Marked By Moonlight

Three: Moon Marks and Major Nope

Chapter Three: Moon Marks and Major Nope

Lyra’s POV

I wake up gasping, my chest so tight it feels like a troll’s decided to use me as a beanbag chair. No dream lingers, no fuzzy memory to grab onto—just this raw, jagged ache, like my heart’s trying to scream something in a language I don’t speak. I bolt upright, my bedroom a swamp of shadows, the kind that slink and plot like they’ve got a vendetta. The clock’s red digits sneer 3:03 AM, because of course it’s the witching hour, when every creepy thing in the universe decides to clock in.

My sheets are a sweaty, tangled disaster, clinging to my legs like clingy exes. I kick them off, my skin prickling, and there it is again—that smell. Smoke, cloves, and something darker, like old magic mixed with the kind of bad decisions that leave you broke and heartbroken. It’s not just a whiff anymore; it’s here, thick and uninvited, like it’s moved into my apartment and is already hogging the couch.

I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dark, and my gaze lands on the nightstand. The rose—that weird, blood-red bloom I found two nights ago, the one that showed up like it had my name on it—is gone. I swear I left it right there, its petals practically winking at me. My fingers fumble across the wood, finding nothing but cold, empty surface. I’m not imagining this. I check the floor, the drawers, even crawl under the bed like a paranoid raccoon, my heart doing a techno beat.

Nada. Zilch. The rose has pulled a Houdini, and I’m not okay.

The air shifts, charged like a storm’s brewing, and my skin crawls, a heavy, hungry gaze pressing against me. I’m not alone. I can’t see them, can’t hear them, but someone—or something—is watching, sizing me up like I’m the main course at a creepy buffet. My breath hitches, and I stumble to the bathroom, my bare feet slapping the cold floor. I flip on the light, wincing at the harsh glow, and freeze, my reflection staring back like it’s got secrets I’m not ready for.

There’s a mark on my collarbone, just under the skin, faint but glowing. A crescent moon, wrapped in thorny vines, curling over my heart like it’s staking a claim. It pulses once, a soft, blue hum, like it’s saying, “Yo, Lyra, I’m your new roommate.” My voice is stuck, my scream trapped somewhere between shock and denial. I splash water on my face, grip the sink so hard my knuckles whiten, and stare into the mirror, begging this to be a nightmare.

Spoiler: it’s not.

The mark’s real, alive, waiting for something to happen. It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t burn—just sits there, a magical tattoo I didn’t sign up for. My fingers hover over it, trembling, and it hums, a low buzz that vibrates through my bones. I don’t know what it means, but I know it’s not random. Someone—or something—branded me while I slept, and the thought sends ice down my spine.

I stagger back to my room, the smoke-and-cloves scent stronger now, curling around me like a possessive lover. I throw on a turtleneck, yanking it over my head to hide the mark like it’s my dirty little secret. My hands shake as I pull on jeans and boots, my mind racing. That rose, that smell, this mark—they’re connected, and I’m not sticking around to find out what’s next. I need air, space, answers—anything to shake this feeling that I’m a pawn in a game I don’t understand.

Flashback

I was seven, sprawled in a meadow, weaving dandelion crowns with a boy who had eyes like winter skies. Dorian, all pale skin and quiet smiles, his messy black hair falling into his face. “You’re my favorite,” he whispered, tying a crown on my head, his fingers lingering. I giggled, oblivious, but his gaze was heavy, like he saw something in me I didn’t. We’d play for hours, chasing fireflies, but sometimes he’d go still, staring at the woods like they were calling him. “They want you too,” he said once, voice soft but sharp, and I laughed, thinking it was a game. Now, I wonder what he saw, what he knew, because that cold, hungry look in his eyes feels too much like the shadow in my room tonight.

The memory stings, and I shake it off, grabbing my jacket. Dorian’s a ghost from my past, a kid I haven’t seen in years, but his name keeps surfacing, tied to this mark, this scent. I head out, the night air crisp, the moon a smug crescent overhead, like it’s in on the joke. I don’t know where I’m going until I’m there—the bookshop, my safe haven, where I can pretend my life’s not a supernatural soap opera.

Morning creeps in, gray and heavy, and I’m at the shop before it opens, fumbling with the keys. Mary’s already inside, her blunt vibe a lifeline. She clocks me the second I walk in, her eyes narrowing over her coffee mug. “You look like you fought a ghost and got your ass handed to you,” she says, all hammer, no fluff.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I grumble, tossing my jacket on a chair. “Just a sleepless night.”

“Another spooky friend?” she asks, eyebrow raised, and I catch the tease, but there’s worry there too.

I fake a smile, my fingers brushing the turtleneck, the mark humming beneath it. “Something like that,” I say, dodging her gaze. “Just need some caffeine and normalcy, you know?”

Mary snorts, handing me a mug. “Normalcy? In this town? Good luck, kid.” She lets it go, thank the stars, and I slip into the backroom, pretending to check inventory. But my hands keep drifting to the mark, its pulse like a secret playlist only I can hear. It wasn’t there yesterday, and the thought of someone sneaking into my head—or my skin—while I slept makes my stomach churn.

“You okay back there?” Mary calls, her voice cutting through my spiral.

“Yeah, just… organizing!” I lie, shoving a box of books to look busy. “These romances are a mess.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, unconvinced. “Don’t burn the place down with whatever’s got you twitchy.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow, because burning things down feels way too possible right now. My magic’s been weird since the blood moon—sparks, tingles, that buzz in my veins—and this mark’s cranking it to eleven. I need to figure this out, but the shop’s too small, too safe, and my questions are too big.

At lunch, I bail, heading for the forest edge, where the trees lean in like they’ve got gossip. I used to come here as a kid, when the world got too loud, the air thick with stories older than time. Today, it’s different—charged, like it’s been waiting for me. The wind’s sharp, slicing through my jacket, and my mark’s buzzing, thrilled to be here, like it’s got a hot date with destiny. I should turn back, go back to stacking books and pretending I’m normal.

Yeah, I don’t.

I push deeper, the trees closing in, their whispers brushing my ears like secrets. My boots crunch leaves, my heart’s throwing a rave, and the mark pulses, a steady beat that feels like a warning—or an invitation. A branch snaps, loud as a gunshot, and I spin, eyes scanning the shadows. Nothing moves, but I’m not alone. The air’s heavy, like a storm’s about to break, and that smoke-and-cloves scent is back, mixed with cedar and spice, the same as the rose, the same as my room.

“I see you,” I say, voice steady despite my pulse’s techno remix. “Stop playing hide-and-seek, you coward.”

Silence, thick and taunting. But something shifts—closer, curious, like it’s circling me, sizing me up. I step forward, defiant, and something brushes my wrist, light as a whisper but real enough to make me yank back. Nothing’s there—just air—but my skin’s tingling, the scent stronger, wrapping around me like a claim. My breath catches, my mark flaring, a blue glow seeping through my turtleneck.

“You’re not just watching,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together. “You’re claiming me.”

The words hang, heavy and true, and fear hits me like a freight train. This isn’t a game, not some spooky prank. That mark, that rose, that scent—they’re pieces of something bigger, something that sees me as more than a girl. I’m a target, caught in a web I can’t see, and the thought makes my magic flare, blue sparks dancing across my fingers, lighting up the trees.

A low hum vibrates the air, not sound but feeling, like the forest itself is waking up. My mark stings, and a vision flickers—icy blue eyes, a pale face, a smile that’s half memory, half threat. Dorian. The name’s a blade in my mind, tied to that boy from my past, the one who knew too much, wanted too much. He’s not here, but his shadow is, a frost-and-smoke promise that he’s coming for me.