Chapter 4: The Secret Beneath My Skin

I woke before sunrise with the taste of metal in my mouth.

For several seconds, I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling of my little room. I could not remember dreaming, yet my body felt as though I had spent the night running.

My heart was racing.

My hands were cold.

And the pendant around my neck was warm.

I sat up abruptly.

The silver crescent rested against my chest, looking as ordinary as it had yesterday. I touched it cautiously, expecting the strange warmth to disappear.

It didn't.

Instead, a faint pulse travelled through the metal.

I snatched the chain away from my skin.

The pulse stopped.

I stared at it, my mouth dry.

“No,” I whispered.

I had spent twenty-five years being told I was wolfless. Every healer who examined me had delivered the same verdict. Every ceremony that might have revealed a wolf had ended in disappointment or humiliation.

There had been no transformation.

No wolf voice.

No answering presence beneath my thoughts.

Nothing.

Whatever was happening now could not be real.

I placed the pendant beneath my blouse, dressed, and left my room.

The packhouse was still quiet, but the kitchens had begun to stir. I washed my face, tied back my hair, and started preparing breakfast.

For almost an hour, nothing unusual happened.

Then I cut my finger.

It was a small accident. The knife slipped while I was slicing fruit, leaving a thin line across the pad of my index finger.

I hissed and set the knife down.

A bright bead of blood appeared.

Before I could reach for a cloth, the wound closed.

I froze.

The cut had not merely stopped bleeding.

It had disappeared.

I turned my hand over, examining the skin beneath the kitchen light. There was no mark, no scratch, not even a faint line to prove I had been injured.

My stomach twisted.

I had seen werewolves heal from injuries before. Strong wolves recovered quickly, sometimes within minutes, depending on the wound.

But I was not supposed to have that ability.

I gripped the counter.

Perhaps the cut had been shallower than I thought. Perhaps I had imagined the blood. Perhaps exhaustion was making me see things.

I repeated those explanations until they sounded ridiculous even inside my head.

“Nyla?”

I spun around.

Mara stood at the kitchen entrance, holding a basket of folded linen.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

She looked at my face.

“You're pale.”

“I didn't sleep well.”

Her gaze dropped to my hand.

“What's wrong with your finger?”

I closed my fist.

“Nothing.”

“Nyla.”

I sighed.

“I cut myself, but it has stopped bleeding.”

“Let me see.”

“It's fine.”

Mara placed the basket on a nearby table and reached for my hand. I reluctantly opened my fingers.

She examined them.

“Where is the cut?”

“I don't know.”

She looked up.

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“It was here. I saw the blood. Then it disappeared.”

Mara released my hand as if it had suddenly become dangerous.

We stared at each other.

Neither of us spoke for several seconds.

Finally, she lowered her voice.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Good. Don't.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because I don't know what's happening, and neither do you. Until we understand it, we shouldn't give people something else to use against you.”

I had expected disbelief. Instead, Mara looked worried.

It made my own fear feel more real.

“What if I'm sick?” I asked.

“Then we'll find out.”

“What if I'm not?”

She hesitated.

That hesitation frightened me more than anything she could have said.

Before I could ask another question, the kitchen door swung open. Two pack guards entered, carrying a wooden crate between them.

“Where do you want this?” one asked.

“Beside the pantry,” I replied.

They set it down and left.

Mara waited until their footsteps faded before speaking.

“Show me the pendant.”

I pulled it from beneath my blouse.

Her expression changed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're staring at it.”

“Because I've never seen it look like that.”

I glanced down.

For a moment, I thought I saw a thin silver line shining inside one of the three circles. When I blinked, it was gone.

Mara touched the chain but did not lift it.

“Maybe you should speak to a healer.”

“And tell them what? That my wound vanished? That my mother's pendant is behaving strangely?”

“We could start with the wound.”

“And when they ask how it happened?”

“We'll decide then.”

I shook my head.

“Every time something is wrong with me, people find a way to make it my fault. I don't want another examination. I don't want another room full of people looking at me as if I'm a failed experiment.”

Mara's expression softened.

“Then we won't go today. But promise me you'll tell me if it happens again.”

“I promise.”

The words had barely left my mouth when a crash sounded from the adjoining corridor.

Someone shouted.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a heavy object striking the floor.

Mara and I hurried towards the doorway.

A young pack runner lay beside a fallen shelf. Wooden boxes and cleaning supplies were scattered around him. A second worker knelt at his side, trying to stop the blood flowing from a deep cut along his forearm.

“Get the healer!” someone yelled.

The injured runner groaned.

His blood was spreading across the floor.

I moved without thinking.

“Give me that cloth.”

The worker beside him handed me a folded towel.

I pressed it against the wound.

The runner cried out, his face tightening in pain.

“Hold still,” I told him.

I had helped injured pack members before. It was not unusual for servants to clean wounds while someone fetched a healer. But the moment my fingers touched the runner's arm, something strange happened.

The pendant grew hot against my chest.

The air seemed to tighten.

A faint pressure spread through my palm, travelling up my wrist.

The bleeding slowed.

I stared at the cloth.

