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The Scar Beneath His Skin
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2025-08-23 13:19:48Draven stirred long before dawn.
Elaria had begun to fall into a restless sleep on the edge of the bed, her blanket tightly wrapped around her like armor, when his body tensed beside her. Initially, the change was slight. A sudden gasp for air. He growled low in his throat. His back then abruptly arched, muscles seized, and he felt as though unseen hands were choking him.
“Draven!” Jumping to her feet, Elaria felt her heart race. She instinctively grabbed for him, then held back.
You made a mistake by touching him.
His hand sprang out and grabbed her wrist with savage vigor as soon as her fingers touched his shoulder. Gleaming, untamed, blinding golden eyes sprung open.
She was unable to breathe for a moment.
He had his wolf near the surface.
He tightened his grip, pressing his claws into her flesh. He stared at her as though she were prey, and a growl from his throat. Elaria briefly believed that she could indeed pass away. But then.
Her scent hit him.
His entire body froze.
She sensed it, the instant the realization dawned on her—not in his head, but in his wolf. A strange moan from him as his fingers trembled where they held her and his grip relaxed. Not a growl. Not a snarl. A whimper.
“Elaria…”
Her name sounded broken and scratchy, like if it had been ripped from his throat.
Ignoring the shake in her palms, she swallowed forcefully. “You were dreaming.”
Puzzled, he blinked. His brow began to perspire. He was hot to the touch, and she could feel the raggedness of his breathing even from a few inches away.
“I… I saw fire,” he rasped. “Smoke. Blood in the snow.”
Elaria stilled.
Blood in the snow.
Her breath caught. That was her memory. Not his.
Not possible.
Draven wasn’t supposed to remember anything. Not yet.
He dragged one palm across his face and sagged back against the furs. “It’s like… something is inside me. Tearing at the cage. But I don’t know what it wants.”
You, her wolf whispered. It wants you.
Elaria forced herself to move. She carried a pitcher of cold water from the stone to his lips. While drinking, he kept his eyes on her as though she were the only thing keeping him rooted.
"You said my name," he said after finishing. “How do you know it?”
She hesitated. “You told me… on the first night.”
A lie. But one he wouldn’t question.
Draven nodded slowly. Then, as if he was learning her figure by heart, he reached up, his fingers grazing the corner of her jaw.
He whispered, "You smell like safety.” “But also like pain.”
Elaria’s pulse stuttered.
She jerked away, standing too quickly. “You need rest.”
His eyes, as keen as a predator's, tracked her every motion. “So do you.”
She yelled, "I'm not the one attempting to reclaim my memories while I'm asleep.”
That shut him up.
Because he stared at her as if he knew her too well, she couldn't stand it and moved away. Neither had said anything aloud, as if he felt the connection.
Because it wasn’t real. Not to her. Not after what he’d done.
Even if he didn’t remember, she did.
She remembered the way her father bled out in her arms. The way Draven’s wolf stood above him, golden eyes wild, fur soaked in crimson. She’d never forget it. Never forgive it.
So why did her heart ache when he touched her like she was precious?
Why did her skin burn when his voice softened, like he’d known her forever?
She couldn’t sleep again. Instead, she sat by the dying hearth, listening to his breath even out behind her. Trying not to cry.
Morning came cloaked in fog.
Kaelith scouts arrived under diplomatic flags—seeking audience with the Veyne elders. Draven had been missing for days. His Beta, Varek, was leading the search personally.
“They’ve come close,” Rhyven said that evening, his voice tense as he met Elaria at the edge of the healer’s den. “Too close.”
“We’ll move him tonight,” she said.
“To where?”
Elaria didn’t answer.
Draven couldn’t stay here. His wolf was becoming more restless by the day. And she was slipping. Each night, she let him sleep closer. Each day, her hands lingered longer during healing. She couldn’t risk another accident—another kiss, another mistake.
“We’ll take him to the cliffs,” she decided. “There’s an old den near the ravine. No one will look there.”
Rhyven caught her wrist. “Elaria—what are you doing?”
She met his eyes. “I’m keeping a war from breaking out.”
But Rhyven saw too much. “You’re falling for him.”
She pulled her hand free. “He’s not the same.”
“He is,” he said bitterly. “And when he remembers, he’ll kill you too.”
She walked silently across the woodland with Draven that night.
Her long cloak concealed his own fragrance as she wrapped it about him. He remained silent as she led him up via moss-covered stone paths, over the river, and along secret routes. The den was carved into the cliffside—bare, damp, abandoned—but safe.
She lit a small fire.
He sat close to her.
Too close.
"Why do you despise me?" he said.
Elaria froze. “What?”
"You stare at me as if I did something that cannot be forgiven.”
She remained silent.
Draven shifted closer, his voice rough. “I can feel it. In you. In me. Whatever this is—it pulls at me every time you breathe.”
His hand came up, brushing her scar.
“Who gave you this?”
Elaria’s jaw clenched. “You did.”
Silence fell like ash between them.
Draven didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.
“I what?” he whispered.
She stood, retreating like he’d burned her.
“I should never have brought you here.”
“Elaria—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me like you care. You don’t even know who you are.”
Draven’s wolf surfaced—golden eyes flaring. “Then tell me. Tell me what I did. Make me hate myself as much as you hate me.”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t change anything.”
“It might,” he said, voice breaking. “Because I think I’d rather die than see you look at me like that again.”
And then—
The howling began.
Not one. Dozens.
Echoing through the valley below. The cliffs trembled with it.
Rogues.
Elaria’s blood turned to ice. She turned toward the den’s entrance—and froze.
A figure stood in the clearing below. Hooded. Watching.
