16. Draven
DRAVEN
Ihelp Isolde to her feet, my hands gentle despite their size as I brush dirt from her shoulders and back.
Lavender petals cling to her dark curls, and I carefully pluck them free, each small touch sending warmth through my chest. Her dress is rumpled, twisted from our urgency, and I smooth the fabric with reverent fingers.
The flush across her cheeks makes my blood heat all over again. That rosy pink screams of what just happened between us—marks me as surely as any physical claim. The sight of her, disheveled and glowing, makes me want to push her back down into the earth and take her again.
"Your hair," I murmur, finger-combing the tangles from her curls and removing the last bits of crushed herb. She looks up at me with those hazel eyes, still dark with satisfaction, and my restraint nearly snaps.
"Draven..." she starts, her voice soft and uncertain.
"Draven!"
The sharp bark of my name cuts through the evening air like a blade. I whip around to see Brakkor Vane charging through the apple trees, his grey-green face grim with urgency.
"Brakkor?" Confusion floods my system as I step protectively in front of Isolde. "What are you—"
"Another moore wolf!" He doesn't slow down, his heavy boots crushing fallen apples as he closes the distance. "They need you on the east side, quickly!"
Ice floods my veins, washing away every trace of warmth and satisfaction. I spare Isolde only a glance—taking in her wide eyes and the way she's smoothing her skirts with trembling hands—before my instincts kicks in.
"Where?" I'm already moving, falling into step beside Brakkor as we head toward town.
"East perimeter, near the old well ." His breathing is ragged from running. "Sarah was doing her evening message rounds when the bastard came out of nowhere. Clipped her wing before she could get altitude."
My stomach drops. Sarah, with her quick wit and mischievous grin, reduced to a broken wing because I was too busy buried between Isolde's thighs to do my job.
"How bad?"
"Bad enough that she can't fly. Timmy saw the whole thing from the mill road—kid came tearing into town screaming about pixie blood and wolf teeth." Brakkor shoots me a sideways look. "Been looking for you. Where the hell were you?"
Guilt slices through my chest. Sarah has been hurt for I don't know how long while I was lost in pleasure, shirking my duties for selfish want. The taste of Isolde still lingers on my lips, but it's turned bitter with shame.
"Never mind." Brakkor's tone carries an edge I haven't heard in the short time I've known him. "Just move your ass. That wolf is still out there, and if it's bold enough to get this close to the village, who knows what it'll do next."
Brakkor takes me straight to the scene. Blood spatters the cobblestones near the old well, dark droplets catching the fading light.
Sarah's wing lies crumpled at an unnatural angle, the delicate membrane torn in three places.
She sits propped against the stone wall, her usual glow dimmed to barely a flicker.
"Bastard came out of nowhere," Timmy babbles, his freckled face pale as parchment. "Just—just lunged right at her! Sarah tried to dodge but—"
"Easy, lad." Brakkor places a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "You did good raising the alarm."
I crouch beside the blood trail, my fingers hovering over the dark stains.
The metallic scent mingles with something else—wild musk and old earth.
Moore wolf, definitely. The paw prints pressed into the soft ground tell the story: calculated approach, explosive attack, hasty retreat when voices carried from town.
This is my fault. Every drop of blood, every tear in Sarah's wing, every tremor in Timmy's voice—all because I was too busy thinking with my cock instead of doing my job.
"Will Sarah be all right?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Can Liora fix her wing?"
Brakkor shifts his weight, considering. "Honestly?
Don't know for certain. But in the two years I've been here, I've seen Liora work magic on injuries that should've been permanent.
Remember when Garron nearly took his thumb off with that crosscut saw?
Or when Mrs. Penwhistle broke her wrist falling off her ladder? "
"That's different. Those were simple breaks, cuts—"
"Pixie anatomy isn't that different from ours, just smaller." Brakkor's tone carries more confidence than his expression. "Liora's got a touch for healing that goes beyond normal herb work. Sarah will fly again."
The wolf tracks lead east, toward the deeper forest where the trees grow thick enough to block moonlight.
Smart beast—it knows to avoid the well-traveled paths, stick to shadows.
The stride pattern shows confidence, not fear.
This isn't some desperate animal driven by hunger. This is a predator testing boundaries.
Testing me.
I stand, brushing dirt from my knees. "The tracks are fresh. Maybe fifteen minutes old."
"You're going after it now? In the dark?"
"Moore wolves don't rest after a failed hunt. They circle back, look for easier prey." I check my knife, ensure the blade sits loose in its sheath. "If I don't end this tonight, it'll be back tomorrow. Maybe next time it won't just clip a wing."
The sound of hurried footsteps echoes off the cobblestones before I see them—Calla's measured stride paired with Liora's lighter step. They round the corner of the road, Liora clutching her leather satchel against her chest while Calla maintains her usual composed urgency.
"I brought her as fast as I could," Calla announces, slightly breathless as she guides Liora toward Sarah's crumpled form.
Liora drops to her knees beside the injured pixie without hesitation, her experienced hands already reaching for the clasps on her satchel. The scent of dried herbs and medicinal oils wafts up as she opens it, revealing neat rows of glass vials and small cloth pouches.
"I didn't want to make it worse by moving her," Timmy blurts out, his voice cracking with guilt. The boy's freckled face twists with self-recrimination. "I thought maybe I should carry her to the apothecary, but what if I hurt her wing more? What if—"
"Timmy." Liora's voice carries gentle authority as she pulls out a small bottle of clear liquid and a roll of gossamer bandaging. "You made exactly the right call. Moving a wing injury without proper support could have torn the membrane completely."
Sarah's glow flickers weakly as Liora begins her examination, those nimble fingers probing the damaged wing with careful precision. The pixie winces but doesn't cry out, her usual bright chatter reduced to shallow breathing.
"The tear isn't as bad as it looks," Liora murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. "Three puncture wounds, but they missed the main wing veins. Sarah, I need you to hold very still while I clean these."
Brakkor shifts his weight beside me, watching Liora work with the same intensity he brings to tracking suspects.
Calla stands side him, arms wrapped around one of his, her sharp eyes taking in every detail—the blood pattern, the claw marks on the stone well, the fear still etched across Timmy's features.
The shame burning in my chest flares hotter. While I was lost in Isolde's touch, savoring the taste of her skin and the soft sounds she made beneath me, Sarah was bleeding. Fighting for her life against a predator that should never have gotten this close to town.
I move away from the group, focusing on the wolf tracks that lead into the darkness beyond the eastern treeline. The prints are clear in the soft earth—broad paws, deep impressions that speak of size and confidence. This beast isn't running scared. It's calculating its next move.
Without a word, I step into the forest's embrace, letting the familiar weight of hunt-focus settle over my shoulders like an old cloak. Behind me, I hear Liora's soothing voice explaining her treatment to Sarah, but the words fade as I follow the scent trail deeper into shadow.