The wound beneath it was closing.

Not as quickly as the cut on my finger, but quickly enough that I could see the change.

I jerked my hand away.

The bleeding resumed.

The worker beside me swore.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“You were holding the wound!”

“I was trying to help him.”

The runner groaned again, and I forced myself to look at him instead of the blood on my hands.

“Get the healer,” I repeated.

This time, someone obeyed.

I stood and stepped back, my entire body trembling.

Mara caught my elbow.

“Nyla, come with me.”

“I don't understand.”

“Neither do I. Come.”

She led me into a storage room and shut the door.

I pressed both hands against my mouth.

“I touched him, Mara. I barely touched him, and his wound started closing.”

“I saw.”

“What am I?”

She had no answer.

I hated that.

I hated the uncertainty, the fear, and the terrible possibility that the people who had called me useless for years might have been wrong about me in a way that could make everything worse.

A knock sounded at the door.

Mara straightened.

“Who is it?”

“Alpha Blake. Open the door.”

My stomach dropped.

Mara looked at me.

I shook my head, but the knock came again.

“Nyla,” Blake called. “I know you're in there.”

Mara opened the door only halfway.

Blake stood outside, his expression hard.

“What happened in the corridor?”

“A worker was injured,” Mara replied.

“I know that. I asked what happened.”

“Nothing unusual.”

His gaze shifted past her shoulder and found me.

“Come out, Nyla.”

I stepped forward.

His eyes dropped to my hands.

“Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Your hands.”

I held them out.

He examined my fingers, turning them over as though he expected to find something written beneath my skin.

“Did you touch the injured man?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I pressed a cloth against his wound.”

“And?”

“And the bleeding slowed.”

His jaw tightened.

“Did you feel anything?”

I thought about lying.

Then I remembered the conversation in the corridor, his fear when he saw my pendant, and the way he had refused to explain himself.

“You first,” I said.

His eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“You seem to know what is happening. So tell me what you think happened.”

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then Blake glanced towards Mara.

“Leave us.”

“No,” I said.

He looked at me sharply.

“She stays.”

“This is a private matter.”

“Not when it concerns my body.”

Something flickered across his face.

Surprise, perhaps.

Or the realisation that I was no longer willing to accept every order he gave me.

He lowered his voice.

“Have you experienced anything unusual before today?”

I hesitated.

The pendant's warmth. The vanished cut. The sensation of something moving behind a locked door.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I don't know what it means.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I described the cut on my finger and the warmth of the pendant. I left out the exact feeling that had accompanied it, because I could not find words for something that seemed older than any memory I possessed.

Blake listened without interrupting.

When I finished, he closed his eyes briefly.

“You need to stay away from the injured man until we know more.”

Anger flared inside me.

“I was helping him.”

“I know.”

“Then don't speak as if I've done something wrong.”

“I am trying to keep you safe.”

“From what?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

I laughed once, bitterly.

“Of course.”

“Nyla, listen to me. Until I understand what is happening, you must not tell anyone about this. Not the workers. Not the guards. Not the healer.”

“And you?”

His expression tightened.

“What?”

“Do you intend to tell me the truth?”

He looked at me for a long time.

Then he said, “I will find out what I can.”

“That isn't the same thing.”

“No,” he admitted. “It isn't.”

He turned to leave.

“Blake.”

He stopped.

“If you know something about my mother, tell me.”

His shoulders became rigid.

“I don't know enough to give you an answer.”

“Then find out.”

He looked back at me.

There was something in his expression I had never seen before. Not affection. Not pity.

Fear.

Not fear of me, exactly.

Fear of what might happen if someone else discovered what I was becoming.

“I'll speak to the healer,” he said.

Then he left.

Mara closed the door behind him.

For a moment, we simply stood in silence.

Then she took my hand.

“Whatever happens, you're not facing it alone.”

I squeezed her fingers.

I wanted to believe that.

But as the day wore on, the strange sensations returned. A brief warmth beneath my skin. A faint pressure in my chest whenever I touched the pendant. Once, while carrying a basket through the courtyard, I heard a sound so distant I thought it was the wind.

A howl.

Not from the surrounding forest.

Not from any wolf in Blackthorn.

It seemed to come from somewhere inside me.

I stopped walking.

The courtyard continued around me. Pack members crossed the stones, guards exchanged shifts, and someone laughed near the stables.

Nobody else appeared to hear it.

I pressed a hand against my chest.

The sound faded.

That evening, I stood before the small mirror in my room and examined my face. I looked the same as I had yesterday. The same dark hair. The same eyes. The same woman who had spent years being told she lacked the one thing that mattered in her world.

But beneath my skin, something was changing.

I could feel it.

I could no longer dismiss it as a strange dream or an accident.

My body was answering a question I had stopped asking years ago.

Where was my wolf?

I touched the pendant one last time.

It warmed beneath my fingers.

And for a single heartbeat, I felt an answering presence rise within me.

Not fully awake.

Not yet.

But no longer silent.

I stumbled away from the mirror, breathing hard.

Whatever had been buried inside me was beginning to stir.

And if Blake knew the truth, he had every reason to be afraid.