The Birth Of The Beta

7. A CALCULATING ENGAGEMENT

Weeks had passed since Aoife’s birthday, and alongside training the gladiators she had been practising shifting and fighting in wolf form with Pepin. Initially, Pepin had been slightly more skilled than Aoife in his wolf form, and he boasted about it as often as he could, much to Aoife’s irritation. Clovis was a calculating wolf. He anticipated and judged how to dominate his opponent, but Neve was furious and wild. However, the imprint of Aoife’s teeth on his side and the claw mark on his back were a clear indication that he was back to being an amateur compared to the precision of his mate’s skills. Neve was calmed in his presence and the shadow of anger that was always attached to her was fading thanks to Clovis, who was her constant sunshine. Regrettably, Aoife needed more convincing to accept Pepin fully. She was resolved not to let him in. She would protect herself from the loss that loving him would inevitably cause her.

“You know I let you win, right?” He nudged her, as he swaggered alongside her.

“First of all, you will never ‘let’ me do anything. Secondly, if you let me win, you should quit trying to be a gladiator and join the travelling theatre. I hear they are looking for clowns and actors. After all, your acting skills are so incredible, I can still see the tears in your eyes that began from when you let me bite you,” Aoife wittily returned.

Pepin thought it was one thing to lose to her in sparring, and to submit to her wolf as she had him pinned to the ground, but to lose in a war of words was a battle he refused to concede.

“The tears are there because your beauty makes me lose a grip on all my emotions, you do strange things to me woman,” Pepin smirked. Aoife scoffed and rolled her eyes, but the rosiness in her cheeks betrayed how much she liked his compliment.

Since her shift, neither of them had talked about the fact they were mates. However, that didn’t mean the dynamic between them hadn’t changed. It was subtle, but noticeable. Just like on her birthday, Pepin had served her breakfast each day, not taking a bite of his own food until he saw her enjoying what he presented. Equally, Aoife served the evening meal for them both every night and always gave Pepin the slightly larger portion. When they sat down on the benches to eat, an observer would assume they had become good friends, but as the skin of their bare thighs touched each other the sensation was stupefying. It seemed to others that they didn’t speak because they had nothing to say to each other, but in reality it was because they were so fixated on the passionate prickles that to form words was too complex. They were lost in the orchestra of arousal that tantalised them, but like an ensemble without a conductor, their desire had no direction and they were struggling to follow the score, they simply replayed and relished the tentative notes of the introduction every single night.

When they passed the kitchen, Winnifred was wearing a soft blue head band, which was knotted at the back of her head rather than in her usual decorative bow. She looked like she had tried to accessories this morning by wearing a matching blue tunic, but her clothes were covered in flour and butter grease. Appearing completely frazzled and bothered, with short wisps of her hair protruding in all directions, sweat glistening on her forehead and a stack of bowls balanced on her left arm, while her right hand was frantically stirring a pot of stew in an erratic motion.

“Are you OK?” Aoife asked, as he took the stack of bowls from her and placed them on the kitchen side.

“Haven’t you heard? Magnus is coming home later today. Cornelius said not to make a fuss, but you know he will expect to see his favourite food and meals. He will be so angry if they aren’t ready for him, and then Magnus and Cornelius will argue even more,” Winnifred wailed as she seemed to plummet from nervous to hysterical.

“We know exactly what he is like, you could make him every dish he could possibly want, but he will still find something to argue with his father about,” Aoife reasoned with her.

“If he has one criticism of your cooking, Winnie, then he doesn’t know what good food is, everything you make is fit for an emperor,” Pepin tried to reassure her. Winnifred beamed at his compliment and seemed to calm herself.

“Cornelius asked to see you both in his office after training,” Winnifred suddenly remembered, before returning to her extensive banquet menu, looking far more determined than she was before.

When Aoife and Pepin arrived at Cornelius’ office, he wasn’t his usual cheerful self. A frown was deeply drawn into his forehead, and his jaw was clenched. Pepin had never seen Cornelius so angry before, but Aoife knew the reason for it: Magnus. His son. His disappointment. Magnus was of Cornelius’ blood, but that was the only thing that they had in common. Where the father was altruistic, generous and a true visionary unconcerned by the opinions of others, the son was cruel, money-grabbing and aspired to impress the people that Cornelius wouldn’t demean himself to share a drink with. Magnus conformed to the attitudes of the wealthy and Cornelius rebelled against them.

“When will he arrive?” Aoife asked.

“He was supposed to arrive thirty minutes ago,” Cornelius criticised his absent son.

“What do you think he wants? I thought he would be studying for another two months,” Aoife questioned further.

“Apparently, he has some grand announcement to make,” Cornelius sarcastically responded.

Pepin wanted to ask why such bad feeling was leaking out of the room like sewage, but before he could, a commotion at the entrance diverted his attention. Heavy steps marched across the atrium, the unnecessary stomping was an attempt to convey authority, but to the three in the office it sounded more like a toddler’s tantrum.

“Father! Don’t you greet your guests at the door anymore?” Magnus’ voice admonished, as he walked into the office, followed by a young woman.

“I do when they are not half an hour late,” Cornelius bit back, and Magnus had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

“Accept my apologies, I wanted to look my best and time escaped me,” The young woman declared, waving her hand as if time keeping was as inconsequential as a persistent fly.

The young woman was wearing a silk toga, in a deep purple colour, and her intricate hairstyle sat like a crown on her head. She condemned the house without speaking. Her eyes were darting around the room visualising the changes she would make, deciding to erect taller columns and have beautiful mosaic floors rather than the simple stone that was in place now. Her verdict was to strip the house bare. She turned up the edges of her nose and lips, as if she might become infected with bad taste if she appraised it too long.

“Who might you be? My son didn’t inform me that he was bringing a guest,” Cornelius appraised her, in the same manner she had judged his home.

“Father, this is Antonia, she is the Governor’s daughter, and she is to become my wife,” Magnus answered, his voice steady and confident.

All eyes turned to the pair, but not a word was uttered to shatter the strain in the room. Oblivious, Antonia was smiling as if this news was a joyous announcement. Magnus pulled back his shoulders and stood a little taller, preparing himself for the predictable clash. Aoife and Pepin looked at each other, unsure if they should stay or leave. Cornelius’ frown was even deeper than before. The Governor was his enemy, and to insult his daughter by refusing to accept the proposal would sway the public in his favour. Discontentedness was overwhelmingly acute in Cornelius’ heart. His son had finally declared for his rival, and there was little he could do to redeem himself in his father’s eyes.

“Slave, go and get some wine so that your master can celebrate this happy news,” Antonia ordered. The room stilled. Even Magnus looked uncomfortable. The disgust on Cornelius’ face made the room seem colder.

“We do not have slaves in this house, Antonia. Even if we did, it wouldn’t be your place to give those orders,” Cornelius’ delivery was chilling and irrefutable.

Magnus was incensed that his father would humiliate him in front of his bride to be. In his opinion it was his father who was strange for not keeping slaves. How was Antonia, who was raised in a normal household, supposed to understand his father’s eccentricities when it came to his abnormal love of wolves? He held out his hand to his fiancée, mainly to show he agreed with her.

“It will be ours when we are married dear, that’s what my father told me,” Magnus comforted Antonia, although his tone was laced with his scheming intent. Aoife couldn’t help the sneer on her own face as it became clear why Magnus had really arranged this engagement. He wanted the Ludus.

“We shall see!” Cornelius responded, cutting off any further attempt at discussion.