Old Wounds Novels & Stories

Zane At first the pain was distant, dull—almost as if it didn’t belong to me, but to someone else lying too close, my body simply borrowing the memory of their suffering. Then, as my awareness slowly slid back into the present, I felt my own wounds: a burning gash along my ribs, a throbbing bite mark in my side, my shoulder heavy as if stones had been tied to it. But the blood was no longer flowing the way it had minutes ago, and my heartbeat was settling, slow and stubborn, the way only wolves heal—not gracefully, not gently, but with a ruthless efficiency.

By late afternoon, I had discovered an entire category of werewolf medicine that apparently consisted of: it closed, therefore we're fine. They were not fine. Not one of them. Joint after joint had healed too quickly while slightly displaced. Others had debris trapped beneath healed skin. I removed a sliver of wood from one man's forearm. A piece of gravel from another woman's knee. One older wolf had scar tissue pulling painfully beneath a wound that had closed years ago.

. They played across my vision with merciless clarity, as vivid as if I were still there, standing in the center of the pack circle, all eyes upon me. The elder's reaction. Shock, anger, disgust. All had been nothing compared to the devastation that swept through me as I realized what was happening. As I understood that the person I had welcomed, protected, befriended, betrayed me. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks now, just as they had then. I wiped them away with angry movements, hating my own weakness. Crying wouldn't change what had happened. It wouldn't break these chains or open that locked door or restore what I had lost. But the tears came anyway, beyond my control, released by memori

Lucien was quiet for a moment. She could feel him deciding whether to follow that thread or leave it alone. He left it alone, which surprised her. "Does it work on old injuries?" he asked instead. She looked up again and saw him looking at the compound. "Depends on the injury," she said carefully. "Old injuries are complicated. The body builds around them. Sometimes the pain is in the original wound. Sometimes it's in everything the body does to compensate for it." She paused. "Which one are you asking about?"

“Basically, they’ve got stab and slash wounds that aren’t healing. They’re basically stuck in wolf form.” “What happened? A slash wound should heal as soon as the wound edges come together.” “Well they aren’t.” “I brought medication for infections. I believe it will work for some poisons.” “My father’s gone too far this time.”

Only then do I allow myself to crumble, sinking to the floor as the weight of everything crashes down on me. I’d thought I was past this. Past him. Past the pain of his rejection. But tonight, as his words replay in my mind—Our arrangement served both our purposes—I realize that some wounds never truly heal. They just scab over, waiting for the right moment to reopen and bleed all over again. And once again, I’m left wondering if I’ll ever be enough for anyone.

But Asher— Every inch of him was covered in them. Dense. Spreading. There wasn’t an inch of his body that hadn’t been wounded critically. How is this even possible? What the hell has he been through to end up like this? No… who did this to him? For a second, I thought it was the holy rain. Or maybe Yandor’s attack. But no. These wounds were old. They had healed decades ago. One layered over the other, over and over again, until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.

She needed strength right now, not pity. I applied ointment to the wounds, gently checking the progress of the healing. Some of the sores were starting to close, but others... others were still raw, inflamed with the evidence of the violence she had endured. I worked quickly, trying not to prolong the moment any longer than necessary. After reapplying fresh bandages, I disposed of the used ones and made sure to wash my hands thoroughly.

I don’t know what those Blue Moon fucks did to me, but I haven’t heard from my wolf Killian since I woke up, and without him, I’ve been unable to heal properly. Three months of lying in bed, dealing with the pain of shattered knee caps, third-degree burns, broken bones, deep gashes and punctures, and disgusting infections. But the pain I can deal with; it only lasts for so long. Bones and burns would heal, and gashes would eventually close. Some things, though, would never heal. Not everything could be rectified with time.

Of wounds that hadn’t healed. I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes for a moment. Memories resurfaced, like an old film being played again. Our laughter, our little arguments that had once seemed trivial but were now etched deeply, and finally, the night when everything collapsed. I didn’t want to recall the details, yet the pain remained sharp, clinging like a stain that couldn’t be erased.