Two weeks had passed, time elapsing quickly. Clara had spent most of it drunk with Atticus. It was as if they had never come across the book. She hadn’t dare to approach the subject again, no matter how inebriated they became. There was a glimmer in his eyes. A growing hatred rising in Atticus towards the alpha, his own father. To anyone else, the signs invisible. But each breakfast, each dinner. That simmering resentment built. Watching Atticus had been all the answers she needed to reassure her, the book had in fact been real and Atticus had shut down. He had been awfully good at blocking out the truth. It gnawed at Clara relentlessly. On some nights where she felt extra brave. She debated going for the book herself. Each time chickening out. Without Atticus opening up about what he had
