Chapter 3 The Rescue

[Kaelan's POV]

The second the iron door exploded open, cold wind and the stench of blood poured in together.

I instinctively hunched my shoulders, chains rattling and grinding fresh pain into my wrists. The shattered door panels lay on the ground as firelight slanted in from outside, illuminating scattered corpses and splattered blood.

A man stood in the doorway.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Black coat stained with blood, like he'd torn through the night itself to walk inside. Behind him lay Ironfang guards scattered like broken dolls—necks snapped, chests ripped open, their deaths as ugly as trampled meat.

But the first thing I noticed wasn't the blood.

It was his eyes.

Amber. Intense. Locked onto me like he recognized something, yet looked ready to snap my throat with his bare hands.

I caught his scent.

Pine, cold iron, and something dangerous heated by fresh blood.

Someone rushed up outside, voice quick and steady: "Draven. East cage section is open, we're moving the living ones up. The pharmacy?"

Draven.

The name hit my ears and my fingertips curled tight.

Before being thrown into Ironfang, I'd heard of him. Blackthorn's leader. The youngest and most ruthless Alpha in the northwestern forests. Wolfsbane's enemy. Some said at seventeen he'd seized power by walking through corpses and blood. Others claimed he could tear through triple his numbers with just a small squad. Still others whispered that enemies who fell into his hands couldn't even be reassembled whole.

He and my father had been tearing at each other across territory lines and old grudges for years.

Now he stood before me.

My throat tightened as I spoke first: "Left turn, all the way down." My voice was so hoarse it nearly cracked.

Draven's gaze snapped to me.

I drew a shaky breath, chains pulling painfully at my shoulders, but forced myself to continue: "This level... three rows of cells. Left at the end is the pharmacy. Right side has the lift platform to ground level. Cage section is upstairs, south side. That's where they keep the ones for sale."

He listened intently, as if nailing every word into his mind.

"Guards?" he asked.

"Four at the pharmacy year-round. Two at the lift. More in the cage section at night." I swallowed the blood in my mouth. "The warden was just called away—missing inventory."

Draven turned, voice dropping like stones: "Theron, pharmacy. Three men with me to the lift. Everyone else clear the cages. Don't miss a single one."

"Yes."

Footsteps and wolf howls scattered instantly.

But he didn't move.

I'd been hanging too long—my vision kept going black. I could only watch him approach. The closer he came, the heavier that scent grew, making my legs go weak. Not heat. Recognition. My body recognized him before my mind did.

Mate.

The word slammed into my skull.

I bit down hard.

Impossible.

Yet my neck was burning hot, and something dead in my chest twitched—like Amaris using her last strength to bump me from deep underwater.

Draven stopped before me, his hand pausing mid-reach as if unsure where to touch.

Finally, he tore apart the chains suspending me.

I pitched forward, knees buckling, only to be caught around the waist. The force was so great I practically crashed into his chest. Hard. Scalding. His bloodied armor dug into me painfully, but when I caught that pine scent, my jaw relaxed involuntarily.

"Can you stand?" he asked quietly.

I didn't answer, only grabbed his arm, nails nearly digging into flesh: "Next door."

His brow furrowed.

"Someone's behind the wall," I said. "Alive."

Draven studied me briefly, then turned to smash his axe into a hidden door by the side wall. The lock split and a hoarse gasp emerged. A man so emaciated he was barely human was dragged out, hands and feet covered in blood.

Draven handed him to a Blackthorn warrior who'd arrived, voice coldly flat: "Send him up."

After this, he looked at me again.

This time his gaze traveled lower—from my split lips to the blood at my temple, then to my neck.

His breathing grew heavier.

I knew what he'd seen.

Wolfsbane's brand. Right on my neck like an unwashable scar—ugly, clear, marking my origins indelibly.

His jaw immediately tensed.

My heart sank as I instinctively tried to back away. But I could barely stand, and the moment I moved, I swayed.

Draven steadied me while his other hand tore open my torn prison shirt.

The moment cold air hit my skin, my entire back went rigid.

He went still.

I couldn't see my own back, but I knew what was there.

What the warden had left behind. Again and again. The whip tearing flesh, brutally tracing Wolfsbane's tribal crest, carving that wolf into my back. As if reminding me—even sold into hell, that name was still branded on my body.

