14. Draven

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DRAVEN

I drove past the ‘Welcome to Whispering Pines’ sign and entered the town.

The first thing that struck me was the quietness of the town. The silence made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

People ought to be going about their everyday business at this time of the day, but there were few people on the street, as if they were terrified of going out.

As I rode past the empty park, my inner beast reminded me to be careful. I was very well aware that this could be a trap.

In all likelihood, it probably was.

Despite the unsettling stillness, I pressed forward. I was determined to find Doyle no matter what.

I soon found the Laughing Lion. Zane mentioned Doyle spoke to his informant in this bar.

After parking, I headed inside, drawing the protective necklace from my shirt and rubbing it.

It was nn instinctual gesture. Would it really offer me protection when the time came? Only time would tell, I suppose.

The place was nearly deserted, with only a waitress and the owner present.

I approached the owner, a middle-aged man with a balding head, who glanced up from his laptop with a wary expression.

His eyes darted nervously as I drew near, and I wondered why he appeared nervous.

Was it because he sensed my aura, or was it because he was told to expect me?

"Excuse me," I began, trying to keep my tone calm and non-threatening. “Are you Stan Monroe?”

“What if I am?” Stan asked, a little too defensively.

“I’m looking for someone. A friend of mine, Doyle,” I said, pulling out my cellphone and showing him a picture. “He contacted you two nights ago, about a red-haired woman he was looking for.”

Stan squinted at the photo for a few minutes, and I wondered if he was going to deny knowing Doyle.

However, he eventually shrugged.

“Yeah, sure I vaguely remember your friend,” Stan said.

I decided to press him further.

“What exactly did you tell Doyle?” I asked.

Stan seemed to be expecting something, as if he anticipated a payment.

Sighing, I pulled out my wallet and handed him a hundred-dollar bill, hoping to coax out the information I needed. But Stan didn't budge.

My irritation grew. I debated threatening the guy. After all, Stan was just a greedy, puny human.

Would he wet his pants, like Justin did, if I set fire to his bar?

Something must've shown in my eyes, because Stan took the hundred and swallowed, finally relenting under the pressure.

"I told your friend, yeah, the woman he was looking for came into the bar a week ago," Stan said.

I scrutinized him, weighing his words carefully.

"Are you sure she was the one he was looking for?" I asked, my skepticism evident in my voice.

"She was hard to forget, and she looked exactly like the picture he showed me," Stan replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Funny thing happened afterward."

"What?" I prompted, growing impatient for him to get to the point.

"That lady we were just talking about arrived at the bar," Stan continued. "Your friend approached her. They flirted a little and left."

A wave of apprehension washed over me as I processed Stan's words. Doyle meeting Belladonna was no coincidence.

It was all too convenient, too perfectly orchestrated. My instincts screamed at me that this was a setup, but I couldn’t back out now.

Zane offhandedly mentioned once that Doyle had a history with black witches, but he didn’t exactly tell me what it was.

Either way, I couldn’t allow a fellow pack mate to go through what I did under Belladonna’s hands.

"Did you happen to catch where they were going?" I asked.

Stan shook his head. "That's all I know," he said, returning his gaze to his laptop. It was clear this conversation was over.

To my surprise, the waitress in the bar spoke up. "I overheard those two talking about going to the Whispering Pines Cemetery,” she said. “It’s on the outskirts of town.”

My guard immediately went up at those words.

"And you remember all your customers?" I had to ask.

The young woman shrugged. "They were both outsiders, and I don't know. Something about the woman made it hard not to notice her," she explained.

Stan mentioned the exact same thing, and I wondered if Belladonna used her illusions to make herself appear unforgettable to the locals.

That way, if I came looking for Doyle, I would have breadcrumbs to find. My phone buzzed insistently in my pocket as soon I exited the bar.

Tobias's name flashed on the screen.

Part of me yearned to answer, to hear his reassuring voice, but I knew I couldn't afford to be swayed by the comfort of his presence.

Tobias was my anchor, but right now, I needed to stay focused, to keep my wits about me.

With a heavy heart, I let the call slide to voicemail. It wasn't easy, but I did it anyway. Tobias would understand, I thought.

I pocketed my phone. I had a fellow packmate to find before Belladonna wrapped him around her little finger.

I couldn't afford to be distracted by anything – or anyone – else.

I pulled into the parking lot of the local cemetery, and a sense of foreboding settled over me.

The waitress had mentioned it was on the outskirts of town, but the journey seemed to stretch on longer than anticipated, the road winding its way through dense forest and eerie silence.

Half an hour later, I arrived at my destination. The cemetery loomed before me, its crumbling headstones casting long shadows in the fading light.

I parked my motorcycle and scanned the area, my senses on high alert. Then, relief flooded through me as I spotted Doyle's familiar dark blue truck.

Without hesitation, I dismounted and hurried over to examine it.

My heart sank as I saw that the two front doors of the truck were wide open, swinging eerily in the breeze.

