The Scar Beneath His Skin

Draven 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.