Chapter 4 Enemy's Daughter

[Kaelan's POV]

I woke to the smell of medicine.

Unlike the moldy bitterness of Ironfang's dungeons, the scent here was much cleaner. Crushed herbs carried an astringent edge, wood warmed by fire, and even the air lacked that underground filth that clung to skin.

The moment I opened my eyes, I saw wooden ceiling beams. Not a dungeon anymore.

I bolted upright, tearing open the wounds on my back. Pain blackened my vision.

"Don't move."

The voice came from beside me. I turned to see a brown-haired man sitting at a table, grinding medicine in his hands. He carried no scent of aggression—more like dry grass and water.

"You slept for two days," he said. "Move again and the cuts on your back will need restitching."

I said nothing, only watched him warily.

"I'm Eric." He set down the medicine bowl, glancing at me. "Blackthorn's healer."

"Where's Draven?"

Eric's movements paused, as if he'd expected this to be my first question upon waking.

"Busy."

I pulled at the corner of my mouth, aggravating my split lip until it went numb with pain. "Busy deciding whether to kill me? Given I'm from an enemy Pack."

Eric didn't respond to that. He stood and approached, reaching for the bandages on my shoulder. I instinctively flinched away.

"Until the leader decides, no one here will kill you unless you're asking for death," he said.

I stared at him without moving.

He pressed the loosened bandages back into place, movements as gentle as possible, but when the fabric brushed those whip marks on my back, I still gritted my teeth.

"Do all you Blackthorn people like locking people up then playing gentle?"

Eric looked up at me, mouth twitching as if holding back words, finally just handing me the medicine. "Drink this."

I took the bowl. The bitter taste rushed up, my stomach churning. I forced it down, tongue going numb at the root.

Footsteps suddenly echoed outside.

More than one person.

I raised my head as the air changed first.

That scent of pine and cold iron arrived before the people, pressing through the wooden door until my neck burned hot. My fingers tightened, the bowl's edge digging painfully into my palm.

Draven had come.

But a woman's voice spoke first.

"You put her in the main house?" She laughed, the sound thin and sharp like a knife scraping porcelain. "An Omega of unknown origin. Fished out of Ironfang, no less."

Eric's brow twitched as if he didn't want to listen.

I stayed silent, only setting the medicine bowl back beside the bed.

Silence fell outside the door.

Then another man's voice, probably Theron: "Shut up, Nyx."

Nyx. For her to speak to Draven like this...

"Am I wrong?" Instead of lowering her voice, she raised it higher. "She carries Wolfsbane's scent and brand. The entire infirmary reeks of it. Can't you smell it? Or won't you?"

I stared at that door, spine gradually tensing.

Draven still said nothing.

But his scent grew heavier, like a storm pressing down on the forest, directed at the woman outside.

Nyx seemed unbothered, perhaps long accustomed to it, knowing she was safe.

"Let me guess." She laughed softly. "She's not just from Wolfsbane. Her scent carries purebred blood. Alaric's direct line?"

Eric cursed under his breath.

Theron seemed to want to drag someone away, his footsteps shifting. But Nyx continued speaking, voice not loud but every word crystal clear.

"If she really is Alaric Wolfsbane's daughter, she's not a captive—she's a curse. You should kill her!"

The air turned completely cold.

I sat on the bed, palms sweating, heart sinking. What had to come would come.

The door opened.

Eric stepped back first.

Draven stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking all light. He looked at me with nothing in his eyes, making my chest tight.

Nyx didn't enter. I couldn't see her, only smell a faint spicy scent like some thorned flower clinging to Draven's pine fragrance.

"Get out," Draven said.

Nyx fell silent for a second. "You'll regret this."

Footsteps faded.

Theron didn't leave, stopping outside as if waiting for something.

Draven walked in and threw something onto the table.

My necklace.

The wolf fang pendant, cord half-broken, edges still stained with dried blood.

My breath caught as I reached for it. The moment my fingertips touched the familiar edges, they cut into my palm. I clutched it like grasping an unbroken bone.

"This was taken from your body," Draven said. "The back is carved with old Wolfsbane markings. Not something branch families could use."

I didn't look up.

"Your name."

"Kaelan."

"Full name!"

I raised my eyes to meet his.

He was watching me too, his gaze carrying suppressed disgust and hatred.

My throat tightened, but I still spoke that name.

"Kaelan Wolfsbane."

A soft intake of breath came from outside. Theron had heard.

Draven's jaw tensed.

The next second, he turned and walked away.

