THE MARK
1888 Words
The healer's house was meant to be empty at night. That was the whole reason Elara came. She didn't move until the last footsteps faded down the corridor. Then she slipped inside through the side door and closed it quietly behind her.
Dried herbs greeted her right away—lavender, sage, bitterroot. She knew every single scent here. She knew where each bottle sat, what drawer hid the bandages, which shelf carried the stronger medicines, and which herbs you had to handle with care unless you wanted poison instead of healing.
For years, this place had been home—well, a second one. She'd spent long nights here patching up injured warriors, caring for sick kids, helping tired mothers, tending to elderly pack members who couldn't afford anyone else.
She had stitched wounds with clumsy, shaking hands. Pulled all-nighters by feverish bedsides. Held hands of people scared out of their minds.
Somehow, through it all, there’d been one thing she always depended on: her ability to heal.
Tonight, that belief terrified her.
She locked the door. Her fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. Just one look around the room, and she finally moved toward the examination table. The old thing groaned as she sat.
She stared at her hands. They looked perfectly fine. That was the worst part. Outside, nothing seemed broken. No obvious sign anything was wrong.
But under the dress, right against her skin, something burned. The mark.
She slowly peeled the fabric off her shoulder and caught her breath. It looked worse than earlier. A dark, ugly line curved over her skin, the bruising spreading around it. By now it should've started to heal, or at least faded a bit. Even a bad rejection wound usually began to settle after a few days.
Elara had seen plenty before. She knew how they worked. She knew what normal looked like. This wasn’t normal.
She touched the mark lightly. Pain lanced up her arm. She yanked her hand away.
“Easy,” she whispered. Her own voice sounded too tiny in the empty room.
So she closed her eyes and tried to reach inward for her wolf.
Nothing.
Her stomach twisted up tight. She tried again. Luna?
Quiet.
Not silence, exactly—a faint presence was there, small and tired, like her wolf had curled up in the furthest corner, hiding.
Fear crawled up Elara’s spine. “No.” She pressed her hands against her chest. “Come on.”
She’d never really been afraid of her wolf before. Even as a kid, her wolf had been her one constant. Frightened, angry, crying—her wolf never abandoned her, not even after her heart had been stomped on by rejection.
Now? Nothing. Just a whisper of weakness.
Elara swallowed hard, reached for the bowl of water and dipped her fingers inside. She rested her damp palm over the mark.
Healing used to be effortless. She just thought about it, and warm energy would swell beneath her skin. A gentle glow, the wound closing, easy as breathing.
This time, when she closed her eyes and focused, nothing happened.
She tried again. “Heal.”
A tiny spark rose under her palm. Maybe, for a split second, she hoped.
Then it fizzled out. The pain came back, sharp and raw.
“No…”
She tried again, poured everything she had into it. Her breath turned ragged, heart banging against her ribs. She could feel the energy rise and gather—but it wouldn’t go where it needed to. Something was stopping it. Or worse—it felt like something was swallowing it up.
Her face went pale.
She’d healed broken bones. Brought people back from death’s door. Yet now she couldn’t even heal herself.
Why?
She tried touching the mark one more time, lightly. This time, it wasn’t pain exactly. It felt like something was there. Waiting. Watching.
Elara jerked her hand back fast. Her breathing stalled. For the first time since coming in, it really felt like she wasn’t alone.
“Who’s there?”
Silence.
She listened. Nothing.
She got up, grabbed a lamp, and raised it. But the room still held the same old shelves, cabinets, and scarred examination table. That was it.
She let out a shaky breath. “You’re imagining things.”
She almost believed it.
Almost.
The mark still felt wrong, though. Deeply wrong.
Elara covered her shoulder and reached for a bottle of pain medicine. That’s when the door opened behind her.
She spun around—her heart almost stopped.
Damien stood in the doorway.
She stared. He didn’t look like the terrifying Supreme Alpha the stories always warned about. Right now, he just looked like a man who’d walked in and found something unexpected.
His eyes slid from her face to the medicine in her hand, then to her shoulder.
She covered the mark quickly. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped inside. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I work here.”
“Not anymore.”
The words stung more than she’d expected. Her jaw clenched. “I know.”
He shut the door quietly, but didn’t lock it. He didn’t come any closer either. That surprised her. She’d expected anger, accusations, maybe a demand to explain why she’d dared come back. Instead, he just looked at her. Really looked. Then his gaze moved to her hand on her shoulder.
His voice went soft. “How long has it hurt?”
Elara froze. That was the last thing she’d expected.
“It isn’t.”
