46. Claire: Marking

46. Claire: Marking
CLAIRE

“What’s that on the back of your neck?” Vivian asks, her voice suddenly sharp, alert.

I freeze, my heart giving a startled thud at the shift in her tone. “My neck? What do you mean?”

Before I can twist away, she grips my shoulders gently but firmly, holding me in place as she leans in. 

“You’ve got a black mark,” she says slowly. “Right at the edge of your hairline. It looks like… a tattoo or something. I didn’t know you had any tattoos.”

“What?!” A jolt of shock shoots through me. My hand flies instinctively to the back of my neck, fingertips scraping over skin and hair, as if I could feel any marking there. “I don’t have any tattoos.”

I’ve always admired tattoos, sure. The intricate designs, the way people wear them like stories on their skin. But growing up, my parents were staunchly against them. They made their opinions clear with every judgmental comment and veiled threat. I never dared test their limits.

“Are you sure that’s what it is?” I ask, throat dry.

“Hang on. I’ll show you.” Vivian pulls out her phone, snaps a quick photo, then turns the screen toward me. “Take a look.”

I squint at the image. My hair is lifted just enough to reveal a small, jagged symbol etched into my skin, nestled right at the base of my skull. It’s stark against my skin—sharp, angular, and undeniably real. Something about the shape of it sends an odd chill crawling down my spine.

It shouldn’t be there.

I would have noticed something like this. Wouldn’t I?

My stomach turns. Dread coils tight in my chest. How long has that been there? Days? Weeks? Longer? And how the hell did it get there without me knowing?

“I’ve never seen that before.” My voice comes out thin. I don’t bother trying to mask the rising panic. “I have no idea how it even got there.”

Vivian presses her lips together, eyes narrowing as she studies the mark again. “Is it possible you had a crazy night out? Like, blackout drunk, spontaneous-tattoo level wild?”

Her attempt at levity feels forced, a flicker of wariness hiding behind her eyes.

“I went to a few parties back in high school,” I admit. “But I’ve never blacked out. And I definitely didn’t get a tattoo. That’s not something I’d forget.”

“And no one’s ever said anything about it before?” she presses. “Your parents? Friends?”

I shake my head. “If my parents had ever seen this, they’d have dragged me to a laser removal clinic before I finished blinking. I wouldn’t have heard the end of it.”

Vivian snorts softly. “That sounds like the Alpha and Luna of Silverlight for sure.”

She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Hold on, let me try something.”

She strides to the sink, grabs a paper towel, and runs it under the tap. When she returns, the towel is dripping. “Sit still,” she says.

Cool water trickles down my neck as she presses the towel to my skin. I flinch as it soaks the collar of my shirt, but say nothing while she scrubs gently—then more firmly. Silence stretches.

“Well?” I ask, uneasy.

She pulls the towel away with a sigh. “It’s not coming off. Definitely not ink from a pen or something. It’s in your skin. Permanent. Like I thought. It’s strange…I get the feeling I’ve seen a symbol like this before, but--” she let’s out a quick, frustrated breath, “Give me some time to ask around and I’ll see if I can find anything out for you.”

I hesitate for a moment before asking slowly, “Are you going to tell Nik?”

Vivian snorts, rolling her eyes. “Nik? No way. He's already compulsively feral about your safety at the moment. If he sees this, he’ll either lock you in a bunker or go on a murder spree trying to ‘fix’ it. If it turns out to be dangerous, then sure—we’ll loop him in. But for now? Let’s keep it between us.”

A gust of relief escapes me. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“Obviously,” she says with a wink. “All my plans are good ones.”

I can’t help but laugh, the tension in my chest loosening just a little.

“Now sit down, woman," she emphasizes her words with a pointed finger at the plastic seat I'd abandoned, "and eat your pastry. In my books, it’s a criminal offense to waste a warm one.”

I drop into the chair again, still feeling the phantom weight of the marking on my neck. I take a bite of the flaky pastry, but the sweet, buttery taste feels dull on my tongue.

Vivian starts chatting again—asking questions about the upcoming carnival I’ve been working on most of the morning and the booth assignments—but I can see the tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers twist in her lap when she thinks I’m not looking.

She’s worried.

So am I.