Marked By The Enemy Pack

I tell myself I’m only crossing the boundary for five minutes, which feels reasonable in the way bad decisions always do when they’re wrapped in exhaustion and necessity, and I keep my pace steady as my boots crunch through leaf litter that smells sharper on this side, darker somehow, as if the forest itself recognises the line I’ve stepped over and doesn’t bother pretending otherwise. Training ran long today, the kind that grinds muscle into obedience and leaves your head buzzing with corrections you didn’t quite meet, and by the time we were dismissed my shoulders ached, my hands shook when I loosened my wraps, and every sound felt too loud inside my skull. The showers were crowded and echoing, steam rolling thick enough to blur faces, laughter ricocheting off tile in a way that scraped at my nerves, so I dressed quickly, tied my damp hair back, and slipped out before anyone noticed I wasn’t heading toward the barracks. I know exactly where the boundary sits even without markers, because patrol drills drill it into you until it lives in your bones, but the line itself is quiet and unimpressive, marked only by a subtle thinning of trees before they thicken again, older trunks crowding closer, roots clawing at the surface as if claiming ground. I’ve stopped here countless times before, always on command, always turning back when ordered, and the habit of restraint is strong enough that my body hesitates even as my mind insists I keep going. Five minutes, I repeat, because five minutes of quiet feels like survival tonight, and I step forward, my wolf stirring uneasily beneath my skin, a low warning hum vibrating through my chest that I deliberately ignore because ignoring her has become a skill I’ve learned to rely on. The air changes almost immediately, cooler and heavier, carrying a scent that isn’t mine and isn’t familiar either, something like iron mixed with pine sap and old stone, and I inhale before I can stop myself, my pulse jumping as instinct flares and then twists into something sharper that feels dangerously close to curiosity. I slow, listening, but the forest holds itself still, no snapped twigs or distant voices, only the rush of blood in my ears and the whisper of leaves high above. I don’t mean to find the clearing, but my feet remember it before my head does, and I stop at the edge, staring out at open ground worn flat by boots that don’t belong to my pack. This is where sanctioned patrols sometimes meet under temporary flags, neutral ground marked and agreed upon, but tonight there are no banners and no watchers, just moonlight spilling over trampled grass and the quiet I came looking for. I stand there longer than I intend to, my shoulders finally loosening as the silence seeps in, and for a brief moment I close my eyes and breathe without counting, letting the tension drain out of me one slow exhale at a time. The pain comes without warning. It starts low and sharp, a brutal slice through my side that steals the air from my lungs and folds me forward before I can even react, and I stumble back, my hand flying to my ribs as warmth slicks my fingers almost instantly. I don’t hear the sound that hit me, whether it was blade or arrow or something else entirely, only the shock of it, the sudden certainty that someone saw me before I saw them, and the cold panic that floods my chest as my wolf surges violently against my skin. I turn, half shifting without meaning to, claws tearing through the tips of my gloves as bone stretches and burns, but my balance is gone and the world tilts hard, the trees spinning as my knee slams into the dirt. The smell of my own blood is thick and wrong, copper heavy in the air, and it pulls at my instincts in a way that makes my head swim, my wolf snarling and pushing for movement, escape, anything but this exposed sprawl at the edge of enemy land. I try to stand and fail, my leg buckling as another wave of pain crashes through me, and I clamp my teeth together to hold back a sound because noise feels like a flare fired straight into the night. My vision narrows, dark creeping in at the edges, and I press my forehead to the ground, breathing hard, counting each inhale like it’s the only thing tethering me here. Footsteps reach me before I can decide whether to run or beg or fight, slow and deliberate, and every muscle locks as my wolf recoils and then strains forward, caught between fear and something that feels dangerously like recognition. I lift my head just enough to see boots first, dark leather scuffed from use, planted firmly in the grass a few feet away, then legs, broad shoulders, the solid outline of a man who doesn’t rush or retreat, who simply stands there like this is a situation he’s already assessed. I force myself to look up fully, because not knowing feels worse, and our eyes meet in a jolt that steals what little breath I have left, his gaze sharp and focused, taking in my half-shifted state, the blood soaking my shirt, the unmistakable scent of my pack clinging to me. He smells like forest and smoke and something deeper that curls low in my stomach, and when his eyes flick back to my wound, something tightens in his expression that looks uncomfortably like calculation. “You crossed,” he says, his voice low and even, not raised in alarm or anger, which somehow makes it worse because it sounds like a fact he’s already accepted. “I know,” I manage, my throat tight as I brace myself on my uninjured arm and try to push upright, the effort sending another white-hot spike of pain through my side that leaves me gasping despite myself. “I wasn’t supposed to be here.” His jaw tightens, and before I can react he closes the distance in two long strides that feel impossibly fast, dropping to one knee beside me. His hand hovers near my shoulder without touching, close enough that I can feel his heat, as if he’s giving me a moment to decide whether I’m going to lash out, and his eyes track every movement I make with focused precision. “You’re bleeding out,” he says, and there’s no accusation in it, only urgency, and I hate that my body responds to that tone, hate the way my breathing stutters and my wolf presses closer to the surface, drawn to him even as fear coils tight in my chest. “I’ll leave,” I say automatically, the words drilled into me by years of hierarchy and borders and consequences, and I try again to stand, swaying as black spots dance in my vision. “Just give me a second.” He swears quietly, the sound rough, and this time his hand grips my arm, firm and steady, stopping me before I can collapse again. The contact sends a shock through me that has nothing to do with pain, my wolf reacting sharply, pressing against my skin as if she recognises him on some level I don’t want to examine. “You won’t make it ten steps,” he says, his voice low but certain, and he shifts closer, his other hand already moving to assess the wound with a practiced efficiency that tells me he’s done this before. “If you go down out there, someone else will find you, and they won’t stop.” I should pull away, should snarl or threaten or remind him exactly who I belong to, but the ground feels unsteady beneath me and my strength is leaking out with every heartbeat. He smells stronger this close, his presence filling my senses until it’s hard to think past it, and my wolf curls tighter around the awareness, not panicked now but intent. “I don’t want your help,” I say, even as my body betrays me by sagging toward him. “I know,” he replies, and his fingers press firmly at my side, stemming the worst of the bleeding as his expression hardens into something resolute. “But you’re getting it anyway.” Before I can argue, before I can summon the energy to resist, he leans in, his teeth grazing my skin just below my collarbone, and the world narrows to the sharp, searing bite of pain followed by a rush of heat that floods through me, my breath tearing free in a broken gasp as the mark burns itself into place. My wolf howls inside me, not in terror but in shock, in sudden, overwhelming awareness, and the forest seems to exhale around us as the bond snaps into being, heavy and undeniable. When my vision clears enough for me to focus again, his forehead is pressed briefly to my shoulder, his breathing controlled but tight, and I realise with a sick twist in my gut that whatever just happened has changed everything. I belong to an enemy pack now, whether either of us wants that truth or not.