Page 7 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

The silence stretches.

We leave her sleeping.Mom promises to stay the rest of the day, and I need to breathe air that doesn’t taste like antiseptic and lies.

Outside, the sun is high and too damn bright. I sit on the curb in the parking lot, elbows on my knees, trying not to lose my shit.

Something’s wrong.

Adora knows more than she’s saying. Mom’s acting like she’s seen a ghost. And I’m stuck in the middle with no map and this awful weight in my gut that won’t let go.

I pull out my phone and text Stefan.

Me:Adora’s in the hospital. Don’t know what happened. I’m freaking out.

Three dots.

Then nothing.

Then: Stefan :Want me to come?

Me:No. Not yet.

Because I don’t want to say it out loud, but deep down I already know:

This isn’t just some freak attack. This is the start of something, I can feel it.

4

CALLUM

The stairs down to the Hollow smell like old smoke, spilled beer, and blood that’s been mopped up more times than anyone wants to count. The bulbs flicker as we descend—cheap yellow light that makes everyone look a little more monstrous than they already are.

Perfect ambiance for a bunch of assholes who still think we’re the apex of the food chain.

Elias is quiet beside me. That’s how I know he’s thinking too much.

“Wanna tell me what you’re chewing on?” I ask as we push through the thick metal door into the bar.

He shrugs. “Just thinking about how you almost got your throat ripped out back there.”

“Almost,” I say, scanning the room. “Key word.”

The Hollow’s packed tonight. Makes sense—full moon energy always gets the blood pumping, days before and days after. And with it in the early moments of the morning, everyone’s here not ready for the dawn.

Our kind come here when the outside world feels like it’s closing in. You want a beer, a brawl, or a bed to crawl into, this is the place.

But there’s also politics. Always politics.

I clock my father at the back booth, nursing something dark in a chipped glass and watching everything like a wolf who’s seen too many winters. He’s broad-shouldered and still scarier than most at twice his age. Elias nods toward him but doesn’t approach.

I don’t either.

Not yet.

Instead, we slide into a table near the edge, under a busted neon sign that flickersRAVEN’S CLAWin half-dead pink. A few of the younger shifters glance our way. One of them—Rafi—nods. The rest don’t bother hiding their wariness.

“Word travels fast,” Elias mutters, drumming his fingers on the table. “Some of ‘em already know you crossed into wolf territory.”

“I didn’t cross into shit. We were tracking a potential trigger. Same as always.”

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