Page 54 of Draven

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.