Rejected By My Mate; Claimed By Lycan Quadruplets Chapter 81

Kael’s POV

I swear, the first thing I heard this morning wasn’t the chirping of birds, the gentle rustle of leaves, or the distant hum of festival workers—it was Atlas groaning.

Not just any groan, mind you. The deep, put-upon groan of a man who’s regretting every life decision that brought him to the moment of dealing with me before breakfast.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, squinting up at him from where I was sprawled across his desk chair. Yes, *his* chair. Yes, I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. And yes, I was swinging my legs like an overgrown child. “You’re glaring. That’s not healthy first thing in the morning. Bad for your heart.”

Atlas didn’t even glance at me as he sorted through the stack of parchment on the table, muttering under his breath. “You’ve been sitting there for an hour and haven’t done a single thing you were supposed to.”

I gasped. “That’s not true! I’ve been thinking about doing things.”

“That’s not the same as doing them, Kael.”

“It’s called mental preparation,” I said defensively, grabbing the nearest quill and twirling it between my fingers. “Highly important. You wouldn’t understand—you’re more of a… practical type. No imagination.”

Atlas finally stopped, turned, and leveled that look at me. The one where his jaw goes all tight, his brow furrows, and I can practically see him counting to ten in his head. “Do you have any idea how much work we have to do before the celebration starts?”

“Yes. None. We could just… not do it. People will be fine without colorful banners and a feast the size of a mountain. Imagine how much money we’d save.”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, shuffling past me toward the window.

I trailed after him, leaning against the sill. Outside, the courtyard was buzzing—workers stringing up streamers, vendors hauling in crates, and children darting between stalls like chaos incarnate. The air was already rich with the scent of roasting meat and spiced bread. It *looked* like things were going well. Which, in my mind, meant we didn’t need to be stressing.

“See? It’s all under control,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “We could take a nap right now and nobody would even notice.”

Atlas didn’t respond. He was scanning the crowd like a hawk, eyes narrowing every few seconds as if he could spot an error from fifty feet away.

I sighed dramatically. “Atlas. Atlas. Atlas.”

“What?”

“You’re going to give yourself wrinkles.”

He shot me a sidelong glance. “If I do, it’ll be your fault.”

“Oh, I’ll take credit. Imagine how dashing you’ll look—mysterious lines of stress, the weight of leadership etched into your handsome face. The people will swoon.”

Atlas pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“Yes, you are,” I said cheerfully, following him as he moved to check the supply lists. “Because whether you admit it or not, my presence is keeping you sane.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“That’s what *I’m* calling it. You’d be miserable without me. Admit it.”

He didn’t answer, which I took as a silent yes.

We made our way to the main hall where half a dozen people were unloading barrels of wine. I, being a responsible and helpful figure of authority, immediately leaned against the doorframe and observed.

Atlas shot me a glare over his shoulder. “You could at least pretend to help.”

I gasped again, pressing a hand to my chest. “You think I’m not helping? My mere presence inspires them to work harder.”

The workers, bless them, didn’t even look up. Clearly they’d grown immune to my charm.

Atlas stalked over, grabbed my arm, and practically dragged me to the long table covered in parchment and ledgers. “If you’re going to be here, you can check these inventories. Cross-reference the supply list with the actual numbers.”

I stared at the stack of documents like they were a coiled snake. “Ugh. Numbers.”

“Yes. Numbers. They’re important.”

“I’m allergic to them.”

“You’re not allergic to them.”

“I am. Mentally. I start reading them and my brain goes fuzzy. It’s a medical condition.”

“Kael—”

“Fine, fine, I’ll do it,” I said, plopping down and picking up the first sheet. “But I want it on record that I’m doing this under protest. And also that if I die of boredom, it’s your fault.”

Atlas ignored me, which was rude.

I squinted at the columns of figures, frowning. “Who wrote this? Their handwriting is worse than mine.”

“That’s mine.”

“Oh.” I grinned. “Yeah, that tracks.”

The truth was, I *could* do the work if I wanted to. But where was the fun in that? Half the entertainment was seeing how far I could push Atlas before he cracked.

We spent the next half hour in what I considered productive silence—me occasionally reading out a number and Atlas correcting me because I was “misreading” it (I wasn’t), and him muttering about deadlines while I leaned back in my chair and balanced the quill on my nose.

Eventually, I tossed the papers down. “I’m done.”

Atlas glanced over. “You’re not done. You checked three pages.”

“Three very thorough pages.”

“Out of thirty.”

“Quality over quantity, my friend.”

He just stared at me until I sighed and reached for the next sheet. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Atlas. Otherwise I’d have quit ages ago.”

“I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“You say thank you.”

He didn’t.

When we finally finished (and by “finished” I mean I convinced him to take a break before we both died of exhaustion), we headed back outside. The sun was higher now, casting a golden glow over the market stalls. Musicians were tuning their instruments in the corner, and the rhythmic pounding of drums mingled with the chatter of merchants.

I tugged on Atlas’s sleeve. “Can we get food? I’m starving.”

“You ate an hour ago.”

“That was breakfast. This is… celebration fuel.”

“Kael—”

“Atlas, please,” I said, stretching his name into a whine. “You know I can’t function on an empty stomach. I’ll faint dramatically right here in the middle of the square. Do you want that? People will talk.”

He sighed, clearly debating whether feeding me was worth the headache. “Fine. But make it quick.”

“Excellent choice.” I grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the nearest stall, which was selling skewers of grilled meat dripping with spicy sauce. The vendor grinned at us, probably amused by the way I was practically bouncing.

Atlas paid while I shamelessly inhaled the first bite. “Oh, this is good,” I mumbled around a mouthful. “You have to try—no, wait, you’ll probably hate it. More for me.”

Atlas just shook his head and followed as I meandered between stalls, tasting samples and occasionally stopping to greet people who looked vaguely familiar. Every so often I’d glance back to make sure he was still there, because what fun was it to tease someone if they weren’t around to hear it?

When we passed a booth selling brightly colored masks, I snatched one up and held it over my face. “Look, I’m you.”

Atlas raised an eyebrow. “How is that supposed to be me?”

“It’s expressionless. And intimidating. And slightly terrifying.”

He took the mask from me and set it back on the table. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet, here you are,” I said smugly.

By the time we circled back to the main square, the workers were nearly done with the decorations. I flopped onto a bench and patted the spot next to me. “Sit. You’re making me nervous, pacing like that.”

“I’m not pacing.”

“You’re totally pacing. Come on, sit. Enjoy the chaos with me.”

Atlas sat, but only because I kept tugging on his sleeve until he did.

We watched in silence for a moment, the hum of the crowd filling the air. Then I leaned closer and said, “You know, for someone who claims to hate my antics, you spend an awful lot of time around me.”

“That’s because if I leave you alone for too long, you’ll start trouble.”

“True. But maybe you just like my company.”

Atlas didn’t answer right away, and I grinned, knowing I’d hit a nerve.

I could keep this up all day.