Marked By The Enemy Pack

CHAPTER 2

I wake to the sound of water before I fully understand where I am, a steady rush that seeps into my awareness and pulls me out of sleep in slow, disorienting layers, and the first thing I register is warmth, real warmth, the kind that settles into bone and muscle instead of fading the moment you shift. My body feels heavy and wrong, my limbs slow to respond as I open my eyes and stare up at a ceiling that isn’t familiar, smooth stone instead of wood, pale instead of darkened by age and smoke.

For a long second I lie still, letting the details come to me instead of chasing them, because panic feels close and sharp and I don’t trust myself not to spiral if I move too quickly. The air smells clean, faintly herbal, layered with something metallic that reminds me of antiseptic, and beneath it all there’s him, that same forest and smoke scent threading through the room in a way that makes my chest tighten before I can stop it.

The bond hums quietly under my skin, not loud or demanding, just present, a low constant pressure that wasn’t there yesterday and now feels impossible to ignore. My wolf stirs, stretching languidly instead of snarling, and the calm in her reaction sends a jolt of unease through me that has nothing to do with pain.

I push myself up onto my elbows and immediately regret it, a sharp ache flaring through my side that draws a hiss from my teeth as my vision wavers. My hand goes instinctively to the bandages wrapped tight around my ribs, clean and professionally done, and the memory of teeth at my collarbone crashes back into me with brutal clarity.

Enemy Alpha.

Mark.

I’m not in my pack.

The room is small and utilitarian, a narrow bed built into the wall, a chair pulled close beside it, a low table stacked neatly with folded cloths and a bowl of water that’s still steaming. The sound I heard before is coming from behind a partially open door to my left, water splashing rhythmically against tile, and the awareness of that makes my pulse kick up, my senses sharpening whether I want them to or not.

I swing my legs carefully over the edge of the bed, moving slow and deliberate, testing my balance before I commit my weight, and my feet meet cool stone that grounds me enough to breathe through the lingering dizziness. I’m wearing different clothes than I remember, a soft shirt that brushes my thighs and nothing else, and the realisation that someone undressed me while I was unconscious sends a spike of heat and anger straight through my chest.

The door opens before I can decide whether to call out or grab the nearest object as a weapon, and he steps into the room like he belongs there, because he does. His hair is damp, darkened further by water, loose around his face instead of pulled back the way it was last night, and he’s wearing a simple shirt and trousers that look worn in rather than decorative. He freezes when he sees me upright, his eyes flicking over me with quick precision, taking in my posture, the tension in my shoulders, the way my hand curls slightly at my side.

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” Adam says, his voice calm but firm, and he sets the bowl he’s carrying down on the table before moving closer, his steps measured and non-threatening in a way that feels deliberate.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I counter, my voice hoarse as I straighten my spine despite the protest from my ribs, because shrinking feels like surrender and I refuse to do that in enemy territory. “What did you do to me.”

He stops a few feet away, close enough that the bond tightens subtly, not pulling, just acknowledging the distance between us, and his jaw tightens in a way I’m starting to recognise. “I stopped you from dying,” he says simply. “You were losing too much blood, and your shift was destabilising.”

“You marked me,” I snap, the words tumbling out sharper than I mean them to, but the truth of it still feels unreal sitting in my chest. “You didn’t have the right.”

“I know,” he replies without hesitation, and the lack of defensiveness throws me off balance more than an argument would have. “It wasn’t a claim, and it wasn’t planned. It was triage.”

That does nothing to make me feel better, because bonds don’t care about intent, and my wolf presses closer to the surface as if to underline that point, her awareness brushing against his in a way that makes my stomach twist.

“Where am I,” I ask instead, because focusing on geography feels safer than biology.

“My packhouse,” he answers. “Medical wing. Restricted access.”

I huff out a breath that’s half laugh and half disbelief. “Of course it is.”

He studies me for a moment, then reaches for the chair and pulls it closer to the bed, sitting slowly as if to show me he isn’t about to loom. “You collapsed after the mark took,” he says. “Your body needed time to stabilise, and I wasn’t about to move you further than necessary.”

“Wasn’t about to risk being seen dragging an enemy wolf through the forest,” I mutter.

“That too,” he allows, and the corner of his mouth tightens briefly, not quite a smile, not quite anything I want to name.

Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant sounds of movement beyond the walls, boots on stone, low voices carrying through corridors, and the reality of it settles heavier in my chest with every second that passes. His pack is awake, functioning, following routines I don’t know, and I’m sitting in the middle of it marked and vulnerable.

“My pack will notice I’m gone,” I say, because it’s the truth that matters most. “If they haven’t already.”

“They already have,” he replies evenly. “Your scent trail didn’t vanish politely at the border.”

The bond tightens again, a subtle pulse of shared awareness that carries with it a flicker of something that feels like concern from his side, and I hate how easily I recognise it. “Then you know what this means,” I say quietly. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I’m not keeping you,” he says. “I’m containing the situation until it stops being actively lethal.”

“For who,” I ask.

“For you,” he answers immediately, then adds after a beat, “And for everyone else.”

I push myself fully upright, ignoring the flare of pain because anger is a stronger fuel right now, and meet his gaze squarely. “You think my Alpha will accept this,” I ask. “You think your council will.”

“No,” he says, and there’s something unflinchingly honest in that admission. “I think both will be furious, and I think neither will act without leverage.”

“And I’m the leverage,” I say flatly.

“You’re the complication,” he corrects, and the distinction matters more than I want it to.

He stands, reaching for the folded cloths on the table, then hesitates, his eyes flicking to my face in a silent question. I nod stiffly, because refusing care feels childish even as every instinct screams at me to maintain distance, and he steps closer, carefully lifting the edge of the bandage to check the wound beneath.

His touch is efficient and impersonal, warm hands steady as he works, and the intimacy of it still makes my breath hitch despite myself, the bond humming softly in response as if trying to smooth the edges of my tension. I grit my teeth and focus on the stone wall behind him, counting the shallow grooves in its surface until the worst of it passes.

“You’ll heal clean,” he says after a moment, rewrapping the bandage with practiced ease. “No infection. The mark stabilised your shift.”

I swallow hard. “You don’t get credit for that.”

“I’m not asking for it,” he replies, stepping back to give me space again.

A knock sounds at the door before either of us can speak further, sharp and controlled, and his posture shifts instantly, Alpha presence settling into place like a mantle I can almost feel press against my own skin. “In a minute,” he calls, his voice carrying authority without volume, and the presence on the other side retreats without argument.

He looks back at me, his expression unreadable. “You need to eat,” he says. “And rest.”

“And then,” I prompt.

“And then,” he agrees quietly, “we figure out how to survive what comes next.”

The bond pulses once more, heavy and undeniable, and for the first time since I woke, I let myself acknowledge the truth sitting cold in my gut.

Crossing the boundary was the smallest mistake I made last night, and everything after it is going to cost far more than five minutes of quiet ever could.