Only the slightly puckered, too-white skin that the wounds had left behind gave any indication that anything had been there at all. For while his body healed quickly, wolves were not as lucky as vampires; healing from wounds didn’t leave them perfectly unscathed. The scar would be there for a long time, maybe even forever, and more than once during the day, Lyle found himself running his fingertips over his shirt to feel for it. He couldn’t; there was no scab and the punctures had been clean and even.
Still, it was oddly soothing to know the mark was there. It was a secret that belonged to him alone—a tattoo borne in pain and forged by blood exchange. It was a cheesy thought, goth-punk-angsty-teen-worthy, even, but Lyle liked it, regardless. Besides, he had to imagine that if one couldn’t look back on a sexual encounter with a vampire and remark on the dark romanticism of the event, that particular vampire was probably doing things wrong.