Then another. And another.
They were surrounded.
Draven’s eyes blazed. “Stay behind me.”
Elaria pulled her dagger. “They’re not here for you.”
Draven growled. “They’re here for us.”
The cliff shook again—this time from the weight of a dozen wolves converging.
Then, from the trees, a voice rang out.
“Well, well… found you at last, little healer.”
Rhyven.
Her breath left her.
And Draven’s wolf lunged.
Latest chapter
Bound to the Enemy’s Bed Chapter 155
The silence after the shattering was absolute—so complete that it felt like a hand closing over Elaria’s mouth, over her heartbeat, over the pulse of the world.She hung suspended in the dark spiral Kael and Draven tore open, the two of them collapsing inward as the tether between them snapped like wet sinew. Their light scattered. The Gate-body imploded. The web of memory split into a thousand burning strands, each whipping through the void like a dying nerve.But none of that was what struck her.What struck her was the voice—the one that had called her by a name she did not remember, a name she felt under her skin like an old scar.“Finally,” it had said. Soft. The softness of something ancient enough to forget cruelty because it remembers eternity.“Finally, you hear me.”And now she stood—no, floated—inside the aftershock of that word.The void around her was no longer a void. It pulsed.With her.With who she had been.Her arms trembled as she lifted them, the skin flickering li
Bound to the Enemy’s Bed Chapter 154
She couldn’t breathe.Not because breath was impossible here — breath was irrelevant — but because the truth pressing against her ribs had stolen every illusion of air her mind still clung to.You were never born, the voice had said.You were remembered.The words lived in her bones now, vibrating like a tuning fork struck by a divine hand. Elaria drifted in a space that was not space at all — a vast chamber of light where nothing cast a shadow because everything was the shadow. The walls, if there were walls, moved with the slow, tidal pulse of memory reformatting itself.She was suspended, body half-formed, half-light, threaded together by strands of blue and silver that pulsed like veins. The filaments seemed to be stitching her into a shape she no longer recognized. Her skin shimmered with shifting fragments of the selves she had worn across lifetimes — girl, daughter, healer, anchor, weapon. Each one flickered across her body like pages of a book being flipped too fast to read.A
Bound to the Enemy’s Bed Chapter 153
There was no falling.There was no rising.There was only being undone.Elaria tried to breathe, but breath had never belonged to this place. The light that swallowed her in chapter 148 had not been illumination; it was remembrance, a force older than the first dawn, tearing open a seam inside her and pouring into it like molten memory.The voice that claimed her — you were mine before you were born — followed her through the rupture, curling around her like smoke with weight, shadow with purpose.It whispered again now.“Let me show you.”The world around her peeled apart.Not in a violent tear, but like petals unfolding backward — colors stripped from colors, shapes dissolving into their ancestors, time buckling into a soft, circular ache.She reached for something solid.There was nothing.She reached for her own name.There was less than nothing.The voice pressed close, behind her ear, inside her skull, beneath her ribs:“You were a tear in the Veil before you were a daughter of
Bound to the Enemy’s Bed Chapter 152
Darkness had texture.Not the absence of light, not the blindness of shadow—this was something tactile, alive, aware. It slid over Elaria’s skin like a second pulse, a second breath, tasting her the way fire tastes oxygen.And then—That voice.That impossible, steady voice:“Mine.”The word hit her like a hand closing around the back of her neck.Elaria gasped.Or the world gasped with her—she couldn’t tell. The dark rippled outward in rings, each one sending a tremor through the void until every inch of it was vibrating with recognition.No shape.No face.But the voice pressed closer.“Elaria.”It spoke her name like the world had waited centuries just to say it properly.She tried to move—her limbs answered, but wrong, like they were remembering themselves in reverse. The darkness split around her, threads of it pulling away in jagged lines, revealing the faintest suggestion of form beneath her feet.A floor.A path.A web of fractured light stitched across an ocean of void.Her h
Bound to the Enemy’s Bed Chapter 151
The plunge ended not with impact, but with unmaking.Light peeled Elaria apart strand by trembling strand, as though she were a tapestry the world finally had permission to unravel. Her breath vanished first, pulled into a glittering thread. Then her heartbeat. Then her name.Only her awareness remained—thin as a whisper in a storm that had forgotten what silence meant.Then the light spat her out.Not onto ground. Not into air.But into something living.Something that breathed through light. Something whose pulse was a rhythm older than the first Gate. Something that should not have been able to hold a mortal body—Except she wasn’t quite mortal anymore.Elaria gasped.The world around her reacted instantly.A wave of pale gold rippled beneath her, a surface that shimmered like water but burned like memory. Figures—half-formed, half-remembered—moved within the depths: faces she knew, faces she had lost, faces she had created in the marrow of her grief.Kael.Draven.Kael again, but
Bound to the Enemy’s Bed Chapter 150
Light swallowed her.Not the soft, forgiving glow of healing magic—no, this was a vertical detonation, a column pulled upward like the spine of a god being torn open. It roared through her bones, through her breath, through the most fragile edges of her name. Elaria had no time to cry out. Her voice was stripped from her in the first heartbeat. Her shadow in the second.And in the third—Kael and Draven’s hands vanished.The last thing she saw of them was not their faces, not their eyes, not even the shapes they wore after the world shattered—just the impression of reach, of desperation, of two wills trying to reclaim her from the impossible.Then the light took everything.She rose without meaning to rise.She ascended without choosing to ascend.She became weightless, formless, unheld.**The column of light was not light at all.It was memory, liquefied. It was the Vale, rewritten. It was a mouth swallowing her whole.At first, she could hear nothing. Then, slowly—too slowly—the sil
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