Chapter 2: The Burning Mark

Chapter 2: The Burning Mark

The hospital’s fluorescent lights flickered like dying fireflies as Elara slipped into Liam’s room. Her brother lay motionless, his sheets stained with smudges of gray fur—another transformation episode, the nurses had whispered. She brushed a strand of sweat-matted hair from his forehead, and his eyelashes fluttered, revealing a sliver of that sickly gold.

“Lara?” His voice was a rasp, thinner than tissue paper. “Did you…?”

She forced a smile, tucking the medical chart behind her back. Lycanthropy Degeneration accelerating. Organs showing signs of wolf-cell rejection. “I’m working on it. Promise.”

His fingers latched onto hers, cold as marble. “Don’t make deals with them, Lara. The stories—they say the alphas don’t play fair.”

A (tingle) shot up her arm, centered on the mark. She tugged her hand free, pretending to adjust her coat. “I’m a scientist, Li. I don’t believe in stories.”

But when she stepped into the hallway, her reflection in the vending machine glass stopped her. The mark on her wrist glowed faintly, a silver bruise under her skin. She pressed a finger to it, and heat erupted—not the sharp burn of the blood seal, but a slow, simmering warmth, like a live coal tucked against her veins.

This isn’t normal.

Elara locked herself in the hospital’s research lab, her laptop screen casting a blue glow over stacks of Lycan grimoires. She’d scanned every text on blood pacts, but none mentioned aftermath—no records of glowing marks, no accounts of a bond that hummed when the alpha was near.

A notification pinged. An unknown number, with a single line:

The den isn’t marked on any map. Follow the river at midnight. Come alone.

Her jaw tightened. He was toying with her, like a wolf batting a mouse before the kill. She deleted the message, but her thumb hovered over the keyboard—ask about the serum, a voice whispered. Make sure he hasn’t lied.

The mark flared, sudden and searing. She yelped, slamming her wrist against the desk. The glow intensified, projecting a shadow onto the wall: a wolf’s head, its jaws clamped around a crescent moon, moving as if alive.

“What are you?” she muttered, more to the mark than herself.

By evening, the heat had spread. It coiled around her ribs when she showered, making the water feel icy by comparison. It prickled at the base of her skull when she passed a stray dog in the parking lot, its hackles raised as if sensing something wrong with her.

And when she collapsed into bed, it settled between her shoulder blades—a dull ache that throbbed in time with a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

His.

Elara sat up, fumbling for her phone. She pulled up the folder labeled Lycan Physiology, scrolling past diagrams of moon cycles and mating rituals until she found it: a faded illustration of a blood pact mark, its lines branching like veins into the bearer’s heart.

“The bond is not merely physical,” the text beneath read. “It is a bridge. The alpha’s essence seeps into the mate’s very cells, rewriting what it means to be human. By the third moon, she will hear his thoughts. By the sixth, she will feel his pain. By the ninth…”

The page was torn, the rest of the sentence lost to time.

A knock sounded at her door.

Elara’s hand flew to the mark, which had erupted into a full-blown burn. She grabbed a scalpel from her desk—a scientist’s weapon, not a fighter’s—and inched toward the entrance.

“Dr. Voss.”

His voice rumbled through the wood, and the mark screamed in response. She unlocked the door, and there he stood, cloaked in shadows despite the porch light. His boots were caked in mud, his hair damp as if he’d run through the rain.

“Did you miss me?” He smiled, that too-white smile, and nodded at her wrist. “The mark agrees.”

She brandished the scalpel, her hand shaking. “How did you find me? This is private property.”

“Your scent.” He leaned in, nostrils flaring slightly, and the mark pulsed so hard she nearly dropped the blade. “Cedarwood. Chlorine from the hospital. Fear.” He tilted his head. “Lots of fear.”

“Get to the point.”

He held out a vial, its contents swirling like liquid moonlight. “A sample. To prove I’m good for my word.”

Elara’s breath caught. Lunar serum. She reached for it, but he pulled it back.

“Midnight. The river.” He tapped her wrist, and the mark flared, making her gasp. “Wear something warm. The den gets cold this time of year.”

He vanished before she could reply, leaving only the vial in her hand and the scent of cedarwood clinging to her couch. She uncapped it, dipping a finger into the serum—it glowed on her skin, fading into a silver stain that matched the mark.

It’s real.

But when she checked her reflection, the mark had changed. The wolf’s jaws were now open, its fangs sinking into the crescent moon as if devouring it whole.

Elara’s phone buzzed. A text from the hospital:

Liam’s vitals dropping. Transformation imminent.

She grabbed her coat, the scalpel still clutched in one hand, the vial in the other. The mark burned, a living thing now, as if urging her toward the river.

Three nights, he’d said.

But the clock was ticking faster than she’d thought.

Outside, the moon hung low, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. This time, there was no mistaking it—the call curled around her, deep and hungry, and it knew her name.