My Sister Stole My Mate, And I Let Her Chapter 460 NOBODY’S PUPPET

SERAPHINA’S POV

Lucian’s departure lingered in my thoughts.

Even after the forest concealed him and the delay trap released its unseen hold, even after Brett’s enraged snarls faded into a heavy silence, his image persisted.

The strain visible in his shoulders as he compelled himself to leave.

The shadowed despair in his eyes.

His moment of indecision.

That precise hesitation stung the most.

It wasn't his deception. It wasn't even the fact that he had facilitated Thomas's escape.

But that wavering moment...

That wavering meant that somewhere beneath Catherine’s control, beneath Marcus's influence, beneath whatever toxic layering had corrupted his resolve, the man I once knew still existed. He had heard my plea.

He had faltered.

For one fleeting, incredible second, he had nearly returned to me.

And then he had made his choice—or was forced into it—to depart.

By the time we reached Nightfang again, my turbulent emotions had solidified into something frigid, sharp, and perilous.

The convoy traversed the gates under the stark, white illumination of security lights, tires emitting a soft hiss across the stone pathway as guards assumed their positions around us. A hushed atmosphere prevailed.

Brett appeared as though a decade had been etched onto his face overnight.

His jaw was so rigidly clenched, I doubted his teeth hadn't fractured. His gaze remained fixed forward, as if a part of him was still back in the woods, replaying Thomas's disappearance endlessly.

Kieran occupied the back seat beside me, his presence a steady, quiet force, yet I could sense his unwavering attention directed toward me.

His hand rested upon mine, a silent point of stability.

I turned my palm upward, intertwining our fingers, keeping my focus ahead and avoiding direct eye contact with him.

If I were to look at him, if I allowed myself to momentarily find solace in his comforting presence, I feared I would shatter and be unable to recompose myself.

The instant the vehicles halted, I opened the door myself and stepped out before a guard could offer assistance.

The night atmosphere pressed coolly against my face, dry and refreshing, carrying a subtle aroma of dust, stone, and the distant sea beyond the sprawl of Los Angeles.

Nightfang’s primary edifice loomed before us, a structure of dark glass and stark shadows, its windows gleaming like vigilant eyes against the inky canvas of the sky.

“Where is the puppet?” I inquired.

Corin, who had just alighted from the second vehicle, paused, his hand still on the door handle. His gaze shifted to Kieran momentarily, then returned to me.

“Sera,” he stated, his tone carefully measured.

“Where. Is. It?”

Kieran moved to my side. “Do you deem this an opportune moment?”

“Now is an exceptionally opportune moment.”

Corin regarded me for a prolonged interval, and I knew he perceived it: the urgent need to channel the restless energy thrumming beneath my skin before it erupted.

He exhaled through his nostrils.

“The dungeon,” he conceded eventually.

I was already in motion.

The lower levels of Nightfang had always been characterized by a certain coldness, but tonight, the chill seemed to deliberately insinuate itself beneath my skin.

The puppet had been confined within one of the reinforced interrogation chambers situated near the eastern section of the lower floor.

Corin and Brett had apprehended it during the raid on the shipment, alongside concerning quantities of concentrated wolfsbane and medical apparatus that still evoked a visceral reaction from me.

He was seated, fastened to a steel chair bolted securely to the floor, his wrists bound by restraints and his ankles secured by heavy manacles.

His head drooped forward, dark hair obscuring a face far too motionless for sleep and yet too animated for death. A pallid, grayish hue tinged his skin, and faint, precise lines marked the side of his neck.

Not scars from conflict.

Surgical incisions.

My hands involuntarily clenched into fists.

Alois stood watch in a corner, two monitors positioned beside him, his expression severe behind his spectacles.

“His vital signs have remained consistent. No discernible response to verbal stimuli since his arrival.”

“Has he uttered anything?” I questioned.

“Not a sound.”

I advanced closer to the puppet.

Kieran’s hand intercepted my wrist before I could reach the chair.

I turned my head, meeting his gaze.

His eyes probed mine, and for a silent moment, the surrounding environment dissolved under the unspoken weight of everything he wished to convey.

*Do not let this consume you.*

*Do not retreat to a place I cannot reach.*

“I am here,” he murmured softly.

My throat constricted, but I gave a subtle nod and turned back to face the puppet.

I placed my fingertips against his temple and recoiled slightly.

