Chapter 2

I woke up with dirt under my nails, dried blood on my lip, and an ache in my bones that told me I’d survived something I probably shouldn’t have.

Barely.

The air was cold. Not the kind of cold you shake off with a blanket—but the kind that lives in your chest, dragging its claws through your ribs.

I blinked slowly, head pounding. My surroundings were unfamiliar, like the aftermath of a nightmare painted in greys and silence.

Wooden beams. A cracked window. A crooked door hanging half off its hinges. Dust floated in the sunlight like ghosts.

The place smelled of mildew, burnt sage, and memories.

Where the hell am I?

I sat up with a groan, the mattress beneath me a plank of stiff, judgmental wood with an equally miserable excuse of a pillow and a threadbare blanket that looked like it had survived three wars and a very cranky raccoon.

Then I saw it—the symbols.

Markings. Worn into the wood, etched in soot, carved on every damn corner of the cabin.

Witch’s marks.

And not just any witch.

Amaya.

The name thudded in my mind like a warning bell from every storybook nightmare whispered to pups. Amaya, the once-Luna-to-be. A werewolf who’d murdered her own Luna, cursed the pack, and been stripped of her wolf by ancient magic. They said she went mad. Turned to witchcraft. Lived alone in the Blackwood Forest. Cursed. Dangerous. Forgotten.

Until now.

I looked around again, slower this time.

The uneven shelves. The cauldron in the corner, now a rusting plant pot. The mirror with a crack that split it right down the middle—like a scar across a face. The entire place hummed with something old… and wrong.

I swallowed thickly.

So this is where they dumped me.

They didn’t just exile me.

They threw me to the wolves—and not the good kind.

I touched my neck. The skin there still pulsed faintly, like the lightning curse had branded itself into me. The pain was gone, but something lingered. Like a second heartbeat under my skin, made of sparks and secrets.

Then I looked down.

My backpack was beside the bed. Open.

Inside, the grand sum of my new life:

– Three pieces of clothing (all black, because apparently I’m in mourning)

– One toothbrush (yay hygiene?)

– A half-used tube of toothpaste

– And two undies.

Because Goddess forbid I be cursed and commando.

I exhaled through my nose, equal parts laugh and sob.

This was it. This was my life now.

Kyla Black.

Once beloved.

Now a rogue.

A cursed, unwanted, rejected, practically naked rogue dumped in a haunted witch cabin with barely enough underwear to make it through the week.

“I’ve hit rock bottom,” I muttered to no one, staring at the rotting wooden ceiling. “And someone decided to build a basement underneath it.”

I didn’t know who brought me here.

Or why they hadn’t just finished the job and tossed me off a cliff.

But I was alive.

Alone.

Confused.

Unwanted.

But alive.

And if the Moon Goddess wanted to curse me?

Then I wanted answers.

Because I wasn’t going to die in this dusty hellhole with a haunted pillow and no revenge.

Not yet.

I sat there, the air heavy with dust and despair, and whispered the question I had been choking back since the moment I woke up.

“What did I do wrong?”

The words tasted like ash.

What sin had I committed to deserve this kind of punishment?

I wasn’t perfect, sure. I snuck out past curfew, flirted too much, ditched training a few times—but who doesn’t? I was never cruel. Never selfish. Never disloyal.

So why?

Why had the Moon Goddess turned her face from me?

I touched the place where the lightning had struck—just beneath my neck. The skin was smooth now, but under it… I could feel it. A burning thread, quiet but present. Like a storm waiting to erupt again.

I was mateless.

Rogue.

Alone.

Everything I had ever known was gone.

Windor Pack wasn’t just my home—it was a kingdom of its own in the northern highlands of Scotland. Sprawling lands filled with pine forests and hidden trails. We had towns, villages, ports, even a coastal resort that humans thought was just a “wilderness retreat.” All of it run under the strict eye of Alpha Windor—Aldrian’s father. Our pack wasn't just strong—it was legendary.

And I?

I was just… erased.

Now I was here, deep in the heart of the Dark Forest—a cursed land bordered by four powerful packs. Trapped. Hemmed in like an unwanted secret.

There was no way out.

And as the silence of the forest pressed against the cabin walls, I couldn’t stop the memories from crawling in.

My mother.

Malda.

Warm eyes, steady hands, the most gifted healer in the pack. She always hummed when she crushed herbs. Always smelled like mint and honey.

My father.

Fidel.

Quiet. Strong. Stern, but with a soft spot he never hid from me. His hands were always busy—mixing potions, mending wounds. The two of them were the heartbeat of our infirmary.

