Chapter 17: Scars of the Past
Chapter 17: Scars of the Past
Selene’s POV
The den was a hollow shell tonight, stone walls drinking in the quiet, torchlight sputtering weak and orange, shadows twitching like restless spirits. My bare feet pressed the cold floor, jeans crusted with mud, sweater frayed at the shoulder where Lucien’s grip had torn it days ago, the air thick with smoke and the stag’s roasted scent. I’d stitched him up yesterday, his blood on my fingers, his ice-blue eyes piercing mine, his breath hot, stirring me, damn it, stirring me. He hadn’t shoved me off, hadn’t snarled, just let me linger close, his heat seeping into me, steamy, wild, alive. Now he was out there, by the fire, his growl rumbling low, and I was here, pacing my cell, green eyes glinting, mind churning, fierce, restless, caged.
The door sat ajar, steel bolts slack, a sliver of light leaking in from the hall, voices drifting, low, rough, his voice, gravelly, slicing through the stillness. I stopped, green eyes narrowing, ears pricking, bare feet hushed, stepping closer, pressing against the wood, cold stinging my palms, my pulse kicking, sharp, alive. Vira’s growl hummed, mossy scent faint through the gap, Ragnar’s heavy breath puffing, their words blurred, then sharp, Lucien’s voice rising, raw, broken, alive. “They trusted him,” he said, voice low, rough, torchlight flickering through the crack, catching his shadow, broad, scarred, unyielding. “My parents—pack leaders—went to Dax’s father for peace, a talk, a truce, and he slit their throats, left them bleeding, dead.”
My chest seized, green eyes wide, then narrow, fierce, alive, his words hitting me, sharp, cold, cutting me, damn it, cutting me. I leaned closer, wood groaning soft under my weight, green eyes glinting, peering through, seeing him by the fire, shirt open, scars flexing, blood crusted on his shoulder where I’d stitched him, his ice-blue eyes glinting, hard, lost, alive. Vira sat, brown eyes steady, Ragnar hulking beside her, their silence thick, heavy, listening, my wolves—no, his wolves, his pack, his pain. My breath snagged, shallow, quick, green eyes tracing him, his scars, his voice, pulling me, damn it, pulling me.
“Dax’s father called it,” he growled, voice gravelly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, scars shining in the firelight, torchlight catching the sweat streaked across his chest, raw, real, alive. “A peace talk—invited them, my mother, my father, heads of our pack, promised safety, promised words, not claws. They went, trusted, and he ambushed them, killed them, started the war that broke us.” My lips parted, green eyes wide, fierce, his words clawing at me, deep, brutal, echoing, damn it, echoing. I knew that war, that blood, my parents fighting, my mother’s howl shattering it, ending it, her voice a blade, my pack, Ironclaw, caught in the fallout, damn him, damn this truth. My pulse hammered, green eyes glinting, chest tight, his pain twinning mine, sharp, cold, pulling me in, damn it, pulling me in.
Vira growled, low, soft, brown eyes flicking to him, mossy scent thick, her voice gruff, steady. “That’s why you hate him,” she said, paws shifting, scars tightening across her cheek, torchlight catching her fur, matted, blood-streaked, alive. “Dax carries that blood.” Lucien’s growl rumbled, deep, rough, ice-blue glinting, fierce, unyielding, his chest heaving, scars pulling tight, blood drying, raw, real. “His father’s sin,” he rasped, voice low, gravelly, staring into the fire, flames dancing in his eyes, alive, wild, relentless. “Took my parents, took my pack, left me a pup, bleeding, alone—then your mother’s howl stopped it, ended it, but not for me, not ever.”
My breath froze, green eyes wide, then narrow, fierce, alive, his words sinking deeper, cutting sharper, damn it, cutting sharper. My mother’s howl—her voice, her power, shattering that war, breaking the packs, saving Ironclaw, costing her, costing me, damn him, costing me. I pressed harder against the door, wood cold, rough, green eyes tracing him, his scars, his strength, his pain, pulling me, damn it, pulling me. Ironclaw flashed in my skull, my parents fighting, my mother howling, my father falling, the war Lucien’s parents sparked, Dax’s father fueled, my pack paid for, leaving me raw, lost, alive. My chest ached, green eyes glinting, fierce, defiant, his loss mirroring mine, raw, jagged, alive, and I hated it, hated him, hated how it twisted me, damn it, twisted me.
Ragnar huffed, fur bristling, scars shining, voice low, firm. “You rebuilt it,” he said, paws sinking into the stone, brown eyes hard, steady, torchlight catching his bulk, alive, unyielding. “Took it back, made it yours.” Lucien’s growl softened, faint, rough, ice-blue flicking to them, then back to the fire, chest rising slow, scars flexing, blood drying, raw, real. “Had to,” he muttered, voice gravelly, low, leaning back, scars glinting, torchlight catching the sweat on his skin, alive, wild, relentless. “Clawed it up, wolf by wolf, scar by scar—Dax’s father died, but his shadow’s still here, still cuts.”
My fingers curled, nails blunt but scraping the wood, green eyes wide, fierce, alive, his words tearing at me, deep, brutal, pulling me, damn it, pulling me. I knew it, that shadow, that scar, my mother’s howl ringing in my ears, my pack’s war, my parents’ blood, Ironclaw’s cost, leaving me bleeding, lost, alive. My pulse thundered, green eyes glinting, chest tight, his pain a mirror, sharp, cold, twisting me, damn it, twisting me. I’d fought him, stitched him, felt his heat, his ice-blue eyes on me, steamy, wild, pulling me, and now this, his story, his scars, cutting me, damn it, cutting me. Was this hate, this pull, or something else, damn him, something else?
The fire snapped, loud, sharp, sparks flaring, orange light dancing on his scars, his chest, his blood, alive, wild, relentless. Vira growled, low, soft, brown eyes steady, mossy scent thick, her voice gruff, low. “You’re not that pup now,” she said, paws shifting, torchlight catching her fur, alive, steady, loyal. Lucien’s growl rumbled, faint, rough, ice-blue glinting, fierce, distant, his chest heaving, scars flexing, blood drying, raw, real. “No,” he rasped, voice low, gravelly, staring into the flames, alive, wild, relentless. “But it’s still there, every scar, every howl—never fades, never stops.”
My breath snagged, green eyes wide, then narrow, fierce, alive, his words sinking in, sharp, cold, pulling me, damn it, pulling me. Every howl—my mother’s howl, ending his war, saving my pack, breaking hers, breaking me, damn him, breaking me. My chest ached, green eyes glinting, fierce, defiant, his strength a fortress, his pain a thread, damn him, a thread, and I hated it, hated him, hated how it twisted me, damn it, twisted me. My fingers slipped, wood creaking faint, loud in the silence, green eyes wide, pulse hammering, chest tight, alive, and I pulled back, bare feet hushed, retreating, damn him, retreating.
I sank against the wall, stone cold, rough, green eyes glinting, chest heaving, his voice echoing, raw, jagged, alive, pulling me, damn it, pulling me. My mother’s howl flashed, Ironclaw’s war, my parents’ blood, Dax’s father’s betrayal, Lucien’s parents’ deaths, cutting me, leaving me, and his story twinned it, mirrored it, damn him, mirrored it.