Marked

Marked *Chapter 6*

EMMA

--

Emma sat in her car for a moment after pulling out of the clinic parking lot. Hands on the wheel. Staring at the taillights of the truck in front of her.

Then she followed it.

She was following a truck full of werewolves into the mountains at eleven o'clock at night.

This was fine. This was totally fine. This was a completely normal Tuesday.

Her hands were shaking on the steering wheel. She'd been gripping it so hard for the last ten minutes that her knuckles had gone white, and she was pretty sure she'd lost feeling in her left thumb, but she couldn't make herself loosen her grip. If she loosened her grip, she might do something stupid. Like turn around. Like drive straight to the police station and tell them — what, exactly?

*Hi, yes, I'd like to report a werewolf. Several werewolves, actually. One of them bled on my floor and turned into an actual wolf on my operating table, and another one looked at me and now my heart doesn't work properly. Can you arrest them for that? Is that a crime? It feels like it should be a crime.*

God, she was losing her mind.

The truck's brake lights flared ahead of her. She slowed, matching its speed. They'd been driving for fifteen minutes, winding deeper into forested roads she'd never taken before. She hadn't even known these roads existed. She'd lived here for a year and apparently there was an entire werewolf compound somewhere in these mountains and she'd just been — what? Getting coffee? Doing paperwork? Living her boring little life while supernatural creatures held meetings ten miles away?

Her chest ached.

It had been aching since he left. Since *Callum* left — because apparently that was his name, she'd heard them say it, not that anyone had bothered to introduce her properly. It had started as a dull pressure behind her sternum and it was getting worse. Or maybe better? She couldn't tell. Every mile closer to wherever they were going, the ache shifted. Like something was pulling at it. Tugging.

She didn't want to think about what that meant.

The truck ahead slowed again. Through the rear window, she could see the outline of the driver — Declan — reaching for something. His phone, maybe. The glow of a screen lit up his face for a moment.

Great. He was probably texting someone. *Almost there. Bringing the human. She's still freaking out.*

She wasn't freaking out. She was processing. There was a difference.

Okay, fine. She was freaking out a little.

---

She tried to focus on the facts. Facts were good. Facts were her job.

Fact one: Werewolves existed. She had operated on one while he shifted forms underneath her hands.

Fact two: There was a man named Callum who was apparently the "Alpha" of a "pack," and when their eyes had met, something had happened to her body that she could not explain medically, biologically, or logically.

Fact three: She was driving toward a compound full of supernatural creatures because she'd agreed to treat their wounded.

Fact four: She was an i***t.

The truck ahead turned onto a smaller road, almost hidden in the tree line. Emma followed. The pavement gave way to gravel, then to packed dirt. Darker here. The only light was her headlights and the truck's taillights, cutting through the black.

Her phone sat in the passenger seat. She should call someone. Michelle? She could picture her friend's face — the slow blink, the long pause, then: *Okay, Em. Have you been drinking, or do I need to come get you?*

And absolutely not her brother. Not that he'd answer anyway.

No one would believe her. She barely believed herself.

The ache in her chest was definitely easing now. Which meant — what? That she was getting closer to him? That the bond, or whatever this was, could tell?

She didn't want it to tell. She didn't want any of this.

*You felt it*, something whispered in the back of her mind. *You know you felt it.*

She turned up the radio. Some pop song she didn't recognize. It didn't help.

---

The trees opened up.

Lights ahead. A lot of them. Buildings — she could make out shapes now, structures scattered across a clearing. Bigger than she'd expected. This wasn't some backwoods cabin. This was a compound. Fences, gates, what looked like guard posts.

And people. Movement between the buildings. Shadows that paused to watch her car pass.

The truck stopped at a gate. Someone approached the driver's window — Emma couldn't see clearly, but she saw Declan gesture toward her car. The figure looked back. Looked at her.

She couldn't see their face. But she felt them looking. Felt others looking too, from the darkness beyond the gate. How many of them were out there?

Then the gate opened.

The truck pulled through. Emma followed, her heart hammering in her throat.

The smell hit her first — woodsmoke, pine, something earthier underneath. Animal, almost. The sound came next: voices in the distance, a door closing somewhere, the crunch of gravel under tires. A world that had been here all along, ten miles from her clinic, completely hidden.

She was here. Wherever *here* was. A compound full of werewolves who apparently knew something about her that she didn't understand. Who were expecting her.

The ache in her chest flared, then settled into something almost like warmth.

He was close. She could feel it.

*God*, she hated that she could feel it.

The truck stopped in front of a large building. Declan got out, walked around to help Nash from the passenger side. Nash, who was upright and moving, which was medically improbable given that she'd been stitching his organs back together an hour ago.

She sat in her car for a moment. Hands still on the wheel. Engine still running.

She could leave. Right now. Turn around, drive back through that gate, go home, pretend none of this had ever happened.

The warmth in her chest pulsed. Quiet. Waiting.

Declan knocked on her window.

"You coming, doc? Or are you going to sleep in there?"

She turned off the engine. Opened the door.

The night air hit her face. Cold, pine-sharp, unfamiliar.

She could still leave. Declan had given his word.

She was choosing not to test it.