As I approached, a metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the familiar tang of blood.

My instincts screamed at me to proceed with caution, but I couldn't afford to hesitate.

With a deep breath, I steeled myself. I followed the trail of blood, occasional drops disappearing into the earth, I couldn't shake the sickening feeling in my gut.

Alongside the metallic scent of blood, a cloying aroma lingered in the air, unmistakably Belladonna's perfume—a sickening blend of floral notes that turned my stomach.

With each step, the scent grew stronger, mingling with the damp earth and decay of the cemetery.

I found myself entering an older section, where the tombstones were weathered and worn by time. The mark on my chest began to ache.

As I walked among the graves, I couldn't help but clutch the protective necklace in my hand, the cool metal offering a small comfort against the overwhelming sense of dread.

It was absurd, really—I was an alpha dragon shifter, yet here I was, feeling like a frightened child in the dark.

But the memories of my encounter with Belladonna were still fresh in my mind, a reminder of just how powerless I had been in her grasp when her binding curse wrapped itself around my entire body.

And now, faced with the possibility of confronting her again, fear gnawed at the edges of my resolve.

As the pain in my chest intensified, I knew I was drawing closer to Belladonna. My inner beast stirred within me, pissed-off and demanding retribution.

This time, I welcomed the anger, because I knew I might need it for the fight to be come.

The path ahead began to ascend, leading me up a small hill crowned with ancient mausoleums.

My senses sharpened, searching for any sign of Doyle among the silent tombs.

Would Belladonna keep him here, hidden among the dead?

A dangerous thought flickered in my mind—to shift into my dragon form and catch Belladonna off guard.

My beast eagerly embraced the idea, relishing the prospect of unleashing its power. But I hesitated, knowing the risks.

If Doyle was nearby, my flames could endanger him, or worse, lead to his death at Belladonna's hands.

I pushed aside the tempting notion, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Finally, I arrived at the top of the hill, where the largest mausoleum's doors stood wide open, almost like an invitation.

As I advanced, I nearly tripped over something—a fallen log, perhaps—but I soon felt the dampness on my pant leg. Blood.

Looking down, I saw a severed arm, detached at the elbow. I swallowed hard, realizing the gruesome truth: it was Doyle's arm.

The bitch must have cut it off to prevent Doyle from shifting into his dragon form and escaping.

We dragon shifters healed faster than other shifter breeds but regrowing an entire arm still took time.

I entered the mausoleum and to my relief, I finally found Doyle. Racing toward Doyle, my heart pounded against my ribcage, each beat a drum of dread.

As I reached him, the sight of his weakened form sent a surge of anger through me.

He was shirtless, his chest bearing the same cursed rune as mine. A chill crept up my spine as the realization dawned on me that I had arrived too late.

But there was no time for fear to paralyze me. I had to act.

My gaze darted around the dimly lit mausoleum, searching for any sign of Belladonna's presence. The air hung heavy with her overpowering scent.

"Doyle," I murmured, my voice a desperate whisper.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open with a flicker of recognition.

"Draven... you shouldn't have come," he rasped.

Ignoring his warning, I knelt beside him and assessed his injuries. Apart from his missing arm, he was mostly intact, but still.

Rage surged within me. Going after me was one thing, but targeting my pack mate? Belladonna had gone too far.

"Leave me, Draven. It's you she really wants," Doyle muttered.

I couldn’t tear my gaze off the horrid binding curse on his chest.

"Nothing to worry about," said a familiar, seductive voice. "My curse seems ineffective on your friend. It seems like he took extra precautions against my kind."

I clenched my fists at my sides, every instinct urging me to strike out against her, to wipe that smug smile off her face. But I knew better than to underestimate her.

"Why go through all this just for me?" I demanded, my voice edged with barely-contained fury.

I needed answers, needed to understand why she had chosen to hunt me down.

Her laughter cut through the silence like a blade, mocking and cruel.

"Why? I'm fond of you, Draven," she purred, her voice dripping with malice.

"And unlike your friend over here," she gestured dismissively toward Doyle, "you're weak, Draven. Always was."

The words stung, igniting a firestorm of rage within me. But before I could respond, she continued, her gaze boring into mine with a predatory intensity.

"Besides," she taunted, her smile widening, "my mark still burns on your chest. It was only a matter of time before I came back for you."

Her words struck like a physical blow, a reminder of the curse that bound us together, a curse I could never fully escape.

My chest tightened with a mixture of fear and anger, but I forced myself to remain composed, to keep her from seeing how unsettled I really was.

Taking a step forward, I met her gaze steadily.

"You may have marked me, Belladonna," I growled, my voice low and dangerous, "but I will never be your pawn again."

"I'm taking Doyle back with me," I declared, lifting Doyle's weight onto my shoulders.

Belladonna responded with a mocking raise of her eyebrow.

"And you think I'd let you? Poor delusional Draven. All I have to do is reactivate my binding curse, and you're my puppet again,” she said.