Chapter 8: Acceptance
1024 Words
Scarlett didn’t run far. Not really.
She told herself it was distance—space to think, to breathe, to stop feeling like she was being watched by a dozen pairs of unnaturally steady eyes. But truthfully, she didn’t know what she was doing.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of amber and ash, she’d found a creek that threaded quietly through the trees. She sat on a flat rock and stared into the water, half-hoping it would reflect something she recognized.
But the face that looked back was someone else.
Eyes too bright. Skin flushed like her blood ran hotter than it used to. Every sound made her twitch. Every gust of wind seemed like it carried a message she couldn’t quite decode.
She clenched her fists.
No. Not this. Not yet.
Branches cracked behind her.
Scarlett stood instantly. Instinct. She didn’t even think—just moved.
But when she turned, it wasn’t Damon or Lyra or anyone from the pack.
It was a man.
No, not a man. Not really.
He was tall, lean, with ragged hair that looked matted with dirt and blood. His eyes gleamed gold, not like Damon’s storm-grey glow. These were wild. Feral. Starving.
She took a step back. “You’re one of them.”
The rogue didn’t smile, but his lip curled.
“You smell loud,” he rasped. His voice was sandpaper and sickness. “Like change. Like power that doesn’t know where it belongs.”
Scarlett’s heart kicked hard.
“I don’t want anything to do with any of you.”
He laughed. It was a short, broken sound. “It’s not about what you want. It’s what you are.”
Then he lunged.
Scarlett ducked—barely. His fingers grazed her shoulder as she twisted, bolting for the trees.
But he was fast. Faster than her. She could hear him behind her—snapping branches, labored breathing. Her instincts screamed. Her muscles burned. She jumped over a fallen log and landed wrong, ankle twisting sharply beneath her.
She cried out and fell, scraping her palms on rough bark.
The rogue was on her before she could scramble up. A weight crushed her down as a hand tangled in her hair.
“You’re not theirs yet,” he whispered against her ear. “That means I can take you.”
She thrashed, kicked, bit—anything. But he was stronger. And worse, she could feel something shifting inside her. A pulse. A low, humming energy that was responding to his aggression.
Her mark seared under her skin.
She screamed—not from fear, but rage.
A blur of movement slammed into the rogue.
Suddenly he was off her—thrown violently to the ground. Growls filled the air. Not one. Not two.
Several.
Scarlett blinked, chest heaving. Damon was crouched in front of her in half-shift, teeth bared, eyes blazing silver. Behind him, Lyra and two others emerged from the trees, every muscle coiled.
The rogue stood, swaying. Blood smeared across his jaw. “Too late,” he hissed. “You can’t guard her forever. More are coming.”
Then he turned and sprinted into the trees, fast and silent as a shadow.
No one followed.
Scarlett felt arms around her. Damon. He was holding her like she might fall apart.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, but it came out cracked and weak.
“You’re bleeding,” he said tightly. “We have to get you back.”
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“You didn’t have a choice.”
That silenced her.
She let him lift her to her feet. Her ankle throbbed, and her palms stung, but the worst part was the shame.
She’d run. She thought she could outrun this. The pack. The pull. The danger.
And now she knew better.
They returned to the lodge under a bruised sky.
Lyra walked beside her in silence, offering no comfort. Just quiet presence. Scarlett hated how much she appreciated it.
Inside, the pack was already stirring. Word spread fast here—she saw it in their faces. The ones who nodded respectfully. The ones who looked at her with wary admiration. The ones who kept their distance, like she was something wild and volatile.
Damon sat her on a low bench and knelt in front of her.
“You’re lucky,” he muttered, cleaning her hands with a damp cloth. “If we hadn’t caught his scent when we did—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped.
His jaw tightened. “You think this is me trying to prove a point?”
“Isn’t it?” she bit out.
He didn’t respond.
Lyra crouched beside them. “He was right, you know. The rogue. There are more coming.”
Scarlett looked between them. “Why me?”
Lyra’s eyes softened. “Because change draws attention. And you’re not just changing—you’re waking something up. Something old.”
Scarlett shook her head. “I’m not special. I’m not anything.”
Damon stood slowly. “You are,” he said. “And pretending you’re not won’t stop what’s coming.”
She looked up at him, anger and fear and exhaustion knotting in her chest.
“I didn’t ask to be marked.”
“No,” he said. “But you were. And now we either teach you how to survive it—or we bury what’s left when you can’t.”
The words hit her like a blow.
She said nothing as Lyra wrapped a bandage around her ankle. She didn’t speak when the rest of the pack gathered for something called, 'evening council,' murmuring about territory lines and rogue sightings and moon cycles.
But later, when Damon passed her by the fire, she spoke.
“I’ve decided." she said quietly.
He stopped. And looked at her seriously.
“I'll stay... for now,” she added.
His voice was soft. “That’s all we ask.”
And for the first time, Scarlett didn’t feel like she was being pulled. She felt like maybe—just maybe—she was choosing.
- Writer
