Page 84 of Moonlit Fate

“Until later,” I promised.

“Later,” he echoed.

I waited, watching in fascination as he almost vanished completely, but I could still see his faint silhouette, a shadow within the darkness.

“Show-off,” I muttered with a small smile as I set off in the direction of Silver Claw territory.

Thirty minutes later, I stepped over the threshold of my father’s study, the scent of old leather assaulting my senses, a stark contrast to the wild fragrance of Atticus that still clung to my skin. Father sat behind his broad mahogany desk, the light seeping through the heavy curtains catching his silver-flecked hair. The silence between us was deafening, the air thick with the weight of words unspoken.

“Father,” I began, my voice steady, “we need to talk.”

Ragnar’s gaze lifted from the papers strewn across his desk to rest upon me, an unreadable expression etched into his rugged features. “Where have you been?” he asked, though the sternness in his tone suggested he’d already pieced together the answer.

“I stayed with Atticus.” I braced myself for the storm that might follow.

His gaze turned cool, judgment casting a shadow over his face—a look I had come to know all too well. “I see.”

“Father, I—” But before I could delve into the heart of our troubles, Ragnar held up a hand, halting my words.

“I must apologize,” he said, sorrow tingeing his voice. “For not believing you. For doubting your strength.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, the ache in my chest easing ever so slightly.

“However,” he continued, “I cannot stand by while you entangle yourself with a rogue.” His words felt like a physical blow, dashing the fragile hope that had begun to blossom within me.

“Father, Atticus is?—”

“Atticus is not one of us,” he said, his voice resolute. “You are destined for more. An alpha must not be swayed by divided loyalties. You need a mate of pure blood. One who can unite the pack, not fracture it.”

“Is that what this is about? Bloodlines? Tradition?” I asked bitterly, struggling to reconcile the father I knew with the man who held fast to outdated ideals and prejudices.

“Your mother and I…” he said, softening. “Our union was arranged. It allowed me to focus on leading, on being the alpha this pack deserved. Love bloomed over time, in tandem with our shared purpose.”

“Love shouldn’t be timed or measured,” I protested, fighting the swell of despair. “It should be free, wild. Like the bond I share with Atticus.”

“Perhaps,” Ragnar said, though his eyes remained clouded with doubt. “But understand this: the way of the Silver Claw alpha is not one of whimsy. It is duty, sacrifice. It is choosing the pack above all else.”

“Even above happiness?”

“Especiallyabove happiness,” he replied. “One day, perhaps when I’m no longer here to witness it, you’ll understand.”

His cryptic words settled over me like a shroud, their true meaning obscured. It was a future conversation, a revelation reserved for another time. For now, my task was clear.

I twisted the delicate silver bracelet around my wrist, feeling its weight like a shackle, a bittersweet symbol of love entwined with sorrow. The cold metal pressed against my skin, mirroring the chill in my heart as I absorbed the weight of my father’s words. He had spoken them with such unwavering belief, his eyes dark pools of conviction.

I gazed down at the trinket. The inlaid stones shimmered with an ethereal glow. It triggered the memory of Atticus’s words. If the stones darkened, it would signify deceit, but they remained unchanged, meaning my father had spoken the truth. His truth. Ragnar didn’t just disapprove of my bond with Atticus; he wholeheartedly believed it to be wrong.

The air around me grew heavy, laden with the scent of ancient wood and the musk of wolf—the very essence of my father’s study and all it represented. Duty. Legacy. Supremacy. These were not just ideals to Ragnar; they were unshakable truths, dictating our lives with the force of ancestral law.

“Is this really what you believe?” I asked. “That I should stand alone, lead without him?” My voice cracked, revealing the fracture lines spreading through my composure. It was one thing to defy your alpha based on principle, another entirely when he stood before you with raw honesty etched into every line of his face.

“An alpha must sacrifice,” Ragnar replied, his tone resolute yet tinged with something that might have been regret. His gaze drifted to the window, overlooking the vast expanse of our territory. “You know as well as I do that some choices are made for us the moment we’re born.”

Anger flared within me, hot and reckless. I wanted to scream, to rage against the invisible chains of tradition and expectation. But beneath the ire lay a sliver of doubt, insidious as a whisper in the dark. What if my father was right? What if my love for Atticus, as boundless and consuming as it was, clouded my judgment? Weakened my resolve?

Atticus was my rogue, my chosen one, whose soul danced with mine under the moonlight. With him, I loved more fiercely, saw the world painted in vibrant hues of passion and possibility. Yet, here I stood, questioning whether I could truly balance the mantle of alpha with my desire. Could I be everything to everyone? To my pack? To him?

“Your heart may belong to the rogue, but remember where your loyalty must remain.” Ragnar’s words interrupted my turmoil, stark and uncompromising.

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