Beneath Blood Moons

Chapter Five: The Hunter's Mark

The moonlit forest, its silver touch turning each leaf into glass and each branch into a razored claw. I stood by the edge of the clearing behind Rowan's cabin, stretching my limbs, trying to shake the last threads of sleep out of my bones. I was not yet used to this quiet. Or to this tranquility. Waiting for something to spring a trap.

Rowan had offered to train with me—though offered wasn’t quite the word. It was more of a challenge, an unspoken dare tossed between us during breakfast. I’d scoffed at his suggestion, but the truth was, my body had been itching for movement. For contact. Maybe even for him.

He was already in the clearing, bare-chested, huddled low to the earth like some creature ready to spring. His lean muscle and scarred strength, and grace shared by few save wolves, unstrung me. But it wasn't the strength that stopped me. It was a scar.

Jagged. Pale. Burned into his shoulder like a brand. I had never seen it before. Now, under the moon, it seemed to be alive.

"Where did you get that?" I moved closer.

Rowan stood up slowly, his golden eyes following every movement. "Cautious, are we?"

"I don't care enough to be cautious," I said, though the flush in my face gave me away. "It just… looks magical."

"It is," he said.

My heart leaped. I hadn't thought he'd answer. Or sound so peaceful. Magic scars did not become cheap. Not on wolves. Not on Alphas.

"It was silver-tipped," he said, lifting his arm a bit so I could see the full breadth of it. "Decorated with a binding spell meant to keep me from shifting. Almost succeeded."

I frowned. "Who did this to you?"

He remained quiet for a moment. Then, "Someone I trusted."

The words struck like a blow. I stepped back involuntarily, as if his pain were something physical, pouring out into the glade. I didn't know why it unnerved me. Maybe because I recognized what betrayal was like. Maybe because I didn't expect to hear vulnerability in him—not the kind that clung on under the surface like that.

"Why didn't you remove it?"

"I could have," he replied, eyes narrowing. But I didn't. I wanted to remember."

I didn't ask him anything else. I didn't have to. I'd seen enough in the set of his shoulders, in the ache in his jaw, as though the memory was bitter venom. There was past there. Hurt. Wound deeper than the one carved into his skin.

And yet, he stood tall. Still, he stood in front of me as though he wasn't afraid to let it be seen.

"You think that makes you stronger?" I said, close to bitterness.

"No," he said. "But it makes me honest."

We danced around each other—slow, measured. The training had begun.

He attacked first, swift as lightning, landing a wide kick at my legs. I evaded it, barely, landing a return kick at his side. He parried it, eyes firing. The rhythm fell between us, ugly and beautiful. I was consumed by it—the catching of breathing, the sound of feet on dirt, the way our bodies clashed like substances, fire and ice.

His hands were at my waist when I spun, employing his grip to send me flying back and out of his reach. I dropped with a thud, gasping.

"You're holding something back," I accused.

"So are you," he countered.

It wasn't a fight. It was a conversation. A waltz. Our silence said more than words ever could. Every strike was a question. Every parry, a response.

Why are you afraid of me?

Because you could tear me apart.

Why do you run back and back?

Because staying could kill me.

Why does it ache to look at you?

Because it counts.

He took my wrist as I rushed. I didn't step back from him for an instant. His fingers didn't hurt, but gripped hard. I felt the heat of his skin, the throb beneath. So alive. So lethal.

"You fight like someone who has nothing to lose," he whispered, his voice low.

"I fight like someone who's lost too much."

He released me then, and I stepped back. The space between us crackled like fire, hot and uncontrolled. The moon overhead cast a silver light on us, and the rest of the world—trees, cabins, all of it—appeared to dissolve into shadows.

"I've seen the way you watch me," I whispered.

"And how's that?"

"Like you already know me."

"I don't," he told me. "But I want to."

The honesty in his voice shattered me. I didn't know how to ward off such sincerity. It was easier when he was tough. Easier when I could hate him.

He stepped closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just… sure. Sure, in a way that made my knees melt like water.

I tilted my head back, gazing up at him. His eyes weren't gold. They were wild. Ancient. They held storms and secrets, and something more—something only mine.

He leaned into me, slowly, tortuously, as if the world had slowed its rotation to see what we'd do next. His breath danced across my cheek.

Then he stopped.

"I can't," he whispered, the words raw. "You are worth more than a tainted Alpha."

I didn't realize I was trembling until I stepped back and caught the chill.

"Don't decide what I deserve," I told myself, gritting steel into my voice.

His mouth curled—half regret, half desire. "Then stop looking at me like you're already home here."

I turned away before he could see the answer in my face.

We didn't speak after that night. We trained in silence, our bodies speaking a language our lips wouldn't. And by the time I stumbled back into the cabin, sweating and raw with emotion, I knew that something had shifted between us.

It was no

longer just the bond pulling at my chest. It was him.

And that was a whole lot more dangerous.