Chapter Eight – The Lunar Mark

The nightmares grew sharper.

What once blurred into formless shadows now had teeth, claws, and breath she could smell—wet fur, copper blood, the musk of the hunt. Evelyn woke each morning drenched in sweat, lungs straining as if she had been running for miles. And always, always, those golden eyes followed her into waking.

The pendant no longer sat quietly on the nightstand. She swore it shifted in the dark, sliding closer to her hand no matter where she left it. Sometimes, when she touched it, she felt a faint vibration—like the beat of a heart.

Her days blurred. She stumbled through the lodge and down Black Hollow’s narrow streets with heavy lids and aching bones. The townsfolk watched her differently now—not just as an outsider but with sidelong glances sharpened by suspicion.

It wasn’t until the third morning that she understood why.

She had been washing her face in the lodge’s small bathroom, cold water splashing her skin, when she saw it.

On the underside of her forearm, pale against her skin, was a mark.

It was faint, almost translucent, but unmistakable: a crescent moon, curved and delicate, glowing faintly as though lit from beneath her flesh.

Evelyn stumbled back from the mirror, clutching her wrist. The mark pulsed once, in rhythm with her heartbeat, before fading to nothing more than a faint silver shimmer.

Her throat went dry.

When she stepped outside that morning, the stares deepened. Old Mrs. Whittaker, who tended the bakery, crossed herself when Evelyn passed. Children whispered and pointed before being yanked away by their mothers. Even Sheriff Dawson, usually curt but civil, eyed her arm with narrowed suspicion before turning away without a word.

The mark was visible to them.

Her pulse thudded in her ears. She pulled her sleeve down, hiding it, but the damage was done. The town knew.

That night, the full moon rose.

The sky was cloudless, the pale disc so bright it bleached the forest silver. Evelyn tried to lock herself inside the lodge, tried to reason that the mark, the pendant, the nightmares—all of it—was nothing but stress and suggestion.

But something inside her rebelled.

Her body thrummed with restless energy, muscles twitching beneath her skin. Her senses sharpened unnaturally. She could hear the creak of wood beams, the flutter of moth wings against the window, the scuttle of mice in the walls. Her nostrils flared at the scent of pine drifting through the cracks, sharp and intoxicating.

And her hunger… it wasn’t for food. It was for movement, for blood, for the chase.

She lasted less than an hour before she found herself outside, boots crunching frost, drawn to the forest by a force she couldn’t name.

The woods greeted her like an old friend. Every sound was amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant snap of a twig, the beating heart of a rabbit crouched beneath a log. She could hear it. She could almost smell the warmth of its blood.

Evelyn stumbled deeper, shaking her head, trying to fight it.

“This isn’t me,” she whispered, voice trembling. “This isn’t real.”

But then she heard it.

A growl.

Low, rumbling, so close it vibrated through the soles of her boots.

Her breath hitched. She swung the flashlight in shaking hands, beam slicing across the trees. Between the trunks, golden eyes gleamed.

The beast.

It stepped forward, massive and terrible, its shadow spilling across the ground like a tide. Its jaws parted, teeth gleaming wetly, and that growl deepened into a snarl.

Evelyn turned and ran.

The forest blurred past her, but the creature’s strides were longer, faster. Branches tore at her arms, her lungs burned, yet some part of her reveled in the chase—the thrill of it, the raw speed of her body surging through the night.

It was gaining. She could hear its panting breath, feel the earth tremble beneath its pursuit. Her flashlight bounced wildly before she dropped it altogether, too clumsy to hold onto it.

Then claws raked across her back.

She screamed, tumbling forward into the dirt, pain lancing through her shoulder blades. She rolled, scrambling backward, and saw it looming above her. Drool fell from its jaws onto her chest, sizzling like acid where it landed.

It struck again, claws slicing through fabric, grazing skin. Evelyn cried out, hands raised in desperate defense—

—and the forest thundered with gunfire.

The beast recoiled, snarling, as a figure stepped from the trees. Not Jonah. Someone else.

He moved like a predator himself, tall and broad-shouldered, muscles straining beneath a dark shirt. His rifle cracked again, echoing like thunder, and the beast roared in fury, golden eyes blazing.

The man didn’t flinch. He advanced, fire in his gaze, physique like something carved from stone. “Get up,” he barked, voice low and commanding.

Evelyn staggered to her feet, clutching her bleeding arm. The beast lunged again, claws flashing, but the man was faster. He dodged with impossible precision, slammed the rifle butt into its jaw, then fired point-blank into its chest.

The roar that followed was deafening, shaking the branches overhead. The creature staggered, snarled once more, then vanished into the trees, swallowed by darkness.

Silence fell, broken only by Evelyn’s ragged breathing.

The man lowered his weapon but didn’t relax. His eyes flicked to her arm, where blood soaked her sleeve. He swore under his breath, striding toward her with surprising grace for his size.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

Evelyn tried to speak, but her words collapsed into a sob. Pain throbbed through her body, but worse than that was the heat. A searing fire spread outward from the wounds, coiling through her veins, burning, reshaping.

Her vision blurred. The forest tilted. She dropped to her knees, clutching her stomach as nausea wracked her.

The man crouched beside her, his presence overwhelming, his hands steady as he gripped her shoulders. “Stay with me. Fight it.”

“Fight… what?” she gasped, though deep down she already knew.

“The change.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her senses sharpened further, unbearably so—the damp musk of the earth, the iron tang of her own blood, the steady beat of the stranger’s heart. A growl—her growl—rumbled in her chest, foreign and terrifying.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “No, no, no—”

The man’s grip tightened. His face hovered inches from hers, features chiseled and fierce. “Listen to me. You’re stronger than this. But you’ve been marked. Infected.”

The word landed like a hammer blow.

Her body convulsed. Her fingernails dug into the dirt, leaving furrows as her teeth ached, lengthening. Her vision flickered, the edges darkening until only silver moonlight remained.

And then, as suddenly as it came, the fire dulled. Not gone, but tempered—pushed back, as though his voice alone had anchored her.

Evelyn collapsed against him, trembling violently. He wrapped one arm around her, steady and unyielding, while his other hand pressed firmly against her wound to staunch the bleeding.

Her breaths came shallow, ragged, but slowly, painfully, she began to steady.

The man’s eyes—gray, storm-dark, unnervingly calm—held hers.

“You survived,” he said softly. “That’s something.”

Evelyn’s throat ached. “What… what happens to me now?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the full moon, high and merciless above the trees.

Finally, he spoke, voice low, certain, and grim.

“Now, Evelyn Hart, you’re one of us.”