Midnight Howling Book 1

Chapter 10: Bonds Taking Root

Lyra jerked upright in bed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body drenched in sweat. She hugged her knees tightly to her chest, burying her face in her arms as she tried to steady her frantic breathing. It was a nightmare—she was back on that mountain, running desperately from the wolf. The beast's breath was hot on her heels, and no matter how fast she ran, the ledge—the only escape—kept moving further and further away.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, squeezing her eyes shut, willing the panic to subside. Her entire body trembled, the weight of the nightmare still lingering as if it had followed her into waking life. Slowly, tears welled in her eyes, and despite her best efforts to hold them back, a few slipped down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her left hand, freezing when she realized it was the arm that had been torn up just the night before.

Wait... last night.

The memory rushed back—the blood, the attack, Alex sitting silently with her at the edge of the bed. She glanced around the room, her heart pounding as she searched the corner where she had fallen asleep, half expecting to see him still there. But he was gone. Alex. That was his name. He hadn't forced her to speak or asked questions. He had just... sat with her. In a way, it had been oddly comforting, though she couldn't quite grasp why.

Lyra shook her head, trying to push the confusing tangle of thoughts away. She needed to focus on something concrete, something she could make sense of. Turning her attention to her arm, she lifted her sweatshirt, pulling back the edge of the bandage. The skin underneath was pink, jagged, and raw-looking, but closed. It was almost completely healed, a faint scar already forming where deep gouges had torn into her flesh.

Her mind struggled to process it. How was this possible?

Tossing the bandage aside, Lyra traced the lines of the scar with her fingers. Four deep slashes ran from her shoulder, across her back, and down toward her shoulder blade. The memory of the pain still clung to her, but now all that remained was a strange sense of detachment. She wasn't sure what she felt—anger, fear, confusion? Maybe all of it, wrapped together so tightly she couldn't untangle one emotion from the next.

She slid out of bed, her legs shaky as they carried her across the room toward the bathroom. The door swung open to reveal an opulent space—white and gold marble gleaming under soft lighting. The claw-foot tub sat invitingly beneath a rain-style showerhead, while a pristine counter held a clear bag filled with basic grooming supplies. It was the kind of bathroom that looked like it belonged in a magazine, not in her reality.

Lyra moved toward the mirror, her fingers running lightly over the countertop. When she met her own reflection, she froze. The bruises on her face—the ones she had seen just yesterday—were gone. Completely. She leaned in closer, her breath fogging the glass as she searched for any trace of them. But there was nothing.

She pulled her sweatshirt off, her heart racing as she examined the rest of her body. The gashes on her back were still there, but her skin was free of bruises. Just two days ago, she had been battered and broken, yet now... now she looked almost normal. As if her body had been speeding through its own healing process.

The thought made her stomach churn.

She traced a thin white scar on her left hip, a reminder of another time she had been hurt—when her father had thrown her into the bathroom sink for not cleaning it properly. Her skin had split open against the cold porcelain, and the scar had never really faded. That had been normal. But this? What was happening to her now? It was anything but.

With a shaky breath, Lyra turned away from the mirror, pulling her sweatshirt back on to cover the marks she couldn't bear to look at anymore. Her thoughts were spiraling, and she needed something to ground herself, to keep the fear from swallowing her whole.