The Mark Doesn't Fade

~Sera’s POV~

The sun hadn’t even risen when I rolled out of bed, heart already racing like I was mid-sprint.

I’d slept maybe two hours. Maybe less. If you could call it sleep.

I’d seen his eyes every time I closed mine.

Not just glowing. Burning.

Not just warning me to stay away. Begging me to.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the damn mark.

I pulled up my sleeve again for the third time in five minutes.

Still there.

Faint, yes, but distinct. The shape of it was unmistakable now—a bite mark, soft and shallow, ringed in a gentle gold light like it was stitched beneath my skin. Not painful. Just… hot. Alive.

I touched it. The heat pulsed in answer.

Like it knew I was thinking about him.

I jumped back from the mirror and forced a breath through gritted teeth.

“You’re fine,” I muttered. “You’re fine. You’re not… whatever the hell this is.”

I didn’t have time for this.

Today was game day.

First real match. Real stakes. Real pressure.

And no matter what Dante’s glowy-eyed warning meant, I was still Coach Sera Lane, and I had a job to do.

The rink was colder than usual when I got there—maybe it was me. Maybe the heat under my skin just made everything else feel frozen.

The boys were trickling in, loud and half-awake, tossing their sticks into lockers, chirping at each other about bagels and broken blades. Normal chaos.

Good. I needed normal.

“Lineups posted?” Blaze asked as he passed me, tugging off his hoodie.

“They were in your inbox two hours ago.”

He looked me up and down. “You’re early.”

“You’re nosy.”

He grinned. “Guilty.”

I kept walking, straight toward the dry-erase board I’d prepped before the sun was even up. Red lines marked our power play unit. Blue for penalty kills. I’d color-coded it because I needed to do something with my hands this morning besides rub my damn wrist raw.

I was mid-sentence explaining the new drop pass zone entry when Nico came up behind me.

“He’s not here,” he said softly.

I didn’t turn around. “Who?”

“You know who.”

I tapped the board with the marker, trying to keep my face unreadable. “If you mean our esteemed captain, maybe he’s taking a personal day.”

Nico didn’t laugh. “He doesn’t take those.”

“Well,” I said, turning around to face him, “maybe he should start.”

Nico narrowed his eyes slightly. He didn’t push. But the way he was watching me?

Like he could see straight through my skin.

I stepped closer.

“You’re going to have to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m a walking wolf whistle.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m looking at you like you’re something you don’t understand yet.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Because deep down, I knew he was right.

And that terrified me.

~Dante’s POV~

I ran.

Not on the ice.

Not through the gym.

Just… away.

As far as I could get from her without dragging my claws through concrete.

My breath came in sharp bursts as I shoved through the side doors of the practice facility, slamming into the freezing wind like it owed me something. The cold bit through my shirt, but it didn’t matter. It was the only thing that didn’t feel like her.

Because everywhere else?

She was there.

In my lungs. In my skin. Under it.

My hands shook.

I flexed them hard, bones cracking, trying to shift the tension—but it just made things worse.

The wolf was awake.

And it wanted her.

"Mate."

I slammed a fist into the steel wall of the loading dock. The clang rang out like a scream, but it didn’t help.

The wolf growled louder inside me.

Not just desire, need, claim, crave.

"She’s ours. She's marked."

“No,” I rasped, grabbing my own wrist and digging my nails in. “Not yet. She doesn’t even know what she is.”

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it?

She didn’t know.

Didn’t know why she smelled like starlight and stormwater.

Didn’t know her blood called to mine like it had been written in fire across time.

Didn’t know that her wrist glowing meant I’d already left a claim.

A bite.

I didn’t remember doing it. I’d blacked out, halfway through practice. Woke up in the locker room alone, my mouth dry, her scent still fresh on my tongue.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

I wanted to taste her again.

Feel her shake under me.

Feel her surrender.

But I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

Because once I let the wolf out, there’d be no putting it back in the cage.

And this pack? This team? These boys I bled for?

They wouldn’t survive the fallout.

They didn’t know what I really was.

They thought I was just another alpha. Just another strong bloodline.

They didn’t know I was cursed.

That I came from a line of feral wolves—uncontrolled, unclaimed, unstable. That I’d spent the last eight years fighting to stay human when the full moon hit. And now?

Now some half-shifted girl with stubborn eyes and a mark on her wrist was ripping it all apart.

And the worst part?

My wolf didn’t want to run anymore.

It wanted to go back to her, back to where it belonged.

I sat down on the cold concrete stairs, resting my elbows on my knees, breathing hard.

My skin was still burning. My pulse wild. My muscles tensed and twitching with unfinished instincts.

But the worst thing?

I wasn’t afraid of losing control anymore.

I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.

~Sera’s POV~

The buzzer echoed overhead like a countdown to disaster.

I adjusted the headset on my ears and stared down at the clipboard in my lap like it held the answers to life, death, and the supernatural breakdown I was currently spiraling through.

