Page 12 of Fated to the Lone Shifter (Curse of the Lunaris Alpha #1)

Chapter eleven

The Witch’s Mark

SERA

I step into the hallway just as Noah disappears into the interview room.

Our eyes lock for half a second—long enough for the air to thicken between us, taut with unspoken fire, tight as a noose.

There’s no nod. No smile. Just that same raw intensity we keep throwing at each other like lit matches in a room full of gas.

My heartbeat picks up. I can’t tell if it’s anger or adrenaline… or something worse.

I keep walking.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

My interview wasn’t hard. The questions were routine. Where was I stationed? Did I see or hear anything unusual? Did Nicole mention anything off earlier in the day? I gave them just enough truth to pass—everything but the magic, the wolves, the dreams and why I’m really here.

So, not a lot.

It seems like the more practice I get lying, the more complex the webs are getting. But I doubt it would matter if I told them the truth anyway. They’re not capable of hearing it…or believing it.

The cops are miles out of their depth. That much is obvious. They’re grasping at wildlife reports and theories about psycho locals, but no one wants to say the word “arsonist.” And definitely not “supernatural.” Not unless Noah talks. And I’d bet my badge he won’t.

Not yet.

Back in my dorm room, I shut the door behind me and sink down onto the bed. The Firehouse was still humming with muted voices and the occasional clatter of boots when I left, but here, in this tiny room down the road, everything is still.

I press my back against the wall and pull my knees up to my chest, Noah’s shirt still clinging to my skin. It smells like him—cedarwood and smoke and something wilder I can’t name. My arms wrap around myself before I can stop them, pressing the fabric tighter.

It’s reckless. I know that. Dangerous even. But for one indulgent minute, I let myself pretend he’s still here. The man and the wolf. That his arms are the ones wrapped around me, holding me together while the world burns around us.

I should be listening to the rest of the interviews, mining for information to feed to Ember.

Instead, I close my eyes and surrender to the exhaustion clawing at me. Just for a few minutes. Just to reset.

The pillow is soft beneath my head. The scent of him surrounds me. And the fire I’ve been holding in check all night finally flickers out.

Sleep takes me before I can stop it.

The forest circle shimmers into view, half-woven from mist and moonlight.

Each stone pulses with its own rhythm, as if responding to a heartbeat not quite my own.

Silver threads of magic stretch between them, forming a perfect spiral that glows faintly in the dark—neither fire nor light, but something older. Elemental. Magical.

The air inside the circle is different. Denser. Charged. It tastes of ash and wildflower, ozone and something metallic, like the moment before lightning strikes. The trees don’t move, but I feel them watching. Each leaf, each limb, humming with quiet reverence as power gathers.

At the center, the dirt is scorched black, but warm to the touch. Ancient symbols flicker across its surface, drawn in heat, never ink. Flames coil just beneath the soil, slumbering serpents of energy.

When I step inside, the boundary seals behind me with a breath of wind. No exit. No retreat.

Only magic.

This isn’t the real circle, of course—not exactly. In dreams, everything pulses with a strange kind of clarity. Sharper. Wilder. More true . The moon overhead is too big, the air too charged, like it’s crackling with power just waiting to be released.

I’m standing barefoot in the scorched earth at the center of the circle. The earth is warm beneath my toes, pulsing like a heartbeat. My skin glows. Magic hums beneath the surface, alive and electric.

He steps out from between the trees.

Noah.

But not the buttoned-up trainer or the growling alpha who watches me with suspicion. This version of him is fire incarnate—shirtless, wild-eyed, his chest rising and falling like he’s been running. Or hunting.

His gaze locks onto mine and everything inside me tightens.

“You called me,” he says.

I can’t speak. Can’t move. He’s not walking—he’s stalking, closing the distance like a predator scenting prey.

When he touches me, the world erupts in flame.

His hand grips my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the contact steals my breath. Gods, he’s solid. Real. Burning hot. My fingers slide up his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as my body molds to his like it was made for this.

His lips crash into mine—hungry, demanding, primal. I taste ash and want and something older than either of us. Power. I kiss him back just as fiercely, our tongues tangling like we’re starved and only this will satisfy.

I should push him away. I should remember the mission. The danger. The fact that he might be the arsonist I’m here to take down.

But I don’t.

Because right now, I don’t feel like a witch or a spy or a probie firefighter. I feel like a woman being claimed by the one man who could burn me down—and I’m inviting him in.

When he lifts me, I gasp, clinging to him as he carries me to the warm earth. I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring myself to him, surrendering to the heat that pulses between us. The glowing symbols beneath us flicker brighter, like they recognize what’s happening—like they approve .

He lays me down gently, reverently, but the hunger in his eyes is anything but gentle. He hovers above me, breath ragged. “You’re mine,” he growls, voice low and rough with possession.

“Yes,” I whisper, because I can’t deny it anymore. Not to him. Not to myself.

When he enters me, it’s slow. Deep. Like he’s imprinting on my soul. I cry out, legs tightening around him, nails digging into his back as our bodies become one. The rhythm we fall into is ancient, elemental—fire and earth, instinct and need.

Each thrust stokes the fire inside me higher. The heat, the friction, the way his mouth trails along my neck—it’s everything. I rise to meet him again and again, our magic weaving together with every movement.

My body spirals toward the edge, aching, burning, needing—

“Noah,” I pant. “Don’t stop.”

“Fuck, Sera,” he groans, thrusts deepening.

We shatter together. I cry out his name, his curse echoing mine, as the world around us fades into white-hot bliss. For one infinite moment, there is only sensation, only the sacred tangle of our magic and desire.

After, he collapses beside me, his hand still clutching mine, our bodies slick with sweat and something more—something ancient.

The forest is quiet again, but it feels changed. As am I.

I stare up at the sky, chest still heaving, heart thudding in my ears. “What have we done?” I whisper, more to the trees than to him.

He traces the glowing runes with his fingers. “What we had to,” he murmurs. “What we had no choice but do.”

I turn my head, meeting his gaze. “And now we’re bound to something we don’t fully understand.”

He leans in, kisses my lips softly. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Together.

The word tastes like a promise. Like destiny.

As I curl into him, the sigils still glowing beneath our joined bodies, I know this is more than magic. More than lust.

It’s the beginning of a war. And I’ve just chosen my side.

I wake up gasping.

My heart’s racing. Sweat clings to my skin. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache from a dream. I reach for him without thinking, hand fumbling across the sheets—only to grab a pillow instead.

He’s not here.

Of course he’s not here.

But gods, it felt real.

More than real.

It felt inevitable.

I turn over and fall back into a very deep sleep.

I wake feeling well rested and grounded, the best I've felt since arriving in Lolo.

I sit up slowly and run a hand over my face. The shirt still smells like him. My head drops forward, chin brushing the collar.

That’s when I see it.

Burned into the pillowcase beneath me is a mark—delicate, swirling lines that shimmer faintly like cooled embers.

I reach out with shaking fingers, tracing the shape. It pulses beneath my touch.

A summoning sigil.

Not just any mark— the mark. The one every young witch is warned about in training. The Witch’s Bond. A magical seal that signifies a connection deeper than instinct or emotion.

It’s a fated mate sigil.

Etched by dream-fire and blood magic.

I scramble back, goosebumps shivering up my arms. My fingers still tingle where they touched the symbol.

This isn’t just heat. Or lust. Or even primal pull.

A link.

A promise.

A curse?

To him.

To Noah.

And it means I might be in far more danger than I thought.