And then… Norma.

My baby sister.

Just ten. Wild curls. A missing front tooth. The laugh of a fairy. She used to braid flowers into my hair and pretend I was a “battle princess.” I let her. Every time.

Did they know?

Were they told?

Or did they wake up the next day and find my room empty, my name erased from the register, my scent scrubbed from the Packlands?

Were they allowed to mourn me?

Or did they have to pretend… that I never existed?

Did Norma cry?

Did Malda scream?

Did Fidel fight?

Or were they—just like me—powerless?

I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, willing my heart to stop hurting for just one second.

It didn’t.

Tears slipped down my cheeks silently, tracing lines of rage and sorrow. I didn’t sob. I didn’t scream this time. There was no audience to perform for. No pack. No gods. Just me. A girl on a wooden bed, in a dead woman’s cabin, with a lightning curse on her neck and nothing but three shirts and two pairs of underwear to her name.

And still… somewhere inside me…

A spark remained.

They thought they got rid of me.

They thought I’d disappear.

But I wasn’t dead yet.

And if the Moon Goddess had truly cursed me—then She had a reason.

And by all the ancient bones in the Highlands…

I was going to find it.

I let the silence eat at me for a few more minutes, lying there on the stiff wooden bed, blanket tucked under one thigh like it might suddenly develop feelings and comfort me.

It didn’t.

The curse mark on my neck pulsed again—sharp, hot, like someone was jabbing me with an ember-coated needle from the inside. I hissed through my teeth and gritted my jaw.

“You know,” I muttered to the ceiling beams, “if the Moon Goddess wanted to punish me, she could’ve just cursed me with acne and mediocre grades. This—” I winced as the pain throbbed again, “—feels a tad dramatic.”

It wasn’t just physical.

I still felt him. Aldrian.

Like phantom hands wrapped around my ribcage. Like my heart had been ripped from my chest, spat on, then shoved back in upside down. The mate bond, even broken, left behind a scar that wouldn't close.

That bastard said nothing. Didn't even look back.

And now here I was.

Cursed, dumped, and emotionally constipated.

I sat up slowly, letting the dusty air sting my nose. My spine cracked like a horror movie sound effect. "Great. Add 'ancient cabin-induced scoliosis' to my list of blessings."

Still… the witch’s marks called to me.

Symbols lined the walls—twisted, looped sigils burned into the wood. Some were chalky and faded. Others looked like they’d been redrawn over the years. I trailed my fingers along one nearest the mirror, and the wood vibrated. Not hard, not like it would throw me across the room or anything. Just… acknowledged me.

I raised a brow. “Was that a hello? Or a get-out-before-we-eat-you kind of vibe?”

Silence.

Of course.

I moved toward the old fireplace. The hearth was full of ash and spiderwebs, but the stones above it were strange—like one of them didn’t quite belong. I reached up, and sure enough, it moved.

Behind it?

A thin, leather-bound book.

My breath caught. I pulled it out carefully, brushing off decades of dust. The cover was cracked but elegant, with a single word scratched across it in jagged, purposeful strokes.

"Amaya."

Bingo.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, curse mark prickling like warning bells, and opened the journal.

The handwriting was sharp, slanted, unbothered by prettiness.

“They took my wolf. They took my name. But they could not take my magic.”

“The Goddess cursed me, too. Just like you, girl. I saw you. I felt her wrath strike you like it struck me. You’re not the first. You won’t be the last.”

I blinked. “Well. That’s not creepy at all.”

The entry was dated… fifty years ago. But the ink was fresh. No way ink survives this long unless—magic.

I flipped to the next page. More words burned onto the parchment as I stared, like the journal was responding.

“Your pain is only beginning. The mark she gave you? It’s not just punishment.”

“It’s a key.”

I dropped the book.

A key?

To what? Hell? Pain? Rejection Olympics?

The mark on my neck pulsed harder, sharper. I clutched it instinctively, nails digging into the skin. It burned like it was being re-carved—and beneath it, the mate bond echoed, twisted and screaming in its broken silence.

Tears blurred my vision, but I gritted my teeth.

“Nope,” I whispered. “Not breaking today.”

I picked the book back up with trembling fingers.

If Amaya thought this thing was a key, then I needed to figure out what it unlocked.

And fast.

Because something told me this cabin?

This forest?

This curse?

It was all part of something much, much bigger than heartbreak.

And I wasn’t just a rogue anymore. I was a cursed girl with nothing to lose…

And magic scratching at the door.