Damien frowned. “It isn’t?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
She felt her heart jump. She forced a shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He didn’t press. That almost felt worse.
She turned her back, started fiddling with the bottles. Picked one up. Put it down. Moved another. Anything to avoid his eyes.
He watched her for a long moment. “You don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
She stopped moving. Her fingers gripped the table edge hard.
The way he said it irritated her. Not mean. Not accusing. Just dead certain. He noticed things. She hadn’t known him long, but he’d already caught on to things she tried hard to hide: how she limped a little, her breathing when it hurt, the way her fingers curled up when she was scared.
She hated being seen like that. Being seen meant someone could realize just how close she was to crumbling.
“I can handle it,” she murmured.
Something softened in his eyes. She saw it, even if it barely showed.
“You don’t have to be tough every moment.”
That hit somewhere deep. Her throat tightened, made it hard to answer. No one had ever told her that. Everyone wanted her strong. Patients wanted her to fix them, the pack needed her to serve, Adrian expected her to take his rejection quietly. No one gave her permission to break down.
So she didn’t. She never complained. Never asked for help. Everyone hated weakness.
Now this intimidating man stood there and didn’t shame her for it. He just stood quietly across the room.
She blinked fast. She was not going to cry. No way.
She turned her face away.
He didn’t chase after her, didn’t try to touch her, didn’t demand answers. He just stayed—right where he was.
Honestly, that almost made it harder. If he’d pushed for an explanation, she could’ve fought back. If he’d demanded to see the wound, she’d have snapped. If he’d reached for her, she’d have snarled.
But he did none of that. He gave her space. And silence. And the weird comfort of just having someone nearby, not leaving.
She wiped under her eye quickly, before any tears escaped.
“I’m fine.”
His mouth twitched. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”
She glanced at him—for once, almost smiled. Almost.
Then the pain hit again. Sharp, sudden.
She gasped, gripping the table.
Damien’s eyes hardened. “Elara.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I am.”
They both knew it was a lie.
Damien finally stepped forward—just the one step though. Elara straightened instantly, ready to bolt. He stopped, keeping his distance.
His gaze dropped to her shoulder. “May I see it?”
She hesitated. Every instinct screamed 'no.' The mark was hers. The rejection was hers. Private, miserable, humiliating.
But it wasn’t simple curiosity in Damien’s eyes. He’d already figured out something was off.
She lowered her hand and pulled her dress back, exposing the mark.
He stared at it, face changing immediately. The calm vanished. Jaw clenched, eyes darkened as he closed the gap slightly.
Now she saw it—he wasn’t angry at her, not disgusted. Disturbed.
“What?” she whispered.
He didn't answer right away, just leaned closer. “May I?” He waited for her nod before bringing his hand near—not touching.
His eyes traced the mark, and his face grew grimmer with every second. “This isn’t healing.”
“I know.”
“How long?”
“Since the rejection.”
“How long exactly?”
She looked away. “A few days.”
His eyes sharpened. “A rejection wound doesn’t do this.”
“I know.”
“You’ve tried healing it yourself.” It wasn’t a question.
She stayed quiet.
“How many times?”
Her throat felt tight. “Several.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t work.”
A flash of fear crossed his face. He killed it almost instantly, but she caught it.
She knew fear. She’d seen it countless times.
He lowered his voice. “Who performed your rejection?”
She frowned. “Why does that matter?”
“Just answer.”
He didn’t sound angry, just serious. A little dangerous, too.
She swallowed. “Adrian.”
Damien went perfectly still. Not shocked, not furious. Just… unsettled. His eyes stayed on the mark.
She tried to read his face. “What?”
Still nothing.
“Damien?”
He finally looked her in the eye. Something cold and distant settled over him.
“No.”
She frowned. “No, what?”
He stared at her shoulder. His words got quiet, almost a whisper. “Adrian couldn’t have done this.”
Her heart started to race. “Why?”
He looked at her like he was seeing her—really seeing her—for the first time. Not the disgraced healer, not the rejected woman. Not the stubborn stranger who’d refused to back down. Something else. Something impossible.
Finally, he said, “Because Adrian wasn’t the one who rejected you.”
Elara’s blood froze. “What are you talking about?”
Damien’s face locked down, hard. He glanced at the door, suspicious now.
Then his eyes came back to her, and for the first time since she’d met him, he looked genuinely shaken.
“Elara,” he said quietly, glancing one last time at the dark mark, “whatever happened to you… that isn’t an ordinary rejection.”
Her breath stalled. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. His silence scared her more than any answer could.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD