Chapter Three: Bound in Blood
1442 Words
The wind howled outside the sanctuary walls, but inside,the air was still—metallic scent of blood and the quiet hum of tension. Calla sat in silence, bundled in fresh clothes someone had left for—black sweatpants, a soft cotton shirt, and a heavy flannel jacket that still carried the warmth of another body. Darius’s body, she suspected. The coat was too big, smelled like cedar and firewood, and wrapped around her like armor.
But armor didn’t stop the memory of teeth tearing flesh. Of power burning beneath her skin. Of the way she'd felt—unleashed. Terrifying. Alive.
“You shifted for the first time. It drains most people for days.”
Calla didn’t look at him. “Guess I’m not most people.”
He crossed the room, slow and careful, as if she were a cornered animal. Maybe she was.
“I need answers,” she said.
“You'll get them.”
“No, I want them now. No riddles. No half-truths. What the hell did I become out there?”
Darius exhaled, dragging a chair across from her sinking into it. “What you became was your birthright. The Moonborn are more than hybrids. They’re forged by celestial alignment—born under rare lunar cycles that amplify their bloodline.”
“So I'm some kind of wolf-chosen freak?”
“No. You’re a weapon bred by fate. And fate’s not done with you yet.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. “The rogue. I killed it.”
“Yes.”
“I didn't mean to.”
“You had to. Or it would’ve killed you.”
Calla hugged her knees to her chest, voice quieter now. “I lost control. I felt… hunger. Rage. It wasn’t like watching from the outside—it was me. But twisted.”
Darius leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “That's what makes you dangerous—to others and to yourself. You’re not just a shifter Calla. You're Moonborn. Your wolf isn’t separate from you. It is you. Until you master that duality, it will take over whenever you’re threatened.”
She met his gaze. “And if I don't learn to control it?”
“Then others will try to control you.”
A long silence stretched between them. Outside, distant howls echoed over the hills. Pack members calling to each other, securing the perimeter.
Finally, Calla asked, “what was my mother like?”
The question caught him off guard.
Darius’s jaw tensed slightly. “Strong. Smart. Loyal to the bone. She gave everything to protect you.”
“You knew her?”
“I fought beside her.” He paused. “We were… close.”
Something unspoken passed between his eyes. A history Calla wasn’t part of. She didn’t push. Not yet.
“I don’t even remember her voice,” she said quietly.
“You will.”
“I don’t want memories,” she said. “I want revenge.”
Darius didn’t flinch. “Good. That fire will keep you alive.”
She stood and turned toward the fire. “What now?”
“We train. At dawn. We teach you how to fight. How to track. How to harness what’s inside you before someone else does.”
“And in return?”
He stood too, closer than before. “In return, you live. You survive. You learn to take back what was stolen.”
Calla looked up at him, the tension between them thick as smoke. She hated how close he made her feel to losing control again—except this time, it wasn’t rage or bloodlust burning in her chest. It was heat. Something older. Wilder.
She stepped back. “Fine. But don’t expect me to play nice.”
Darius gave a slow, wolfish grin. “Wouldn't dream of it.”
The training field was brutal.
Cold, open ground surrounded by pine trees and marked with clawed earth and worn weapons racks. Several others from the pack stood waiting—warriors with hard eyes and lean muscle. Some nodded at Calla. Most just stared, assessing.
Darius handed her a dagger
Silver.
She took it, eyes narrowing. Won't this kill me?”
“Only if you use it wrong. That’s what training’s for.”
They started slow. Basic stances, footwork, defensive strikes. She was surprisingly quick, picking up the movements faster than Darius had anticipated. Her body, it seemed, already knew the rhythm of violence. All it needed was shape.
Sweat licked her skin. Her breaths came fast but steady.
Each clash of metal echoed with something primal.
When she moved, she felt right.
Darius circled her, correcting her grip, shifting her stance.
“Don’t telegraph your movement,” he murmured, adjusting her arm. “Think like the wolf. You are the weapon.”
“Is that what you think of yourself?”
She asked, not turning.
He paused. “I know what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“Deadlier than I look.”
She smirked. “Cocky much?”
“You'll need a little arrogance to survive. Own it.”
“Funny,” she said, lunging, “I thought it was rage that got me here.”
He blocked, twisted, disarmed her. The dagger clattered to the ground.
Darius stepped into her space, chest brushing hers. “Rage starts the fire. Control shapes it.”
They were too close again.
This time she didn’t move away.
Their breaths mingled in the cold. His hand still gripped her wrist lightly, and something in his eyes flickered—not aggression. Not dominance.
Need.
“Tell me to stop,” he said roughly.
She didn't.
Instead, she kissed him.
Hard. Fierce. Unfiltered.
It wasn’t delicate. It was a clash—of heat and teeth, of mouths finding friction, not tenderness. She tugged at his shirt. He backed her against the tree, his hands on her hips, the dagger forgotten in the dirt. Her body arched into his, craving more—more heat, more pressure, more him.
But just as fast, he broke the kiss, breathing hard.
“No.”
Calla blinked, dazed. What?”
He stepped back, jaw clenched. “Not here. Not like this.”
She swallowed hard, heart pounding. “You didn't seem to mind a second ago.”
His voice was rough. “I did mind. That’s the problem.”
She tilted her head, challenging. “Scared of losing control?”
“I'm scared of what happens if I don’t.”
For a long beat, they stared at each other—neither apologizing. Neither retreating.
Then Darius picked up the dagger and handed it back.
“We're done for today,” he said, voice tight. “Rest. Tomorrow, we go deeper.”
Calla took it silently.
He turned and walked off without another word.
She watched him disappear into the trees, blood still thrumming hot beneath her skin.
She hadn't just kissed him. She’d tested him. And he passed.
Barely.
That night Calla wandered the sanctuary walls alone. The rustic cabin was larger than it looked—filled with rooms of maps, weapons, and ancient books. She paused in one chamber where moonlight spilled through a skylight, illuminating a mural painted across the stone wall.
A silver wolf stood in the center, surrounded by flames. Behind it a crescent moon bled red into the sky.
A voice behind her said, “they called her the Crimson Howl. Your mother.”
Calla turned. The blond warrior from before—the one with the gray eyes and mocking smile—stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
“She was Moonborn too?” She asked.
He nodded. “The only one before you in this century.”
“And she died for it.”
“She died because she tried to hide it.”
He stepped into the light, his features sharper now. “Lucien. Beta of Blackthorn Pack. Darius’s second.”
“You don’t like me.”
Lucien smiled. “I don’t trust you, that's different.”
“Well, the feeling’s mutual.”
“I can see why he likes you.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Darius. He doesn’t let people in. But he looks at you like you’re a ghost he hasn’t decided whether to chase or bury.”
Her stomach twisted. “It's nothing.”
“Maybe. But around here? Nothing gets people killed.”
Calla held his gaze. “Are you warning me?”
“I'm reminding you. Moonborn blood runs hot. But too much heat burns down the pack.”
He walked away, leaving her alone beneath the painted moon.
Alone—and more tangled than ever.
- Writer
