Atticus pulls at Clara’s wrist. Despite his engulfing rage, conscious of his gentleness. Guiding her in his room first, he closes the door behind them. Rushing over to his radio, a random selection of songs playing, he turns up the dial drowning out the silence. Clara’s eyes search his mates, fear of insanity present. “What’s going on?” Her words hushed and dulled under the background noise. She takes a step forward reaching for her mate. His step retreating, much to Creed’s arguing. Atticus has always been good at blocking out Creed’s demands. But his wolf was furious, his rage something Atticus could not conquer. His fangs protruding, glinting in the dim silver light. Squeezing his eyes shut he shakes his head.
“Not now Creed.” The wolf’s guttural growls rising.
Clara inches backwards,