"Wait." My voice was terribly hoarse. "How do you plan to deal with me?"

His steps didn't pause, didn't answer me, leaving like avoiding something utterly repugnant.

Theron escorted me to the cabin without saying much along the way.

The cabin was isolated, close to the tree line. Outside was damp earth, split wood stacked by the walls, windows small as breathing holes. It was far from the camp center—too far to hear voices from there clearly.

"You can stay here," Theron stopped at the door, tone neither cold nor warm.

I glanced at him.

As if knowing what I was thinking, he added: "There are patrols outside."

"So you're still keeping me locked up."

"This is far better than Ironfang's dungeons. You should be grateful," he said.

I said nothing more, pushing the door open.

Inside were only a bed, table, and washbasin. Excessively clean and excessively empty.

Theron stood in the doorway without leaving, finally speaking after a while: "Being alive now makes you luckier than most people."

I turned my back to him, clutching the wolf fang necklace in my palm.

"That's not luck, and you know it," I said.

He fell silent for two seconds, finally only dropping "don't wander around" before closing the door and leaving.

Deep in the night, I heard footsteps outside.

Very soft, not the deliberately heavy steps of patrols. That scent stopped outside my door and my entire body tensed. Draven. The scent lingered briefly, then gradually faded.

I sat in the darkness until the window showed white.

At dawn, I stood by the window, peering out through that narrow gap.

Patrols worked in pairs of two. The intervals between shifts, patrol directions, their habits—I catalogued it all bit by bit. By sunrise, I knew when they were most relaxed and most alert.

The day was long—long enough for me to dissect my current situation piece by piece.

I'd been abandoned by Wolfsbane, now imprisoned at the edge of hostile Pack territory, isolated like rotting meat no one wanted to touch.

My father had sold me for Wytchwood Ridge. Though he'd ignored me since childhood, I never imagined he could actually sell me—for profit, having his own daughter dragged away like a dog. The thought made me shake all over, stomach turning cold.

What about Lina? My sweet, pitiful sister?

I closed my eyes, nails digging into my palms.

Lina was still in Wolfsbane. If Alaric could sell one daughter, he could sell a second. She was still young—not her turn yet. But "not her turn yet" wasn't safety. That man saw his children no differently than merchandise, only considering their worth.

I had to go back.

Before he sold Lina too.

But returning required power.

I had no Pack. No status. No one I could mobilize. Right now, I only had two things to grasp—my Mate and myself.

Mate. The word made my teeth clench.

An enemy, an Alpha, Blackthorn's leader—and he happened to be my Mate.

God, I couldn't tell if this was pity or mockery.

Thinking of the scent I'd caught outside last night.

If this connection could be useful at all, I couldn't be stupid enough to throw it away directly.

Regardless of what happened next, I first needed to understand the terrain here, the rules, and who was in charge. I couldn't stay trapped in this cabin forever.

Evening came, and I pushed the door open and walked out.

The patrol immediately looked over.

I didn't stop, walking straight toward the tree line. The ground was covered in damp pine needles that made no sound underfoot. The moment I reached the forest edge, a patrol blocked my path.

"Go back."

I looked at him without moving.

The other had already placed his hand on his sword hilt, expression tense, as if one more step from me would require tackling me to the ground.

"The leader said you can't leave the cabin area."

I still didn't speak, standing motionless.

A few breaths later, footsteps approached from behind.

Both men immediately straightened.

Draven had arrived.

I turned to look at him.

He stood several steps away, black coat pressed by wind, brow slightly furrowed, some suppressed emotion showing through. Those amber eyes first glanced at the patrol, then settled on me.

I waited for him to say "take her back," or "lock her up," or something worse.

His mouth moved slightly, but ultimately he said nothing, only looked at me briefly before turning and walking away.

I was stunned.

The two patrolmen were also stunned, exchanging glances. Neither chased after him, nor dared touch me.

What did that mean? Not dragging me back? No whips? No dungeon?

Wind emerged from the forest, chilling my neck. I slowly withdrew my gaze, but my heart moved lightly.

This Mate thing... seemed genuinely useful.

I turned back toward the cabin. The gazes behind me had changed—no longer viewing a captive, but someone they should keep their distance from.

That night, a wolf prowled outside the cabin.

Step by step, circling the house, breathing kept low, as if scenting through door cracks. It didn't howl or strike the door, only paced in the darkness, footsteps so heavy they prevented sleep.

I sat against the wall, wolf fang cutting into my palm, eyes open until dawn.