It didn’t.

All it had were line rotations, power play formations, and way too many question marks next to Dante’s name.

Still a no-show.

I swallowed hard and stood up from the bench, straightening my jacket.

“Let’s go, boys!” I shouted over the music as the crowd started filling in. “Pre-game warmups start in sixty! Helmets on, asses off the bench, now!”

That snapped them out of it.

The locker room buzzed with motion—tape unrolling, blades being sharpened, jerseys pulled over pads. The usual chaos. The kind of adrenaline-laced noise that normally grounded me.

Not today.

Not with this damn mark still burning on my wrist.

It hadn’t faded.

If anything, the color had deepened—like the glow had settled under the skin instead of on top of it. A secret only I could feel pulsing with every heartbeat.

I shook out my hand and shoved it into my jacket pocket before anyone noticed.

That’s when Blaze slid into the seat next to me, helmet loose in his hands, eyes gleaming with something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“You good, Coach?”

“Peachy.”

“You sure? You look like someone just told you your ex got traded to the enemy team.”

I scoffed. “I’d celebrate that.”

He grinned. “Well then… what’s got you rattled?”

“I’m not rattled.”

“You flinched when the buzzer went off.”

I turned my head slowly. “Do you want to play tonight or not?”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Just checking in.”

He started to stand up—then hesitated.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, voice lower now, “the team trusts you. Even if the Captain’s acting weird.”

I blinked. “You noticed?”

“Everybody noticed,” Blaze said. “He hasn’t missed a game day in three years. Not even with a busted ankle.”

Something sank in my stomach.

“Let him have his tantrum,” Blaze said. “We’ve got this.”

And just like that, he was gone—pulling his helmet on and skimming into the hallway like the ice was calling him home.

I stood up a few minutes later and followed the team out to the tunnel.

The music was louder now. The lights were blinding. The fans were screaming. This was it. Game time.

And still…

No Dante.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena. Names echoed through the stadium. My heart thudded in time with the crowd’s chant.

Until—

"Wearing #17… your Wolves Captain… Dante Kade!"

I jerked my head toward the tunnel.

And there he was.

Helmet off. Jersey tight. Eyes locked on me.

Still burning.

Still glowing.

Only this time… everyone could see it.

The whistle shrieked.

The puck hit the ice.

And it all went downhill from there.

I knew from the first shift we were off.

The passes were too wide. The skating too slow. The rhythm—the instinctive click that made a team a team—was gone. Like someone had yanked the heartbeat right out of them and left the shell behind.

And I knew exactly whose fault that was.

Dante was on the ice… but barely present.

He was doing the right things—leading the forecheck, calling the drop, filling in the slot—but none of it had that razor-edged precision I’d seen in practice. He was distracted. Sluggish. Like his body was moving faster than his brain could catch up.

And the other team? They smelled blood in the water.

“Line change!” I shouted, slamming the boards. “Line three, now! Hustle!”

They leapt over the wall and hit the ice—just in time to watch the enemy’s winger pull off a slick give-and-go, flipping the puck past our D-man like it was child’s play.

“Backcheck! Backcheck! Get on him!” I shouted.

But they didn’t. Too slow, too stunned.

The opposing forward came in on a clean breakaway, no defenseman in sight. Our goalie tried to stack the pads, but the guy went top shelf, just under the crossbar.

Ping.

GOAL.

The red light blazed behind the net.

The crowd roared—not for us.

1-0.

My stomach sank.

Nico appeared beside me without warning. “That one wasn’t even fancy. We’re flat.”

“No kidding.”

“You gonna yell at them?”

“I’m gonna bury them in laps tomorrow,” I muttered. “Right now I need them to survive this period.”

By the second goal, my clipboard had a crack down the side.

We were on a power play, for godsake—a man up, with a chance to tie.

Instead?

The opposing center intercepted a lazy pass and went barreling down the ice.

A shorthanded goal.

He deked right. Switched left. Snuck it five-hole.

2-0.

I stared at the scoreboard in disbelief.

The crowd around our bench was dead silent.

Behind me, the assistant medic cleared his throat. “They’re spiraling.”

“No,” I said. “They’re drowning.”

And the worst part?

Dante wasn’t snapping out of it.

Midway through the second period, something else went wrong.

One of the enemy forwards got too close to our bench on a line change. A cocky grin. A chirp I couldn’t hear.

And then—he touched me.

Not in a gross way. Just a light hand on my back as he skated by.

But it was enough.

Dante was across the rink.

And he lost it.

His head snapped in my direction like a gunshot.

His eyes were glowing again—in front of the ref. In front of the fans. In front of God and everybody.

He took off like a missile, crashing into the forward mid-ice, checking him so hard the boards shook.

Penalty horn blew instantly.

Two minutes for interference.

I barely breathed as Dante skated into the box, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

And in that moment, I didn’t see the captain.

I saw the wolf and it scared me.