MARKED BY THE LONE ALPHA
That morning, I locked myself in the mansion’s spare bathroom—one with a decent mirror and zero magical tea ladies trying to give me moon-brewed chamomile.
Shirt off. Mark exposed.
It was the same strange, swirling symbol on my shoulder blade. Pale red at rest, but lately… it pulsed, especially after long eye contact with Ivan.
I tried to scrub it off again.
Still there.
I tried heat, cold, even a tiny burn test.
No reaction.
“Well,” I muttered. “At least I’m not allergic to my own flesh tattoo.”
I pulled out a small device from my bag—a biometric scanner, the kind only people with a license to kill and a very illegal budget could get their hands on.
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