Chapter 3: Golden Eyes
1075 Words
Luna Callahan POV
Warmth.
It wrapped around me like a cocoon, thick and heavy, but safe. My body ached with every breath, but the pain was distant—muted, like it belonged to someone else. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. I wanted to be dreaming.
But then I opened my eyes.
Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling above me, honey-dark and old. A fire crackled softly to my right, casting golden light that danced across the walls of a small, rustic cabin. Somewhere nearby, water dripped. Rain? No. Melting snow.
I sat up too fast and groaned as pain bloomed down my left side. My ankle throbbed. My arms were scratched. I felt like I’d been dragged through a nightmare and left behind to remember every detail.
Only it wasn’t a nightmare. It was real.
The golden eyes. The shadow in the trees. The werewolf. The attack.
And the man who saved me.
He’d carried me. I remembered his arms—strong, warm, cradling me like I weighed nothing. I remembered the way he looked at me, like he knew something I didn’t. Like he felt something.
But he was gone.
I looked around, half-expecting him to be leaning in a corner, arms crossed, watching me with those fierce, inhuman eyes.
But the cabin was empty.
A heavy fur blanket covered me, and beneath it, I was no longer in my mud-soaked clothes. I wore a soft linen shirt and loose pants that weren’t mine. Heat rushed to my face. He changed me? Or someone did.
There was a wooden side table beside the bed, holding a ceramic bowl filled with herbs I recognized instantly—arnica, calendula, willow bark. Pain relief. Healing.
Whoever had rescued me wasn’t just strong.
They were healers. Or… they knew what I was.
I pushed the blanket off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my ankle protested. It was wrapped in bandages—tight and expertly done.
The air in the cabin smelled of pine resin and woodsmoke. No scent of blood or danger. Just calm. Comfort. Mystery.
I stood, testing my balance. My ankle held. Barely.
A leather-bound journal sat on the corner of the desk. The name carved into the spine was worn away, unreadable. Next to it, a dagger with a silver hilt gleamed faintly in the firelight.
I limped to the window and pushed aside the curtain.
Nothing but trees.
Endless, towering pines dusted in snow. Mist curled low to the ground like it didn’t want to leave. No sign of a road. No trail. No power lines. Wherever I was, it wasn’t on any map.
“Where am I?” I whispered to no one.
And then I felt it.
A presence.
Behind me.
I turned slowly.
He was there.
Leaning in the doorway like he’d been carved from the shadows.
Tall. At least 6'4". Built like a soldier. He wore black jeans and a long-sleeved thermal shirt that clung to every inch of his carved frame. His dark hair was damp, like he’d just come in from the snow. But it was his eyes that held me captive.
Golden.
Glowing faintly. Even in human form.
My mouth went dry.
He didn’t speak. Just watched me. Silent. Assessing.
Dangerous.
“Y-You…” My voice cracked. “You saved me.”
He nodded once. No smile. No warmth. Just calm, controlled intensity.
“What was that thing?” I asked. “The… the one chasing me?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped closer. I instinctively stepped back.
The surrounding air shifted—like the room responded to him. He owned this space without trying. His presence didn’t just fill it; it changed it.
He didn’t smell like other people.
He smelled like wild pine, frost, and something darker. Older. Untamed.
“Are you going to kill me?” I asked, half-joking, half-serious.
One corner of his mouth curved. Just a little. “If I were, I wouldn’t have bothered saving you.”
His voice.
God, his voice.
Low. Rough. Velvet dragged over gravel. The kind of voice you feel more than hear. It scraped across my skin in the best way.
“I’ve seen things,” I said, “things I shouldn’t. And you… you’re not just some guy living in the woods.”
He studied me, his jaw ticking once. “No. I’m not.”
I waited for more. A name. An explanation. Anything.
Instead, he turned away and walked to the fireplace. Picked up a piece of wood and threw it in like it didn’t weigh a thing.
I followed him with my eyes, even though every instinct said not to.
“You’re a werewolf,” I whispered.
Silence.
The only sound was the crackle of flames.
I expected him to deny it.
He didn’t.
“You’re not supposed to know that,” he said finally.
“Too late.”
He looked at me again, this time like I was a riddle he couldn’t quite solve.
“You’re not like the others,” he muttered.
“What others?”
“Humans.”
A pause.
“You’re not human, Luna.”
The way he said my name sent a chill straight down my spine.
I swallowed hard. “What are you talking about?”
But he was already walking toward the door.
“Wait—where are you going? I have questions!”
He paused just before the threshold. “You’ll be safe here. You need to rest.”
“Safe from what? Who are you?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned—and was gone.
Just like that.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me stunned and breathless.
I hobbled to the window again, searching for him. But there was no sign of anyone. No footprints. No movement. It was like he’d vanished into the forest itself.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered.
Frustrated, I turned to limp back toward the bed—and that’s when I saw it.
A sharp sting flared on my left wrist.
I pushed up the sleeve of my borrowed shirt.
There, etched into my skin, was a mark.
A glowing silver claw-shaped symbol.
Faint. Pulsing. Alive.
It wasn’t a wound. Not exactly.
It felt more like… a brand.
But colder.
As if something ancient had claimed me.
And in the center of the mark, nestled between the curve of three claw lines, was a crescent moon.
- Writer
