Chapter 11 : What Remains
270 Words
The clinic smelled of antiseptic, wet fur, and burnt fabric.
Clara scrubbed Liam’s wound with iodine, ignoring his growls. He’d insisted on walking back himself—shirt torn, one eye swelling shut, and limping like an old wolfhound. Pride was a stubborn thing.
“You know,” she said, pressing gauze to his scorched palm, “next time I brand you, I’ll use something prettier than a candlestick.”
He gave her a sideways look. “Next time?”
“You think that was it?” She raised a brow. “You pissed off a pack, humiliated their alpha, and howled down the entire forest like it owed you rent.”
“I only howled because you told me to.”
Clara smiled, but it faded quickly. “They’ll come back. Stronger. Smarter. Next time they’ll have maps.”
Liam was silent.
Across the room, Old Nan sat with a mug of broth, muttering prayers over silver beads. Sheriff Danner leaned against the far wall, boots still caked in blood. No one had left the clinic. Not yet. Not while the adrenaline lingered in their bones.
“What are we calling this?” Danner finally asked. “A war?”
Clara shook her head. “A warning.”
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Outside, the dogs hadn’t stopped circling. Not guarding. Waiting.
Liam noticed. “They’re looking at you.”
“No,” Clara said quietly, walking to the window. “They’re listening.”
Because something had shifted in her too. Not a beast, not claws or howls. But command. Presence.
She’d faced the blood moon and hadn’t flinched.
And Silver Hollow had watched.
- Writer
