Chapter 8 The Confrontation

[Kaelan's POV]

Nyx slammed open the council hall door.

The heavy wooden door crashed against stone wall, the dull sound exploding loudly. I followed behind her, boot soles striking cold hard ground. The sound wasn't loud, but seemed to strike everyone's nerves with each step. Those gazes from both sides of the corridor followed us all the way in from outside, clinging to my back—heavy, burning, pressing until I could barely breathe.

Draven sat alone at the far end of the long table, a letter spread before him, the pages pressed flat, blindingly white.

He looked up, staring hard at me.

My steps suddenly halted. He was like a volcano pressed under deathly calm, almost about to erupt violently yet held down by something, unable to break free; his hands clenched tight, knuckles turning white inch by inch.

I'd never seen an Alpha show such suppressed expression.

Nyx spoke, voice high and sharp, instantly tearing through the deathly silence of the entire stone hall.

"Your prisoner." She lifted her chin, staring at Draven, each word barbed. "The person you've been avoiding for seven days. I brought her to you."

She paused for a beat. Her voice like a sharp knife, deliberately pointing the tip at the most painful spot before slowly pushing it in.

"Take a look." The corner of her lips curved up in a cold, cruel smile. "See whether you can really control yourself!"

After speaking, she turned half her face to look at me.

That smile, I recognized it.

Exactly the same as in the storage shed. Contemptuous, certain, carrying the malice of waiting for someone to lose control publicly, waiting for complete humiliation.

She thought Draven would prove her right.

She thought as long as he could control himself, it meant the person he ultimately chose was still her. The entire Pack would see.

I sneered coldly, not waiting for Draven to speak.

One slap, viciously across Nyx's face. The sound was crisp and bright, echoing through the hall. Outside the door, immediate gasps could be heard.

Nyx was knocked sideways by the blow, completely stunned. The next second, she whipped her head back, eyes instantly red.

I didn't give her a chance to speak.

The second slap was harder.

CRACK—

Her head was again knocked to one side by my blow, the corner of her mouth immediately splitting, blood slowly seeping down her lips, bright red and piercing, stinging the eyes.

My palm went numb.

I felt extremely satisfied inside.

I raised my hand—the third slap hadn't yet fallen when my wrist was suddenly grabbed.

Draven.

His hand was like an iron band suddenly tightened, gripping me so hard it nearly made my bones creak. I instinctively struggled but couldn't break free.

"Let go." I stared at Nyx, voice cold as ice.

Draven didn't move.

I turned my face toward him.

His fingers were trembling.

Something inside him was frantically resisting, shaking violently, even his knuckles were strained to a deathly white.

He stared hard at me, voice like it was ground inch by inch from between his teeth—low, harsh, suppressing barely controlled fury.

"This is Blackthorn, not Wolfsbane."

His chest rose and fell heavily, breathing deep and muffled, as if each breath was suppressing fire.

"Know your place."

He stared fiercely at me.

"Don't push too far—don't think I won't kill you!"

I looked at him without retreating half a step.

He didn't retreat either.

The air instantly sank to its lowest point, so heavy it was almost suffocating. Through door cracks, window gaps, all were gazes pouring in, dense and burning hot—the entire Pack watching this grand show.

Nyx stood to one side, lips split, blood trickling from her mouth, but that vicious light in her eyes burned brighter and more poisonous. She was waiting—waiting for Draven to settle this for her, waiting for him to throw me into the dungeon, waiting for him to kill me in front of everyone, to turn this situation around for her, to prove she hadn't lost.

The next second—

Draven's hand loosened.

One finger, one finger, extremely slowly releasing.

Something inside him was going mad, struggling, desperately resisting, finally forcing that hand to open.

The words "don't think I won't kill you" still hung in the air above the hall.

But his fingers had already betrayed them first.

Breaking free from his grip, my wrist immediately showed a circle of red finger marks, startlingly hot. I looked down briefly, then when I looked up, Nyx had seen it too.

Her bet ended here.

