over and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

“Good morning,” he said. “We have a new day to conquer.”

“Starting with...?” I raised myself up on one elbow.

“Breakfast,” he said, and slipped out from under the blanket, pulling on his pants but leaving them unbuttoned. My gaze trailed over his bare chest down to the trail of hair that disappeared into his pants. He padded barefoot across the stone floor to the threshold that led out to the common areas.

A part of me wanted to linger in bed, to hold onto the serenity a while longer. But the pull of companionship, the simple pleasure of sharing a meal, coaxed me to dress and follow him out of the bedroom.

In the kitchen, Atticus moved with ease, gathering ingredients like a man who knew his way around pots and pans. I leaned against the wall, watching him. There was something unexpectedly tender about this warrior-turned-chef wielding a spatula instead of a sword.

“Need any help?” I asked. The idea of cooking was about as alien to me as diplomatic subtlety, but I was willing to learn.

“Keep me company,” he answered over his shoulder. “That’s help enough.”

As the scent of brewing coffee intermingled with the crisp morning air, Atticus cracked eggs into a bowl with a rhythmic precision that was almost hypnotic. The clink of the whisk against the ceramic sent a comforting cadence through the kitchen.

My short-lived happiness was ruined by reality pressing in from all sides. Here, in this slice of domestic tranquility, I found a strange peace. One that seemed so fragile when held against the backdrop of doubt and discord that marred my life beyond these walls. However, as much as I yearned for it, I couldn’t deny the truth that this was merely a temporary respite. Though I hated the prospect, I’d have to confront the harsh realities of the real world and the role I was destined to play. With limited time left in this secluded bubble, I would have to make the most of every precious second.

Crossing my arms, I leaned back against the counter as Atticus flipped a pancake with a flourish. The golden disc sailed through the air, landing back in the pan with a satisfying splat. The corners of my mouth twitched despite the turmoil churning in my stomach.

“Show-off,” I teased.

“Only for you,” he said with easy confidence.

With the aroma of maple syrup and sizzling bacon cocooning me, I allowed myself to consider the chaos that awaited beyond Atticus’s den. My father’s stern face, the disappointment clear in the lines of his forehead, played through my mind. Why couldn’t he see the truth?

“Are you okay?” Atticus asked, looking at me in concern.

“Fine,” I said, mustering a smile, but my heart constricted.

Atticus set down the spatula and stepped closer. His hand found mine, warmth enveloping my cold fingers. “We’re going to get through this.”

Grief, affection, and fear swirled inside me. I was in serious danger of being swept away. But there was also strength, kindled by the steadfast presence of the man before me.

“Pass me the salt?” he asked.

“Sure.” I reached for the shaker and handed it to him. “Do you always cook breakfast like this?”

“Only on special occasions,” he said.

I chuckled. So, our night together counted as a special occasion for him. “Does burning toast count as your specialty, or is that reserved for more formal events?”

“Ha-ha,” he said, feigning offense. “For your information, I’ve mastered the art of not burning toast. It’s all about vigilance and a keen sense of timing.”

“Right, because watching bread brown is the height of culinary expertise,” I said, the banter lightening the iron weight in my chest.

He fixed me a plate and handed me a fork. “Eat up before it gets cold.”

We sat at the small table in the back of the room. Birds chirped outside, a reminder that the world carried on, oblivious to the turmoil of werewolf politics and prophetic rituals.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Surprisingly, yes.” I poked at the scrambled eggs with my fork, my thoughts drifting. “It’s been a while since I haven’t woken with a mile-long to-do list waiting for me.”

Atticus frowned. “Sounds exhausting.”

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