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SIXTY-EIGHT | DEAD FLOWERS
Atticus
The weight of the sword in his hand was nice, Atticus thought, swinging it in time with his long strides. A light wind caught his hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, revelling in the feel of sunlight on his face.
Even though he’d been walking for what felt like forever, nothing could bring down his mood. How long had he been waiting for this moment? If this walk felt like forever, then he had been waiting an eternity to see his beloved again. Beloved! He snorted at the idea of it, though it settled like a vice around his traitorous heart.
Even here, even now, he could not admit the depth of his feelings – not even to himself. He gripped the hilt of the sword tighter, peering into the distance in the hope of seeing some sign of the Red Ripper pack. Or, better still, some sign of Lily.
Lily. Her name felt like a caress, fluttering through his body until he was sure his muscles were melting
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