Marked By the Moon -By Kori Boyce

ROWAN The imprint happened under blood-red moonlight. That was how it always went, according to the old stories—when instinct overrode thought and survival mattered more than consequence. I hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t wanted it. I’d been tracking a rogue pack too close to the human boundary when I felt her fear spike through the air like a scream I couldn’t hear. She was already grown. Already an adult. Standing in the trees with her heart pounding loud enough to rattle my bones. Elara Vale. Human. Unaware. Too close to teeth and claws that didn’t care what she was. I remember stepping between her and the wolf that lunged. Remember the snarl tearing out of my chest. Remember her breath hitching behind me. And then the bond snapped into place. Hot. Immediate. Absolute. The imprint wasn’t romantic—it never was. It was a mark of guardianship, burned into flesh and soul to tether one life to another. Protection. Vigilance. Distance. I’d pressed my palm to her shoulder long enough to seal it, felt the crescent bloom beneath my skin in answer, and then I’d stepped away before she could even look at me. That was the rule. I watched her from afar after that. Years of quiet observation. Making sure no danger came too close. Making sure I never did. Because wanting her would have corrupted the bond. And yet—even then—I felt it. The low, steady pull. The awareness of her existence in my blood. The way my body learned her rhythms before my mind allowed it. Tonight, nineteen years after her birth, the bond stirred again for the first time. Not in warning. In hunger.