The one who lost completely wasn't me.

Nyx bit her lips hard, blood flowing deeper from the bite. She didn't look at Draven, not even once. She only stared at me, gaze poisonous as if wanting to tear a piece of flesh from my face.

But she couldn't utter a single word.

Those things she'd said in the storage shed, those "he chose me," those vicious, crude, triumphant words—now they all slapped back at her own face like open hands. And Draven's final release of that hand—it was enough, more than enough.

She stepped back.

Defeated, utterly defeated.

She turned and left, the door closing softly, much lighter than when she'd arrived.

Only Draven and I remained in the stone hall.

And that letter on the table.

My palm still tingled. The red marks on my wrist hadn't faded either, like his temperature was still branded there. I didn't look at Draven's face.

My gaze fell straight on the table.

That letter had already been opened, corners badly torn, wrinkled hard, as if repeatedly squeezed and gripped. I was too familiar with the handwriting. Since age eight, I'd recognized that signature.

Alaric.

I scanned the letter—Elara Wolfsbane struck my eyes.

My mother's name.

In that instant, my breathing seemed cut off by something, chest suddenly hollow.

I pressed down on the letter, examining it carefully.

Line after line of cold, hard words, without a trace of treating her as human—a transaction, the same kind of transaction as me.

My hand stopped at the paper's edge, knuckles tensing inch by inch, nearly crushing the page.

I looked up at Draven.

"You intercepted Alaric's letter." Long ago I'd stopped calling Alaric father—he didn't deserve it!

He didn't answer.

Those eyes were still frighteningly red, as if he hadn't closed them for days and nights, suppressing something about to crack.

I stared hard at him, throat hoarse, voice like sandpaper scraping through my throat.

"The part about Elara in the letter—speak."

I stared at him, unwilling to miss the slightest change on his face.

"Tell me clearly!"

He looked at me, Adam's apple rolling heavily. When he spoke again, his voice was pressed extremely flat, flat to the point of cruelty, like a knife back grinding against bone.

"Your father has been keeping her imprisoned."

My entire body suddenly went rigid, even my blood seeming to freeze in that second.

I knew it—Mother would never abandon us. I knew! I always knew!

He pushed that torn letter forward slightly, fingertip pressing hard on one corner.

"You ran away, so he's using your mother as replacement. Your father—ha, what trash!" Draven said with cold laughter.

"No Man's Land, third outpost. Your mother is imprisoned there." He said. "The coordinates are here."

A drop of blood fell.

Landing on the paper surface, slowly spreading like a dark red wound.

My pupils constricted sharply—only then did I see his palm. When he'd gripped my wrist earlier, his nails had already dug into his own flesh, palm torn open by himself. Blood was trickling down through his fingers, drop by drop, all falling on those coordinates.

He seemed to feel nothing.

I reached out and took the piece of paper with the coordinates.

The paper was still warm.

Stained with his blood.

Draven suddenly stood up.

That scent of pine and cold iron tangled together brushed past my face, close enough to make my neck instantly tense. I didn't look up at him.

He didn't stop either.

Footsteps passed me, heading straight out of the council hall. The next second, a thunderous crash exploded outside.

The dull sound of wood being brutally torn came smashing from the training ground, even making the window frames tremble.

I stood in place without moving. I knew this anger was directed at me.

But the crashing sounds outside grew heavier and more vicious, like someone using their own bones to repeatedly smash against wooden stakes, continuing even when battered and bloody.

I suddenly clutched that torn paper tight and turned to leave the council hall.

Walking all the way back to the cabin, the gazes falling on me were more numerous and heavier than when coming, pressing until I couldn't breathe. But no one stopped me. No one dared. Not even a single word.

I pushed open the door and slapped that torn paper flat on the table.

Elara Wolfsbane.

My mother's name, written into the secret correspondence like casually tradeable goods. After looking for a few seconds, my throat filled with hard, bloody taste.

I flipped the paper over.

There were more words on the back.

Alaric's postscript.