Chapter 4. Beneath the Grove

The house had settled into its nightly hush, that deep, velvety silence that only came when every lamp was out and every shadow knew its place. The rafters creaked gently above Mira’s bed, shifting like tired bones. From Martha’s room came the soft rhythm of sleep—a faint snore, punctuated by the occasional rustle of covers.

Mira lay still, eyes open, watching moonlight crawl across the wooden ceiling.

When at last she moved, it was with the care of someone who had rehearsed silence. She slipped from the covers and reached for the flannel shirt hanging by her bedpost. The fabric was soft with wear, its sleeves long enough to graze the backs of her hands. Her boots waited by the door. The basket sat beneath the window, already packed with scissors and twine. She grabbed it with practiced ease, then glanced toward the hallway once more.

Martha’s breathing remained steady. Mira eased the door open, slipped into the dark.

Outside, the night met her like an old secret.

The air was cool, the kind of chill that brushed skin in whispers, stirring thoughts she had worked hard to bury. The moon hung full above the cliffs, casting the path in silver dust. She drew in a breath, held it, then let it out slowly—steadying herself against the sudden swell of restlessness that surged in her chest.

Nights like this always pulled at something in her. Full moons never passed quietly.

She walked quickly, the sound of her boots muffled by the dirt path, her breath curling white against the sky. Around her, the forest loomed—dark and half-asleep, the trees murmuring with wind and memory. The sea murmured somewhere in the distance, steady as a lullaby.

Her thoughts drifted, as they always did when the moon was full. Unbidden, unwelcome.

What was she, really?

Not human. Not entirely. Her body bore the shape of a girl, her hands steady, her heart soft. But beneath her skin, something else lay buried—not dead, not gone, but dormant. Hollow. Her wolf had gone quiet years ago, silenced by spells older than she could understand. Nothing howled in her dreams anymore. Just silence.

In sleep, she often saw claws and teeth, wide eyes and blood—but the dreams broke apart before they could end. A thousand fragmented warnings. A voice she couldn’t quite remember.

Maybe the Elders had been right. Maybe she was cursed.

She told herself it didn’t matter. The pack was gone. That world was sealed shut behind her like a crypt. Fated mates, rituals, moon-blessed blood—none of it belonged here. She belonged to no one. She was Mira Lane now. And Mira Lane only wanted peace.

As she approached the grove, the forest opened before her. Moonlight spilled down between the leaves, painting the clearing in luminous silver. Every herb, every blade of grass, shimmered as if kissed by the stars.

She stepped into the sacred space and whispered the little chant Martha had taught her, old words shaped by old hands:

“Clear mind, peaceful heart. Herbs remember the hands that pick them.”

Mira didn’t believe in the magic of it—not in the way she used to believe in prophecy—but she respected the rhythm. Rituals gave shape to the shapeless. Martha had taught her that, too.

She crouched beside a patch of valerian, her fingers brushing dew from the leaves. The soil here was dark and rich, smelling of damp roots and old things. She moved slowly, gently—clipping stems, humming under her breath.

It was peaceful work. Honest.

Until the growl came.

Low. Rough. So faint she might’ve missed it—but it curled through the clearing like smoke.

Mira froze.

Her fingers hovered just above the valerian, heart hammering against her ribs. Another sound followed—ragged breathing, labored and wet. Something in pain.

She rose slowly, clutching her basket to her chest. Her eyes scanned the trees. Shadows shifted, leaves swayed. The air had changed—thickened. Even the moonlight felt sharper.

Then she saw it.

A shape slumped in the grass just beyond the tree line. Massive. Dark. Motionless at first—until its flank lifted with a slow, shallow breath. Blood gleamed black in the moonlight, matting the fur at its hind leg. The scent reached her a second later—not wolf, not entirely—but tinged with something old, something raw.

Mira’s mouth went dry.

It was a wolf, yes—but no natural creature. This was a werewolf, unmistakably so. Large as a bear, its pelt a deep charcoal, fur streaked with mud and blood.

She took a step back.

Her body screamed at her to flee, to turn and run before it woke. Before it caught her scent. If it smelled what she was—or what she had once been—it might see her as prey. Or worse, kin.

But she didn’t move.

Something inside her pulled forward. Instinct surged—old, primal—the need to help.

She stared at the beast for another heartbeat, her throat tightening. Then, softly, absurdly, she whispered into the dark:

“I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

And then she turned and ran.

***

She burst into the apothecary like a storm.

Glass clinked. Drawers banged. Jars toppled. All the while, Mira moved fast, her basket flung open, her hands pulling salves and herbs from every corner of the shop. Arnica for bruising. Goldenseal for infection. Bandages. A flask of clean water. Ointments she hadn’t touched in months.

Upstairs, Martha snored on, blissfully unaware.

Within minutes, Mira was back on the trail, her feet barely touching the earth. The forest blurred around her, shadows parting and closing behind her. By the time she returned to the grove, her lungs burned and her fingers ached from gripping the basket handle too tight.

The wolf was still there.

It hadn’t moved. Hadn’t stirred. But its breath was even shallower now. Its leg was soaked in blood. She knelt at its side, careful and slow, her voice trembling.

“Easy now,” she whispered. “I’m going to help you.”

The wolf’s eyes flickered open, just barely—slivers of green and gold, fierce even in pain. They met hers. Held them. But the beast didn’t move. It didn’t growl again.

Too weak to fight. Too tired to run.

She poured water gently over the wound, watching the dark blood thin and trickle down the muscle. Her hands moved on instinct, cleaning the edges of the gash, applying salve thick with yarrow and pine resin. The scent stung her nose. Still, she worked, steady and careful.

And then it happened.

The moment her fingers brushed the wolf’s skin—truly touched it—something flickered inside her. A spark.

So faint it could’ve been imagined.

It vanished a heartbeat later, buried again.

She blinked. Shook her head. Nonsense. It was nothing.

Still, the wolf seemed to ease under her touch, its tension loosening, growl fading into silence. Mira worked quickly, binding the wound with strips of linen, her hands gentle as if tending to a dog.

“Rest,” she murmured, brushing the fur once more. “You’ll be alright. Just… don’t be here come morning.”

She rose, tucking her tools back into the basket with trembling fingers. Her pulse still hadn’t slowed. She walked away without looking back.

***

The wolf waited until she was gone.

Only then did he lift his head, blinking fully into the silver-lit clearing. Her scent should have hit him the moment she came close—of what she was.

But there was nothing. Just… emptiness.

Something was wrong.

And yet, he felt it. The pull. The thread between them tugging tight.

The wolf lay his head back down, brow furrowed against the soft earth. His leg throbbed, but the pain was fading, dulled by her salves. His vision sharpened. The forest no longer spun.

Whoever she was, she wasn’t just a girl gathering herbs beneath the moon.

His eyes narrowed toward the path she’d vanished down, and something stirred in his blood.

Who are you, strange girl?