Falling For The Demon Wolf-Chapter 29: The Mark

VIOLET

The hall was silent again.

But my thoughts weren’t.

I pressed a palm to my arm as I walked, feeling the heat of the mark searing beneath my skin like a phantom burn. The rogue’s mark—I’d seen it flash across his chest in the heat of battle. A black, twisted design, half hidden by blood and movement.

It was almost identical to mine.

I didn’t want to believe it at first. Maybe it was just a trick of the firelight, the chaos, the fear. But I’d studied my mark enough times to know. Every jagged line. Every curve. Etched onto me since I was a child.

I ducked into the corner of the pack house that had become my sanctuary—a half-forgotten room lined with books and dried herbs. Inara had shown it to me once, saying no one really came here unless they were looking to escape.

I pulled my sleeve back, exposing the inside of my forearm.

There it was.

Dark. Intricate. A sigil buried deep into the skin—like it had grown with me.

No one in the pack had ever commented on it. Maybe they assumed it was some hunter’s symbol. Maybe they were too afraid to ask. But it wasn’t just a mark.

It was a curse.

"You don’t talk about it," my father had said, kneeling beside me when I was eight, pressing a cool cloth to the wound that never bled. "You don’t show anyone. You don’t even think about it."

I remembered how pale his face had gone when it first appeared. Like he’d seen a ghost.

"Why?" I had asked. "What does it mean?"

"It means nothing if no one finds out."

But he was wrong.

It meant something.

And now, it wasn’t just on me. It was on the rogue who’d spoken my name like he already owned it. Who looked at me like we were bound by something ancient and terrible.

I ran my fingers along the mark’s edge, feeling its warmth pulse beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.

Why did the rogue have the same one?

Was it a hunter’s curse?

Or something more?

There had always been rumors—stories passed through firelight and whispers when the moon was high and fear was thick. That some hunters were cursed by the ones they hunted. That the bloodlines weren’t as pure as the Council liked to claim.

That darkness crept in where light faltered.

I never believed them.

Until now.

The creak of the door snapped me back. I tugged my sleeve down, heartbeat quickening.

But it was only Inara.

She stepped in, a bag of dried roots in hand, and paused when she saw me. "You’re pale."

"I’m always pale."

She raised a brow. "Pal-er."

I hesitated. "Have you ever seen this before?" I pulled up my sleeve just enough to show the mark, watching her reaction.

She frowned, stepping closer. "That’s... not a hunter’s crest. It’s older. Wilder." She tilted her head, expression tightening. "Where did you get it?"

"My father," I said. "He said it appeared when I was eight."

Inara was quiet a moment too long. Then she knelt beside me and pressed her fingers gently over the skin.

"It’s not just a mark," she murmured. "It’s a brand."

I stiffened. "What kind of brand?"

"The kind used to seal pacts. Ancient ones. Blood magic."

Her gaze flicked up to mine. "You may have inherited something your father never wanted you to discover."

I didn’t speak.

Because I already knew she was right.

And now... the one person who might know the truth about it was the same one threatening to destroy the pack.

The rogue.

The leader.

The one who looked at me like I belonged to him.

But I didn’t.

I belonged to no one.

And if this mark tied me to him, I’d find a way to sever it—even if I had to spill every drop of cursed blood in my veins to do it.

barely slept that night.

Even with the door locked and the windows bolted, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me—waiting in the dark corners of the room for my breathing to slow. For my guard to drop. For the mark to glow again.

But it didn’t.

It just throbbed beneath my skin, quietly pulsing like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

When morning broke, I dressed quickly and quietly, slipping out before most of the pack was awake. I didn’t want to risk another run-in with Cian or Selene. Especially not Zain. Whatever had passed between us... the dance, the near kiss, the herbs—I couldn’t trust what any of it meant. Not when my entire identity felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

I found my way back to the library room—dusty, quiet, and untouched.

No one would interrupt me here.

I pushed aside a row of old herbology texts, revealing the heavy books I’d spotted yesterday. One of them had stood out—its binding etched with faded gold script in a language I almost recognized. It felt... familiar. Like a song half-remembered from childhood.

I flipped it open.

Ancient sigils. Blood magic. Hunter lineages. Rogue curses.

There—on the third page, hand-sketched and annotated in the margins—was the mark.

My mark.

The ink was darker than the others, pressed with care, like someone had been studying it, fearing it.

