Sleep never came that night. I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the shadows of the room shifting slowly as the hours passed, moonlight painting patterns that I couldn't focus on. But inside, everything churned restlessly—my mind, my thoughts, my wolf.
Sirius hadn't spoken in hours, but I could feel him prowling just beneath my skin, restless with guilt and longing, pacing like a caged animal desperate for release.
All I could see was Atlas's face. His trembling lips. The fire in his eyes as he broke open in front of me, piece by jagged piece, exposing wounds that should have remained private. And the sound of his voice—raw, furious, wounded—still echoed in my ears, a haunting refrain I couldn't escape.
What he'd gone through… the horrors he'd endured before ever stepping foot on my land, the abuse, the betrayal... They were the kind of truths that left a man hollow. The kind of truths you couldn't ever erase once heard.
And I had forced him to say them aloud. Had demanded he bleed his trauma for my satisfaction.
I turned onto my side, jaw clenched tight enough to ache, teeth grinding together. I had wanted the truth. Demanded it like it was owed to me. But I hadn't been ready for the weight of it, for the crushing guilt that came with knowing. I'd expected lies or misdirection. Not what I got.
Not the broken pieces of a boy who'd spent his life being hunted by the people who were supposed to protect him.
He'd cried in front of me. Tears streaming down his face. And then he walked away with his spine straight, dignity intact despite everything.
Now I couldn't stop thinking about him. About the way his voice cracked when he spoke of his father. About the way he straightened his spine like a soldier even with tears still wet on his cheeks, refusing to let me see him broken.
And more than anything… the way he didn't want my comfort. Because I'd made myself the last person he could turn to, the one who should have believed him from the start.
I groaned and dragged a hand down my face, feeling the stubble rough against my palm.
The ache I felt wasn't just guilt. It was need. Deep, consuming need that threatened to swallow me whole.
Not the kind I could satisfy with a passing touch or a night's distraction. This was deeper, more fundamental. It was him. All of him. His sharpness. His silence. His storm. His strength despite everything. I wanted to protect him, to hold him, to belong to him—and have him belong to me.
But after what I'd done, after the way I'd made him feel, after taking his brother's manipulative word over his truth… Would he ever want me back?
* * *
The next few days passed like walking a tightrope, every step carefully measured. I avoided giving direct orders. I refused to pull rank. If Atlas needed space, he'd have it. I'd wait. Patiently. Carefully. Until he allowed me back in—even if it was only an inch at a time, even if it took months.
The chance came during one of our coordinated night hunts—a standard moon patrol through the forest with division leaders and their seconds running beneath the stars.
In wolf form, I kept pace at the edge of the group, my senses sharp as we ran beneath the trees, paws hitting earth in rhythm. The moonlight painted the world in silver and black, and the wind carried every scent across my tongue—pine, earth, prey. Including his scent. Pine and snowdrops.
I stayed within sight of Atlas, not wanting to be obvious—but I couldn't help noticing something strange. He kept vanishing.
Not just slowing or hanging back. He would disappear entirely, then reappear several meters ahead or in places he shouldn't have been able to reach that quickly, like he was moving through shadows themselves.
At first, I thought it was a coincidence. Then I realized: he was hiding. Deliberately. From me.
But also from the others. Testing his stealth. Playing with shadow and scent like Noelle had been teaching him. Moving in a way I hadn't seen from him before, fluid and controlled. He was good. Too good. Natural at it.
My wolf growled in quiet admiration, pride mixing with longing. Sirius's instincts prickled to life, alert and hungry.
"He's learning to lead," he murmured in my mind. "Becoming what he was always meant to be."
We were tracking a herd of deer when I lost sight of him again. I veered left, slipping through the trees with deliberate silence until I caught movement in a moonlit clearing ahead, silver light illuminating white fur.
There he was—with Piper. Atlas stood tall, white fur gleaming like starlight against the darkness, a freshly killed hare hanging from his jaws, blood staining his muzzle. He dropped it proudly at Piper's feet, tail swishing low in respectful offering, waiting for her assessment like any warrior would.
I stepped into the clearing just as Piper praised him, her voice low and pleased. But the moment I came close to Atlas, his body went stiff, every muscle tensing.
Then—he growled. A deep, warning growl from deep in his chest, aimed squarely at me.
Piper's head whipped toward him, shocked. She growled back, louder. "You do not growl at your Alpha!"
But Sirius was already snapping to the surface. "No one growls at him!"
Before I could stop myself, I snarled back at Piper, sharp and defensive. She froze, taken aback. Sirius's voice thundered in my head: "No one growls at our mate. Never."
Piper dropped her gaze. I gave her a brief signal—leave us. She obeyed. Atlas didn't move as Piper left. He just watched me, silent, guarded, blue eyes reflecting the moonlight. I stepped closer, slow and careful. His growl faded.
Sirius whined softly, pacing behind my ribs, urging me forward, desperate to close the distance.
We approached each other cautiously, circling. Tension crackled between us like lightning waiting to strike. I inched closer, lowering my body into a neutral stance, showing submission.
Then, gently, I nuzzled him. He didn't move away. Encouraged, I nipped at his ear, playful and testing. He allowed it.
For one moment, I felt the bond hum between us. Real. Tactile. But when I went to lick the side of his muzzle—soft and tender—he bared his teeth in warning. And snapped.
Not enough to hurt. But enough to warn. He stepped back, eyes hard, tail raised—not in submission, but in challenge. Then, without hesitation, he shifted.
One blink, and there he was—on two legs, breath visible in the cold air, silver-blonde hair tumbling around his face, chest rising and falling.
Still flushed from the chase, still shining from the hunt—but now dressed in that same wall of silence he'd worn since our last argument.
"Don't push," he said, voice low. "Not tonight." And he turned, walking into the trees, leaving me staring after him, wanting to follow but knowing I had no right. Not yet. Maybe not ever.