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She loves her men. It’s the perfect way to get acquainted with our mates, and, of course, she’s taken the opportunity to get to know them better. She’s been sneaky, giving them love bites and kisses, determined to try and further our bonds.
Well, we’ve done this with all of them except Orson, who chose not to join us. It hurt my feelings—well, it hurt my wolf’s feelings, and she projected that hurt onto me—but he likely wouldn’t have enjoyed playing anyway.
It’s not until we get closer to the cabin I realise Orson has spent time cooking. I smell the different scents, the spices of the curry he’s preparing, and my tummy rumbles.
I shift back from my wolf, grateful that whatever magic that allows us to shift also allows us to keep our clothes as long as we focus. The wind has picked up, and it didn’t bother me when I was in my fur, but now? It’s fucking freezing.
I pull my jacket around me tighter, glad Orson had the foresight to put it on me before we got in the car.
As a group, we head up to the cabin, Voss and Fin bickering over who was the best at playing, despite neither of them really being the right size for the games.
Voss couldn’t knock me over, or even really catch me, but he had fun making me chase him. And Griffin’s large size, especially his wings and tail, made it hard for him to be as nimble in the games as my tigers and lion could.
I don’t think they realise it, though, but their effort into playing made me appreciate them all the more when it didn’t come naturally easy to them.
Micah pushes the front door open, and I’m the last in the house. I gasp at my first look of the inside. The others disperse, talking about showers and the like, but I’m more focused on the interior of the cabin. It’s so rustic, so beautiful. Everything seems to be high end, and still hit the aesthetics. I’m looking at this beautifully carved table, knowing that somebody has actually sat and put hours and hours into it. The little details, the polishing, it’s all perfect.
The scents on the blankets are firmly that of Orson, but there’s little touches scattered through that bring in the personality of Atticus, Malachi, and Micah. It’s clearly a family place.
“Who owns this?” I ask, hovering in the doorway of the living room, despite already knowing the answer.
“I do,” Atticus says.
I roll my eyes, and look at Malachi, the only other person still down here with us. I raise an eyebrow. “Who actually owns it?”
Mal snorts, pressing his fist against his mouth to try and hide it. It’s futile, though, since the scent of his amusement fills the air. “Nah, for once, this one actually is his. Orson spends the most time here, but Atticus’s name is on the deed.”
“Why do you doubt me?” Atticus asks, a pout on his thin, downturned lips. Despite the sadness being fake, I rush to his side anyway so that I can soothe his upset. My wolf wouldn’t allow me to do anything else.
Atticus’s chest puffs out, well aware that his tactics are working. I could chastise him, but I don’t bother. I love him the way he is.
“I don’t doubt you.”
Atticus lifts me into his arms, resting my butt on his forearms, and puts us so that we’re face to face, which is good with how short I am compared to him. His facial hair covers his jaw, goes down onto his neck, and rises to about the middle of his cheeks. The dirty blonde colouring is a shade darker than his hair, but it may just be the way it looks on his sandy coloured skin. He’s got a small cut on the underside of his jaw, likely from shaving earlier, that causes a twinge within me.
I lean forward and kiss it softly, and the way his ocean blue eyes light up shows me how much he appreciates it. But I am super sweaty from that run and feel a little weird about being this close to his nose, so I don’t kiss him properly like he’s begging me to do with that heated look.
“What was that about doubt?” he asks, his crisp tone layered with honey and sweetness.
“I don’t doubt you,” I say, flashing him a smile. “I just know that your concept of money varies wildly with that of everyone else.”
“When you’ve got as much money as I do, you’ve got to think differently.”
“Well, good thing that I’m not rich,” I say, smirking at him. “I get to keep my level-headedness.”
“What do you mean?”
“I only have my money that I get from you.” I wink, but he still seems confused. Is he confused about what money he gives me or that it’s not enough to make me rich? Sigh. Rich people problems. “You know, that little stipend you pay me out of the goodness of your heart when I turn up for work.”
Mal coughs out a laugh, but Atticus ignores him.
“Well, if you ever used that bank card I gave you a few weeks back, you’d understand how rich you are now,” he says, pressing a kiss to my nose.
I smile. “Maybe.” I put up a fight when he gave me the Coutts card, but I have less of an issue with it now. I think back to the book I’m reading, how the main character fought the billionaire love interests for buying her expensive things because she had her own money.
I know deep down that will never be me.
Ignoring the fact that I protested when Atticus bought me the dress for the gala because that was both a work event, and it was before I realised we were mates, I’ll not turn down the lifestyle that his extreme wealth affords him.