I ran my fingers along the drawing. Beneath it, the text was written in a dialect I hadn’t seen in years. But I understood just enough to make out the core of it.

"Bound to the hunted. Marked by the cursed. This symbol seals the blood pact of shadowborns—the cursed offspring of rogue and hunter bloodlines."

My hands went numb.

Shadowborns.

A myth. That’s what my father had always said. That the stories of cursed unions between hunters and rogues were nothing but bedtime tales meant to scare reckless children away from the forest at night.

But what if they weren’t?

What if I wasn’t just a hunter?

What if I was both?

I sank back onto my heels, the book falling open in my lap. My head spun with memory—

My father, hiding old scrolls when he thought I wasn’t looking.

The way he flinched when I asked why my mother had left.

The nights he sat by the fire, staring at the flames like they whispered secrets only he could hear.

A horrible thought rooted in my chest.

What if the reason he’d trained me to kill wasn’t just to protect others... but to protect myself? From what I was becoming?

From what I already was?

A low knock startled me.

I shot to my feet, slamming the book shut and tucking it beneath a tattered cloak.

The door creaked open, and Inara stepped in, a bundle of clean linens in her arms. She looked at me for a moment—really looked.

"You found something, didn’t you?"

I hesitated. "Maybe."

She didn’t press. Just set the linens down and crossed the room, dusting off a nearby shelf. "You’re not the first one to come here looking for answers, you know. Zain used to spend hours in this room when he first took over."

That caught my attention. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Sins of the father, I guess. He inherited more than just the title of Alpha. This place is full of ghosts. Curses. Secrets people died trying to bury."

I swallowed. "And do you think... people like me belong here?"

Her eyes met mine, sharp and knowing. "I think people like you were never meant to follow the rules. And that scares them."

I didn’t know if she meant the rogues or the pack. Or both.

Before I could ask, footsteps echoed from down the hall—slow, heavy, deliberate.

Zain.

Inara gave me a quick nod. "Whatever you’re searching for, Violet... just be sure you’re ready for the answer when it comes."

Then she slipped out, leaving me alone with the silence and the truth pulsing beneath my skin.

I turned back to the book. Just one more page.

I had to know.

I read and read over and over and over again but each page spoke of the same bound.

This cannot be true.

Tears stung at the back of my eye, I need to get out of her.

Slamming the book hard on the table, I raced off down to the stables, which was weird because why have a horse when you can freaking transform and outrun a horse!

Paige my favorite female horse was there, heavily pregnant.

"Hey Paige," I whispered ruffling her hair.

Giving me s small snicker she robs her face on my palm.

I always felt peace here. So happy I discovered it weeks ago.

stared at the mark on my shoulder, fingers trembling slightly as I traced its edges. It had darkened again—just slightly—but enough to catch my attention. It wasn’t just a scar, and I knew that deep down. I had known for a while.

But knowing and accepting were two different things.

I shook my head and dropped the cloth I’d used to clean it. The mark had appeared when I was eight My father had taken me out into the woods that night—said it was tradition. A rite of passage. I remembered the fire. The chanting. The blade he used to slice my skin. I remembered the sting. The way the blood sizzled like it touched something unnatural.

He’d told me it was protection. A mark of our lineage. A sign that I was his daughter in every way that mattered.

But he never explained what it meant.

I thought it was just a hunter’s mark. Something to bind me to the bloodline, to remind me of my duty. To kill wolves. To hunt them.

But now... the closer the full moon came, the more the mark pulsed beneath my skin like it was alive. Like it was waiting.

And the dreams—gods, the dreams had returned.

Running barefoot through trees under moonlight. My skin too hot. My heart beating to some rhythm I didn’t understand. Voices whispering in a language I never learned.

I stood and wrapped my cloak around me, stepping out into the cold night air. I needed space. Distance. Something to convince me this was all just a mistake.

The moon hung low, almost full, casting silver light over the pack lands. Wolves moved in the distance—some in human form, some not. I kept to the shadows, avoiding the torches, the firelight, and the eyes.

This wasn’t real.

I was human. A hunter. My father raised me to kill monsters, not become one.

And yet...

The way Zain looked at me.

The way my mark throbbed whenever he was near.

I felt it pulling me toward something I didn’t want to name.

No.

I wouldn’t let this define me.

I wouldn’t let them change me.

I walked faster, as if I could outrun the truth.

But the full moon loomed.

And some truths had teeth.