Chapter23 The weight of the moon
Chapter23 The weight of the moon
Morning came slowly.
The sun bled orange through the mist-covered trees, casting a warm haze over the forest floor. Dew clung to the leaves. Birds chirped, oblivious to what had happened the night before.
Anya sat on the edge of a creek, knees drawn to her chest, bare feet submerged in the freezing water. Her jacket was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, though she didn’t feel cold. Not really.
What she felt was empty.
Not numb.
Not relieved.
Just… hollow.
She stared at the faint bruises on her arms, at the crescent-shaped scratches left by her own claws from the night before. Her muscles still ached from the transformation—like she’d been through a car crash in slow motion. Her bones felt tender, overused. Her skin was tight, stretched in places that still didn’t feel entirely her own.
But it wasn’t the physical aftermath that haunted her.
It was the way she’d liked it.
The rush of adrenaline.
The precision of the hunt.
The control.
It wasn’t the first time she’d shifted, but it was the first time she’d let the wolf stay in control longer than a few seconds. The first time she hadn’t fought it.
And it scared the hell out of her.
She thought of Matt—curled on the floor, crying, begging.
She hadn’t killed him. She hadn’t even touched him.
But she could have.
And that line—the one between “could” and “would”—was starting to blur.
The memory came sharp and fast: her claws embedded in the wall next to his throat. The heat of his breath. His heart pounding so loud, it had echoed through her ribcage.
She could still taste the fear in the air.
She didn’t regret scaring him. But she regretted how much she’d enjoyed it.
Her reflection in the creek shimmered and rippled, gold eyes staring back for just a second too long before fading into the surface.
She wasn’t sure who she was anymore.
Not fully girl.
Not fully beast.
She was something in between—and that in-between was getting harder to live with.
Back at her cabin, she stripped out of the jacket and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water scald her skin until it turned pink. Her body ached with every movement, her joints protesting like rusted hinges.
She scrubbed the dirt and blood and forest off herself until there was nothing left but raw skin and silence.
She stood motionless under the stream, palms against the tile wall, eyes closed.
The wolf was quiet now. Sated.
But not gone.
Never gone.
Later, wrapped in a thick sweater and worn jeans, she made tea and sat on the back porch. The mug trembled in her hands.
From the woods came a rustle—a deer, probably, or maybe just the wind—but she tensed anyway, breath caught in her throat.
She was jumpy.
Every sound set her off.
It wasn’t fear of something coming for her.
It was fear of what might come from her.
Lana texted.
“You okay? You disappeared after work yesterday.”
Anya stared at the message for a long time.
She almost replied with a lie. She almost said, Yeah, just needed a night to clear my head.
Instead, she typed: “I don’t know.”
Then deleted it.
She threw her phone onto the couch and stood up, pacing.
If Lana found out what she’d done—what she was—would she still look at her the same way?
Would anyone?
Even the wolves in her old pack had feared what she could become. A beta’s daughter who couldn’t be controlled. A half-wild, half-civilized thing that didn’t fit their rules. That’s why they turned on her. Why they left her for dead.
She ran her fingers through her wet hair and exhaled slowly.
The truth was, there was no pack. Not anymore.
Just her.
By evening, she found herself standing in front of the mirror in her small, dimly lit bathroom.
She pulled up her sleeves and stared at the faint claw marks. Her reflection looked tired. Hollowed out. But not broken.
The marks would fade.
But the moment wouldn’t.
She touched the glass, fingers trembling.
“What are you becoming?” she whispered.
No answer came.
Just the quiet, steady breathing of a girl still trying to be human.
The next day, whispers ran through town.
Someone had found Matt stumbling down the road near Dry Creek. His face pale, eyes wide, rambling about some thing that attacked him. Something big. Animal-like. But smart.
Nobody believed him—at least, not out loud.
But in hushed tones at the diner, people said things like:
“Maybe he was on something.”
“Probably just a bear.”
“Or karma.”
Anya sat in the back corner with her hood up, sipping black coffee and listening.
Matt hadn’t named her. Maybe he didn’t even know for sure it was her.
But he knew something had happened.
And that was enough.
That night, the dreams returned.
Running. Hunting. Howling.
Blood on her tongue.
When she woke, her sheets were soaked in sweat, and her nails had started to shift mid-dream—elongated just enough to tear tiny holes into the mattress.
She sat up, gasping, heart pounding.
The wolf wasn’t done.
It wanted more.
But she wouldn’t let it control her.
She wouldn’t become the thing her old pack claimed she was destined to be.
No.
If she was going to be both girl and wolf, then she would own both sides.
She would learn to wield them. To balance them.
She would never let someone like Matt take her power again.
And she’d never let the wolf use that power to destroy someone who didn’t deserve it.
She went outside barefoot, letting the cold dirt ground her.
The forest stretched in front of her like an open page, the wind whispering through the branches like an invitation.
She didn’t shift that night.
She didn’t hunt.
She just stood.
And for the first time since the full moon, Anya didn’t feel like she was running from herself.
She was walking toward something.
She just didn’t know what yet.