Draven's hand rested on my shoulder, trembling with the force of his grip.

I heard him inhale. Short. Deep.

Not like shock. Like murderous intent being forcibly suppressed.

"Who did this?" he asked.

Pain whitened my vision, but I still smiled, mouth full of blood: "Take a guess."

His eyes went black.

Another scream echoed outside, followed by the dull sound of wolves bringing down prey. Theron roared in the distance that the "lift is clear," someone shouted back about "seventeen left in the cages."

Draven didn't turn.

He just stared at me, as if seeing through the blood and filth on my face to something else. That overwhelming Alpha presence didn't diminish—instead it grew heavier, like his entire being was wrestling with some instinct.

"You're from Wolfsbane," he said.

"Was," my throat rasped.

His expression darkened, like this answer hurt him more than the injuries.

Then I smelled it.

Not my blood. Something that suddenly exploded from him. Colder, heavier, carrying an almost maddening possessiveness that crashed straight into me. My legs went weak, fingertips clutching him desperately.

He seemed burned by the contact too, his breathing completely scattered.

We both understood.

Not a guess. Not imagination.

Mate.

Damn it all.

I'd been sold into Ironfang by my own father, covered in blood, hanging like rotting meat in a dungeon. And now my Mate stood before me.

I wanted to laugh, but my stomach churned, bitter liquid rushing up my throat.

Draven stared at me, storm-dark eyes holding something terrible in his voice: "Mate."

I met his gaze, chest constricting sharply.

Footsteps approached outside as a Blackthorn warrior stopped at the door: "Alpha, we've evacuated most of the living, last batch left in the cages, someone's set fires below—"

"Evacuate first." Draven cut him off coldly. "Not a single prisoner gets left behind."

"Yes."

When he lifted me into his arms, I instinctively stiffened.

"Put me—"

"Shut up." He looked down at me, voice fierce but hands steady. "If you fall again, I'll tie you to my back to get you out."

I should have cursed him.

But I had no strength left. My vision kept blurring—I could only see the blood on his chin and those eyes that never left me.

He carried me out of the cell. The corridor was full of corpses—Ironfang's, guards', blood soaking the stone floors bright. Along the way, Blackthorn's people were dragging cage occupants outside. Some were so emaciated they couldn't walk, only tremble. Draven didn't stop, but issued orders at every turn.

"Carry those two up."

"Take all the medicine, burn the rest."

"Search the bottom level before withdrawing."

He carried me up to the cage section where flames had started from the other end, thick smoke pressing down from the stone ceiling. I coughed and shook, so he immediately pressed me closer, using his shoulder to shield me from the smoke.

The lift platform was crowded with people. Injured, half-mad, those who couldn't cry. Theron stood aside counting heads, clearly startled when he saw me, then immediately looked at Draven.

The two men locked eyes.

No one spoke.

But I understood. Theron had caught the scent.

"Send her up first," he said.

"No." Draven handed me to two warriors, voice hard as stone. "Send the others first."

I was placed by the wooden platform, my body weak, eyelids too heavy to keep open. But I still saw.

Everyone was evacuating upward. The last batch of prisoners got on the lift, Theron also stepped back, turning to shout at Draven: "Go!"

Draven didn't move.

He stood there like a black wall, looking back toward the still-smoking depths of the corridor. Ironfang's howls still echoed there, broken and intermittent, like dying beasts.

The next second, he turned and charged back.

"Draven!" Theron cursed.

No one could stop him.

I half-leaned against the wooden rail, vision already blurring, watching that tall figure disappear back into fire and blood. Not for the pleasure of killing. To ensure no living person remained below, and that no Ironfang survivor could touch the people we'd rescued.

Finally, he returned through heavier blood scent.

The axe in his hand was black-red.

"Up," he said just one word.

The lift platform shuddered and began climbing.

I leaned against the rail, vision growing hazier. Draven stood at the outer edge like a human wall protecting everyone on the platform. Flames licked upward from below—he didn't even turn his head, only glanced my way once as I was about to close my eyes.

That glance was brief.

But steady as death.

As if telling me—you survived.

My fingertips twitched, but in the end I couldn't grasp anything, only breathed in that scent of pine and blood mixed together as I slowly sank into darkness.

This time, I wasn't alone.