Chapter 10 Wolfsbane Blood

[Draven's POV]

When the candle went out, Eric left.

The sound of the door closing was soft, but I still heard it. Like someone taking the last bit of life away with them.

Only I remained in the medical room.

The medicine bowl on the table was still warm, its rim bearing a layer of dark medicinal stains. Gauze wrapped my hand, spread across the wooden table's center—distinct knuckles, slender, quiet to the point of strangeness.

Too quiet.

The entire Pack knew that the quieter my hands were, the more dangerous. Quiet wasn't calm—it was suppression, the moment when others should step back before blood splattered.

But this hand's quietness was different. Like a child who'd done wrong, left there for punishment.

It had just betrayed me.

When it gripped Kaelan's wrist, it had used force—enough to crush a disobedient Omega's bones. But the next second, the fingers opened on their own. One by one, withdrawing from her warm skin.

Not my choice.

My body gave me no options at all.

This loss of control was more sickening than anger. Anger was at least mine, but my body had completely betrayed me.

My palm still remembered the shape of her wrist bone, the pulse beating rapidly beneath her skin like a trapped but unbroken small beast. That throbbing pressed into my palm, lingering even now.

I shifted my gaze from my hand to that letter on the table corner.

I'd had it brought here—to remind myself.

Alaric's handwriting pressed into the paper, strokes cold as knives, the seal at the end red as dried blood.

Nothing new in the letter. I'd known since I was seventeen.

But seeing Alaric write it into a business correspondence, sandwiched between mineral prices and territorial boundaries as a bargaining chip, I still couldn't control the surge of rage, throat tightening. That paper before my eyes suddenly wasn't paper anymore.

That night, I was seventeen, riding across half the territory, cold wind cutting into my chest like blades. My boot soles had long worn through, feet burning, throat full of the bloody taste carved by wind. I kept lying to myself the whole way—just a little faster and I'd make it in time. Father was so strong, Mother so clever. They were just injured, they'd be fine.

But when I arrived, everything was already over.

Father lay on his side, still in wolf form, black fur matted with blood, the frozen earth beneath him completely stained. His claws had dug desperately into the mud, clawing out a long furrow—even in his final moment, he was crawling forward. Just to reach Mother.

Mother had collapsed not far from him, abdomen covered in blood, her skirt soaked dark black. She'd stopped breathing, lips gray-white, but her eyes were still open, staring toward Father, hand stretched forward, fingers rigid—as if trying to reach him even in death.

They'd been so close.

I stood between them, legs nailed to the ground, lacking even the strength to kneel. My palms were covered in their blood, slowly cooling, sticky and tight, impossible to wipe clean. Looking down at the traces they'd left trying desperately to reach each other, I suddenly understood—they hadn't died from enemies, not from claws and wounds, but from each other. Because they cared, they'd panicked; because they loved too deeply, neither would survive alone. Even with their last breath, they'd crawled toward each other.

In that instant, only one ice-cold, trembling thought remained in my mind—I didn't want a Mate. Never.

Once you had a weakness, fate would grab you by the throat. Even survival would no longer be your own choice.

My throat felt torn, chest numb with pain, but I couldn't say a word. I knew then.

Love kills. Mates are a curse!

Later, I met her in Ironfang's dungeons. She hung from iron chains, covered in blood, arms purple from restraints, but her voice was frighteningly steady as she calmly told me the dungeon's layout. In that moment, the wolf beneath my ribs growled low. My wolf recognized her—my Mate.

Ridiculous that she was from Wolfsbane. God had played quite the joke on me.

My first instinct was to kill her, but my wolf blocked me hard, even snarling at me to bring her back to Blackthorn.

Later she was confined to the cabin. I thought that would isolate her. But relying on our Mate connection, she kept leaving the cabin, testing my limits—damn her cleverness!

I wanted to punish her, but my wolf blocked me every time. Not only that, each night it led me to her cabin to scent her. That cold, resilient scent on her body wound around my knees like thin threads, forcing me to pace outside her door without daring to cross the threshold, making me a waste!

