Fire Beneath The Skin

Selene

I woke to the scent of smoke and pine.

Not the kind that choked or stung—but the kind that whispered of something ancient. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see who I’d become.

The cave was cooler this morning. Shadows stretched across stone, thick and unmoving, but I didn’t feel fear. Not like before. That weight that had clung to my chest like chains since Damon’s rejection—it wasn’t gone, but it was quieter now. Duller.

Killian hadn’t spoken much last night. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t offer comfort. But somehow, his silence felt like something solid to lean against. Like if I broke again, I wouldn’t fall far.

I stepped outside and found him already waiting.

Shirtless, barefoot, his back to me. Broad shoulders tensed with something coiled and dangerous. There were scars. Dozens. Like lightning had struck him and the burns never healed right. His tattoos—if they were even that—weren’t tribal or pretty. They were jagged. Markings that hummed with old magic, pulsing faintly beneath his skin.

He turned when he felt me. Of course, he felt me. His eyes—storm-grey and watchful—met mine like they saw every version of me at once.

"You’re late," he said.

"I didn’t know we had a schedule."

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "We do now."

He tossed a wooden staff at my feet. I blinked at it.

"No offense," I muttered, crossing my arms, "but I thought wolves used claws, not sticks."

"Claws come later," he said. "First, you learn not to fall."

That’s how it started.

The first lesson wasn’t about strength. It was about pain.

Killian didn’t hold back. He didn’t explain every move. He struck fast and hard, his staff cracking against mine, against my ribs, against my pride. I hit the dirt more times than I could count, bruises blooming beneath my skin like angry flowers.

But I got up. Every time.

Even when my palms bled. Even when my breath wheezed out of my chest in stutters. Even when my wolf whimpered deep inside me, scared and sore and unsure of why we were fighting.

Because I needed this.

Because being broken wasn’t an excuse anymore.

And gods, the way he looked at me—like he expected me to rise. Like he dared me to.

"Again," he said, voice rough. "Move your feet faster. Don’t wait for me to strike. Anticipate. Think like a wolf."

"I am a wolf," I spat, lunging at him.

He caught my wrist mid-swing. Twisted. Pressed me to the ground with one knee on my spine, my cheek in the dirt.

His breath brushed the shell of my ear. "Then stop fighting like a girl who got her heart broken. Start fighting like a creature who survived it."

The words hit harder than his staff.

I lay there, heart pounding, pride bleeding out of me.

But beneath it all... was fire.

Later, when he released me, I didn’t speak. Just picked up the staff again. Met his gaze.

Something in his eyes changed. A flicker. Approval, maybe. Or warning.

He offered me his hand. I didn’t take it. I stood on my own.

That night, my body ached like I’d been dragged through a storm and back. I sat by the fire, staring at the flames while Killian cleaned the cuts on my shoulder without asking.

His touch wasn’t gentle. But it wasn’t cruel either.

Just... real.

"You didn’t answer my question yesterday," I said.

He glanced up.

"What question?"

"Why you helped me. Why you saved me."

A pause.

Then, "Because I’ve seen what happens to wolves like you when no one does."

My throat tightened. I looked away.

"I’m not like you," I said, softly.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t agree. He just reached for another bandage.

"No," he said at last. "You’re not. But soon, they’ll wish you were."

And the way he said it—quiet, like a promise carved from bone—I believed him.