I Thought I Had One Soulmate, But My Mark Just Lit Up For Another Man

The scent of old paper and lemon tea clung to Elara’s clothes, a comforting aroma she carried home from the library each day. It was the scent of her life, predictable and quiet. Liam found her in the kitchen, his arms circling her waist from behind as she stared out the window at the setting sun. He pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, his lips warm against her skin.

“Tough day wrestling with the Dewey Decimal System?” he murmured, his voice a low, familiar rumble against her back.

She leaned into his hold, her hands covering his. “You have no idea. A whole section on seventeenth-century gardening manuals was misshelved. The horror.”

He chuckled, turning her in his arms. His eyes, the color of warm honey, held the steady, unconditional love that had been her anchor for the past seven years. He was her soulmate. The proof was etched onto the delicate skin of their inner wrists: an intricate, swirling pattern of silver filigree, a perfect mirror of the other. When they touched, like now, the marks would pulse with a soft, internal light, a private affirmation of their bond.

His mouth found hers, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of the coffee he’d had an hour ago and the pure, undiluted essence of Liam himself. It was a kiss she knew by heart, yet it never failed to stir something inside her. His hands slid from her waist, one cupping her jaw while the other moved lower, pressing into the small of her back and pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans, a clear, simple statement of his desire for her.

A familiar heat pooled low in her belly. She broke the kiss, her breath catching as his lips traced a path down her throat. "The water is still on for my tea," she whispered, the protest weak even to her own ears.

"It can wait," he said, his voice thick. He lifted her easily, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried them from the kitchen and toward their bedroom.

Later, tangled in their sheets, the last rays of sunlight striping the walls, Elara lay with her head on Liam’s chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath her ear. Their lovemaking had been what it always was: passionate, connected, and deeply satisfying. He’d filled her, his body moving with a familiar, perfect cadence that brought her to a shuddering orgasm. As he had climaxed inside her, their soul marks had flared, casting a silvery glow against their damp skin.

It was perfect. He was perfect. Their life was perfect.

So why, even as she traced the glowing lines on his wrist, did she feel it again? It was a quiet, hollow ache deep in her own soul, a phantom limb of the heart. She looked at her own mark, at the beautiful silver filigree that bound her to this wonderful man. But in the faint light, she could just make out the faintest, colorless lines woven within the silver—a dormant pattern, a part of the design that never glowed. It was an empty space, a constant, low hum of incompletion that whispered she was not yet whole.

The Saturday of the arts festival was bright and loud, a cacophony of music, chatter, and the smell of fried dough. Elara had wandered away from Liam, who was patiently examining a potter’s stall, promising to meet her by the fountain in twenty minutes. She drifted through the crowd, letting her feet guide her, when a strange pull, insistent and low in her gut, drew her toward a booth tucked away near a line of old oak trees.

The sign read "Rhys Carver," and displayed on rough-hewn tables were sculptures carved from rich, dark wood. They were breathtaking. Not just objects, but stories captured in grain and form. A lithe wolf mid-howl, a woman whose hair flowed into the roots of a tree, a coiled dragon with scales so detailed they seemed to ripple. Elara reached out, her fingers hovering just above the polished surface of a hawk, its wings outstretched. The wood seemed to hum with a latent energy.

A movement from the back of the booth caught her eye. The artist, Rhys, was leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest. He was watching her. He was leaner than Liam, with a wiry strength suggested by the muscles in his forearms. His dark hair was unruly, falling over a brow furrowed in concentration, and his eyes were a startling, intense shade of green. He wasn't smiling; he was just looking, his gaze direct and unnervingly perceptive, as if he could see past her skin.

The hollow ache in her chest, the one she carried like a secret stone, suddenly sharpened into a piercing throb. An intense heat bloomed on her wrist, startling her. She looked down instinctively. The dormant, colorless lines woven into her silver soul mark were no longer empty. They were blazing, erupting with a brilliant, blinding golden light that pulsed with a life of its own, completely overpowering the familiar silver glow. It felt like a brand, a sudden, shocking claim.

Her head snapped up, her heart hammering against her ribs. Rhys had pushed off the tree, his stance rigid. His own arms were bare, and there, on the tanned skin of his forearm, was a soul mark. Not silver, but a vibrant, furious gold, the exact pattern that was now searing itself into her own wrist. It glowed with the same impossible intensity, a beacon answering her own. His green eyes were wide, locked on her, his lips parted in a silent gasp of disbelief. The noise of the festival, the people, the music—it all dissolved into a muted roar. There was only the space between them, charged and humming with a terrifying, undeniable recognition that froze them both in place.

The connection snapped. Primal, unthinking terror took over, a current of pure adrenaline that shot through her veins. Elara ripped her gaze from Rhys’s, the intensity in his green eyes too much to bear. She turned and fled, shoving her way blindly through the thick crowd. She didn’t look back, but she could feel his stare on her, a physical weight against her shoulders. Her wrist burned, the golden light a searing brand she was desperate to conceal. It felt like everyone could see it, a public declaration of a betrayal she hadn't even committed yet.

She stumbled to a stop near the fountain, her lungs aching. Liam was walking toward her, a small, worried frown on his face. “There you are. You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Instinctively, she shoved her left hand deep into the pocket of her jeans, curling her fingers into a tight fist. The fabric did little to hide the faint warmth still radiating from her skin. “Just… crowded,” she managed to say, her voice thin. “Feeling a little overwhelmed. Can we just go home?”

The concern in his eyes deepened, but he didn't push. He simply wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Of course.” His touch, usually her greatest comfort, felt alien. A lie. Every inch of her skin screamed with the phantom sensation of the golden light, a hum of energy that had nothing to do with the man beside her.

The evening was a blur of strained silence. Elara moved through their home like a guest, her body tense. She kept her left hand hidden, tucking it under her leg as they sat on the sofa, keeping it behind her back as she moved through the kitchen. Liam watched her, his expression a mixture of confusion and hurt.

Later, in their bedroom, the tension finally broke. He came up behind her as she stood before the mirror, his hands settling on her hips, his body pressing against her back. He was hard against her, his desire a familiar pressure she usually welcomed.

“Talk to me, El,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. His fingers traced the waistband of her pants, then slid underneath, his palm flattening against the bare skin of her stomach. A reflexive shiver went through her, but it was born of anxiety, not arousal. He started to turn her, to face him, to kiss her.

Panic seized her. “Don't,” she gasped, pulling away from his touch so abruptly that he stumbled back a step. The word hung between them, sharp and cruel.

The hurt on his face was immediate and raw. “Elara, what is going on?”

She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t tell him. The lie was a bitter acid in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, clutching her wrist. “I just… I have a headache. I’m not feeling well.”

He said nothing for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, devoid of its usual warmth. “Okay.”

He went to bed, turning his back to her side of the bed. The silence was heavier than any argument they’d ever had. Elara escaped to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Under the harsh vanity light, she finally dared to look. The brilliant, furious glow had faded, but it wasn't gone. Woven through the familiar silver filigree, a delicate, steady pulse of soft gold remained, a permanent, undeniable part of her. It was beautiful. And it had ruined everything. She stared at the impossible truth etched into her skin, her heart a fractured, terrified thing, no longer belonging only to one man, but now, impossibly, to two.