Page 92 of Full Moon
It begins at my hairline on the left side, a thin silver line that cuts through my skin like a trail left by lightning. It bisects my eyebrow—somehow, impossibly, it misses my eye, a small mercy I'm profoundly grateful for. The deepest part carves across the apple of my cheek, the skin there puckered and pink where thewound was worst, before snaking down the left side of my face to end at my jaw.
I study the silver line in the dim bathroom light, the way the skin has knitted back together in a ridge that will mark me forever. The girl who looked back at me from mirrors before is gone. In her place stands someone harder. Someone forged in fire and blood and the desperate will to survive.
Slowly, I reach up and trace my finger down the length of the scar, feeling the slight ridge of healed tissue beneath my fingertip.We did good,my wolf says, her voice a blend of pride and reassurance. I feel her presence wrapping around me like a warm blanket, a comforting strength that bolsters my own wavering courage. My eyes grow icy in the mirror as I stare at my reflection, my wolf rising to join me in assessing the change to my once-flawless skin.
The human part of me—the girl who spent years being told she was worthless, that she would never be beautiful or loved or wanted—that part of me fears how others will perceive this mark. Will they see weakness? Damage? A flaw that proves I'm not fit to be Luna?
But my wolf isproud. This scar was given to us by a polar bear wendigo—a creature of nightmare and legend that should have torn us apart. We survived its attack. We held it at bay until our ancient mates could come to our aid. Because of Torben and me, my people remain safe.
All the doubts I harbored before—the whispered fears that I wasn't strong enough, smart enough,enoughin any way that mattered—they melt away like snow in spring, leaving only the certainty of my purpose. I know now what needs to be done.
The first order of business is hunting down the council members responsible for my parents' deaths. Those who still hunt me need to meet their end as well. The basilisk blood. The poisoned babies. The wendigo sent to finish what they started twenty years ago.
I exhale deeply, feeling a newfound resolve harden within me like steel being tempered in ice. This scar is a reminder of my strength. A testament to my survival. A promise of the vengeance yet to come. My wolf and I are ready for what comes next.
Steady steps carry me to my closet, my heart thrumming with anticipation and a touch of anxiety that I refuse to let show. Today is a day to be among my mates and people, to wear my scars with pride rather than hiding in shadows like the frightened girl I used to be.
As I reach for the pale blue gown, the soft fabric cool against my fingers, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. The empire waist flatters my figure, and I secure the ribbon under and over my breasts with practiced motions, feeling the satisfying firmness as everything settles into place.
The marks of my mates stand out against my skin, vivid and unmistakable—badges of honor that I wear with fierce pride. Diaval's scale glints on my chest, resting over my heart like a piece of him I carry always. Easton's feather pulses with warmth in my hair, responding to my emotions with a glow that brightens when I'm happy.
I slip on the bone collar, feeling its familiar weight settle around my neck like an embrace from ancestors I never knew. The bracers go on next, the ancient bone warm against my skin despite the cold material. Each piece is a testament to myancestry, a physical reminder of the strength of my bloodline and the queens who wore these relics before me.
My eyes fall on my mother's diadem, and my heart aches with a familiar longing that never quite fades. It's a bittersweet reminder of the woman I never had the chance to know—her laugh, her voice, the way she might have brushed my hair or sung me to sleep.
As I gently pick it up, my fingers brushing the cool metal, I think of my aunt. Astrid is the closest connection I have to my mother's legacy, a living bridge to the past that I'm only beginning to understand.
Placing the diadem on my head, I feel its weight settle—both physical and emotional—and Easton's feather slips free to frame my face with a touch of golden elegance. The warmth it emits is comforting, like a gentle embrace, like Easton himself standing behind me with his hand tenderly caressing my scarred cheek.
The sensation brings a smile to my lips. I am never truly alone.
My shoes click sharply on the tile floor as I walk down the halls, each step echoing like a heartbeat keeping time with my resolve. I hold my head high, feeling the warmth of my wolf's confidence flood through me like liquid courage. As I pass, pack-mates bow deeply, their eyes flickering to the scar I now bear—not with pity or horror, but withrespect. They see what this mark means. They know what I survived to earn it.
Our eyes shift together, my vision transforming as colors become muted and sounds sharpen, the world taking on the clarity of my wolf's senses even while I remain in human form. We assess each pack mate as we walk, reading their healthand their hearts, ensuring everyone is safe and will be well-fed thanks to our efforts in the hunt.
I find my mates in the library, engrossed in the history books of our pack that line the walls from floor to ceiling. Their heads lift one by one as I enter, smiles blooming slowly across their faces like sunrise spreading across the mountains. But Easton's smile doesn't reach his eyes.
My heart clenches with concern as I hesitate, then cross the room and slide myself between him and the tabletop, forcing him to acknowledge me. My hands move on their own, framing his beautiful face as I gently kiss his lips. "I'm okay," I whisper against his mouth, my breath mingling with his.
"Are you sure?" he asks softly, and I feel his lips brush over the scar on my cheek with a tenderness that makes my eyes sting.
"I'm okay because of you," I reply, smiling as I touch the feather woven into my hair. "Every hit I took, our bond healed me almost instantly. I'm grateful for your unexpected gift." I kiss him again, savoring the feel of his lips, the taste of him, before we part with a shared hum of contentment.
Turning to Diaval, I playfully slap his shoulder, earning a soft growl that vibrates through his chest. "You squished it like a grape," I tease, laughing at the memory of his massive dragon foot coming down on the wendigo with devastating finality.
"That I did. It was efficient," Diaval responds, his lips quirking into a satisfied smirk. "Our family was too close to it for me to use my fire—I couldn't risk burning you to a crisp along with the monster." He kisses me sweetly, one hand cupping my unmarred cheek, before passing me along to Khal and Torben like a treasure being shared among kings.
Torben pulls me against his broad chest, and I melt into his warmth as Khal steps behind me to press a kiss to my bare shoulder. "You were intense out there," Khal says with a playful grin that I can feel against my skin.
"She was incredible," Torben agrees, kissing my temple with a reverence that makes my knees weak.
"All I could think about was keeping my mates and pack safe," I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "My wolf told me what to do. We had to rip the being out of its chest—she said it's like a battery that powers the main body?" My voice lifts with uncertainty, a question rather than an answer.
Easton's eyes light up, a puzzle piece clicking into place behind his golden gaze. "That's it!" he exclaims, practically leaping across the room to grab an old tome from a high shelf. He slaps it down on the table with enough force to send dust motes dancing in the afternoon light, flipping rapidly through yellowed pages until he finds what he's looking for.
"Look—details about the creation of wendigos," he says, jabbing his finger at the faded text. "You're more right than you know. Only a high-ranking mage or warlock can create one, and they require... gods, they requiresacrifice. Shifter sacrifice, specifically. The soul of a shifter bound into the corpse of an animal to animate it."
The blood drains from my face. "The magic council," I breathe. "They're the target for whoever's hunting me with these creatures. They're the ones with the knowledge and the power to?—"
