Page 16 of Marked

Imust have dozed off somewhere between applying for a barista job in Seattle and bookmarking yet another overpriced LA studio, because suddenly I was…

…running. The moon huge and white above the trees. Cold air burning my lungs. Shadows moving in impossible ways. A child’s legs too short to escape, heart hammering like trapped prey.

Growls in the darkness. Eyes gleaming between trees—watching, waiting, hungry. The crack of branches like gunshots. Someone screaming—Mom? Me?

Pain blooming across my hip like winter frost. The taste of copper and moonlight. Shadows pressing closer, closer…

I jerked awake, my laptop screen dark, my sleeping bag twisted around me like a straitjacket. My hip burned where the scar was, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw shadows move across the wall—but no, just tree branches in the moonlight through the window.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I tried to shake off the nightmare. Mom had taken me away from Cedar Grove when I was thirteen, that much I knew. But the rest… the shadows, the moon, the burning cold…

“Just a dream,” I muttered, but my fingers found their way to my hip, to the strange triangular scar I’d never been able to explain. Mom always changed the subject when I asked about it. Called it a childhood accident.

It felt warm under my touch, almost alive.

Somewhere in the woods, a wolf howled.

I pulled the sleeping bag over my head like a child hiding from monsters, pretending I didn’t feel the answering chill down my spine, pretending I couldn’t still taste moonlight on my tongue.

The room felt… different. Warmer than it should be, carrying a scent I couldn’t quite place—something rich and masculine that made my stomach do weird flips. Great. Now I was having olfactory hallucinations to go with my PTSD greatest hits collection.

Had something brushed my face while I slept? The ghost sensation lingered on my cheek like an almost-touch, making me want to lean into… nothing. Fantastic. Sleep paralysis demons were getting handsy now.

Another howl split the night, closer this time, and I didnotwhimper. I just made a very dignified noise of tactical retreat while army-crawling deeper into my sleeping bag fortress.

“Okay, emergency protocol time,” I muttered, fumbling for my phone. “YouTube, don’t fail me now.”

Three minutes into “World’s Cutest Puppies Compilation #7,” I realized my strategic error. Probably not the best choice when trying to convince myself the local wildlife wasn’t plotting my doom. I switched to “Satisfying Cake Decorating Videos” instead because frosting roses had never tried to eat anyone.

“See? Totally normal night. Just me, my anxiety, and fifty tutorials on how to make French macarons that I’ll never actually attempt.”

The scar tingled again, warm and insistent, like it was trying to tell me something. But that would be crazy, right? Scars don’t talk. They definitely don’t feel like they’re responding to… whatever was out there in those woods.

I must have dozed off somewhere between “Perfect Croissant Lamination” and “Japanese Jiggly Cheesecake,” because the next thing I knew, morning sunlight was streaming through the windows, turning everything soft and golden and decidedly less murderous.

The scar was quiet now. The strange warm scent had faded. Even the shadows looked properly behaved, sticking to their assigned corners like law-abiding citizens.

I emerged from my sleeping bag like a caffeinated butterfly having an existential crisis. The morning chill in the cottage had me shuffling zombie-style toward the kitchenette, my sole mission: locate coffee before my brain cells staged a complete mutiny.

“Coffee first, questioning life choices later,” I mumbled, dumping three heaping spoonfuls of instant coffee into my chipped mug. Because nothing says “adulting” quite like mainlining caffeine in the morning.

The kettle had barely finished its screech when the rumble of an engine caught my attention, and my stomach did an uncomfortable flip. Through the window, that sleek black truck pulled up—the one belonging to the man who’d apparently been watching over this property for years without my knowledge. Caleb Stone. Who just happened to show up when my car broke down. Who just happened to be impossibly gorgeous and suspiciously helpful.

And speaking of impossibly gorgeous… he stepped out of the truck like Cedar Grove’s answer to a lumberjack calendar model, sleeves rolled to his elbows, displaying forearms that made manual labor look like Renaissance art. His Henley stretchedacross his chest in ways that should be illegal before noon, the top buttons undone to reveal a tantalizing V of sun-kissed skin. It really wasn’t fair that someone who set off so many warning bells in my head could look this good.

I choked on my first sip of coffee. Smooth, Kai. Real smooth.

The knock came as I was still trying to remember how breathing worked. I glanced down at my sci-fi pajama pants—complete with little green aliens and laser swords—and ratty college sweatshirt combo, ran a hand through what felt like a collaborative art piece between a tornado and a bird’s nest, and briefly considered faking my own death.

Another knock. Right. Time to face the devastatingly handsome music.

I yanked open the door, and Caleb’s eyes widened slightly. Great. I must look even worse than I imagined.

“Rough night?” The genuine concern in his voice made something twist in my chest. Why did he have to sound so sincere when everything about this situation screamed suspicious?

“Rough night is putting it mildly,” I retorted. “Ever feel like your subconscious is auditioning for a horror movie director position?”

His gaze drifted past me to the sleeping bag sprawled on the floor like a crime scene outline. I lifted my chin defiantly. “Judge all you want, but some of us prefer our survival horror from ground level. Better escape routes.”

---