On the training ground, Finn stood behind her, correcting her grip on the staff. The second his thumb touched her wrist, my fangs shot out from my gums, pain shooting through my temples. I wanted to tear that thumb off, watch his blood splash across her knuckles, then lick it off drop by drop.

By the creek, she'd rescued that golden-haired child, covered in mud, still smiling when she looked up and saw me. Utterly disheveled, utterly radiant. That smile wasn't for me—it was for the child in her arms. But standing there, something punched straight through my chest.

I wanted to fuck her.

I often imagined what she'd look like pressed against that lime wall in the cabin. The wall's texture would redden her back, making her breathing scattered, shoulder blades trembling lightly. My hand would grip her nape, palm pressing right over that brand—she couldn't dodge or retreat. She'd struggle first, jaw clenched tight like every time she was cornered, using those green eyes to glare at me viciously. But when I spread her legs, pressed her entire body into the wall, forced her to stand on tiptoes, forced her chest to rise and fall rapidly, forced that empty prison dress to wrinkle and tear—would she still look at me like that? Would she finally gasp? Would she clutch my shoulders desperately as I thrust into her, tearing my flesh like grasping the last thing that could support her? Would she go red-eyed, spine arched like a drawn bow, yet still soften in the deepest places, too soft to maintain that damned pride?

The moment this thought emerged, my cock hardened violently, straining painfully against fabric, even the material's friction like flame.

Alpha instinct.

This Omega's spine had never bent.

But I wanted—wanted to see her gradually lose strength in my hands, wanted to see her fucked until her legs went weak, fucked until she couldn't stand, fucked until her breathing mixed with mine, fucked until her knuckles went white and throat went hoarse, finally forced to cry out my name!

Then my wolf slammed hard beneath my ribs.

I froze.

Not fuck her.

It wanted to rush out. Rush toward the cabin!

It clawed frantically in my chest, fangs scraping my organs, trying to tear through my entire ribcage. It wanted to circle her. Wanted to stand at her door. Wanted to use itself to block anything approaching that door—including myself!

I pressed my chest hard, breathing completely scattered. That wolf crashed under my hand, claws tearing my stomach, fangs pressing my throat, grinding inch by inch along my spine, forcing me to acknowledge a fact I'd rather cut myself open than admit...

Another crash.

I didn't just want to fuck her—I wanted to keep her safe...

When this thought emerged, my stomach clenched violently, more nauseating than desire itself. Fucking her was instinct—her breathing, that scent that burned from throat to abdomen, making my teeth itch, making me want to pin her against walls, grip her waist, watch her tremble beneath me, watch her forced to tilt her head back, revealing that expression that should fear me but always made me want to shred my sanity.

But wanting to protect her was different. Protecting her was...

No. I wouldn't choose that.

I stared at that red dot at the letter's end, slowly pressing Kaelan's face, her back, her eyes, her smile by the creek deep into my bones. Like driving red-hot iron into my chest. Her wet hair against her neck, collarbone stained with mud and water, the lines her arms made holding that child, her waist's curve in breathing, even that unyielding fierceness when she looked up—all of it branded inch by inch. Pressed until flesh went numb, pressed until nothing could emerge again.

But the deeper I pressed, the clearer they became, like glowing in darkness.

From tomorrow, she would just be Wolfsbane's prisoner. Just a prisoner. I had to think that way. Had to strip her name from desire, scrape her scent from between my teeth, strangle my body's first heat every time I thought of her.

My wolf howled madly, desperately trying to stop my thoughts—he wanted to stop me, didn't want to watch me fall into hell.

But I had no choice. Even with closed eyes I'd think of her, think of her wrist so thin I could circle it with one hand, think of her pulse jumping chaotically in my palm when she struggled, think that when I released her, I wasn't thinking of letting her go but wondering if I pressed her into my embrace, would she bite me, would she claw blood from my chest.

I stood up, grabbing my coat.

My wolf wailed, then fell silent, as if watching me step by step toward the abyss...

Outside was deep night, wind rushing from the corridor's end, carrying snow and the damp scent of wood.

Step by step I descended the stairs, boot soles crossing frosted ground toward the row of houses where Nyx lived.

Not because I'd chosen her.

I just needed a body, a scent, something that could completely cover Kaelan's traces in my mind...