His skin was unnaturally cold.

He raised his head, his eyes locking with mine. Vacant, reminiscent of Aaron’s initial state.

A tremor traced its way up my arm, not from the ambient temperature, but from the profound wrongness it signified.

Before I could second-guess the wisdom of this course, I plunged in.

His mind did not yield as Celeste’s had earlier, exposed in its raw vulnerability and desperate need for release.

It did not ascend to meet me as Aaron’s had, fragmented yet retaining a spark of life beneath layers of agony.

This mind was a sealed chamber within another sealed chamber, entombed within a grave.

The initial contact was pure darkness.

Then, agony.

Followed by a deafening static.

I drew a breath through my nose and exerted greater pressure.

The world around me dissolved entirely, leaving me standing within a corridor constructed from fractured recollections.

Vast white walls stretched out on either side, intermittently vanishing as if my mind couldn't decide whether to keep them or let them go. Sickly hums emanated from the overhead lights. The floor felt slick, yet my gaze revealed nothing beneath me.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice echoing strangely and distorting at its edges.

A figure stirred at the distant end of the corridor.

I turned towards it.

The puppet stood there, but not as he had been in the interrogation room; here, he appeared younger, healthier. His eyes remained empty, but his face hadn't yet acquired that lifeless, ashen hue. It was a memory of the person he was before Catherine turned him into her instrument.

“What’s your name?” I inquired.

His lips moved, but no sound emerged.

As I stepped closer, the corridor flickered. Suddenly, stark black lines shot across the walls like veins, spreading rapidly, crawling towards me with a sharp, insect-like hiss. A crushing pressure slammed into my chest, forcing me to stagger back, my teeth grinding as the force attempted to expel me. Another one of Catherine’s cunningly crafted barriers. Damn it. I pushed back against it.

The black veins pulsed, causing the corridor to shift violently. Images flashed around me in fractured pieces: a metal table; hands bound tightly; a woman's voice, serene and pleased, murmuring, “Again.” A scream abruptly cut short. A needle smoothly entering the base of a neck. A symbol seared into skin. Then, darkness.

The force struck again, this time with greater intensity, and I felt my body somewhere distant inhale sharply. Kieran's voice reached me as if through water, calling my name. I held on. The puppet's spectral form remained at the corridor's end, unmoving, his vacant eyes fixed upon me.

“What,” I ground out, “is your name?”

The corridor warped. Pain, sharp and vicious, lanced through my skull. My vision blurred, but I pressed onward. The restraints snapped back and hit again, striving to bury the answers beneath a veil of static, attempting to collapse the corridor before I could reach him. I recalled the hesitation in Lucian’s eyes within the forest. I remembered Celeste concealed in my closet, like a frightened child. I thought of Aaron’s vacant stare. I envisioned the lengthy roster of wolves the Alphas had surrendered, wolves Catherine had claimed, hollowed out, revived, and enslaved. A profound stillness settled within me. Then, it ignited.

Power surged through me, no longer a tentative thread or a cautious hand probing a damaged mind. It rose like incandescent silver fire, fierce and blinding, spilling from my core into the corridor until the white walls blazed with its luminescence. The black veins writhed. And snapped. A psychic backlash ripped through the corridor, and the puppet's spectral form jolted as if invisible chains had been torn from his spine.

“You are not hers,” I declared, my voice resonating through the corridor with a power that extinguished the lights overhead, one by one. “You are not Marcus’. You are not a weapon. You are nobody’s puppet.” The puppet’s spectral form trembled. His vacant eyes flickered. Brown. That minuscule human detail nearly shattered something within me. I closed the final distance between us and placed my palm flat against his chest. “Listen to me,” I urged. “If there is anything left of you, anything at all, follow my voice.”

The surrounding darkness convulsed. For a fleeting moment, I sensed Catherine’s restraint attempting to reassert its hold, vicious and absolute, but my fury met it head-on. This time, I didn't circumvent it as I had in Celeste’s mind. I didn't seek a vulnerability. I obliterated it. The corridor shattered, and the world dissolved into a tempest of fractured images: A loading dock under the night sky. A black van. Crates sealed with Wolfsbane. A distorted voice issuing commands. A room with concrete flooring. A man laughing as he counted cash. Jack. The name surfaced with the image so vividly that I latched onto it. Jack had managed logistics. Supplies. Temporary holding. A hideout. I followed the thread.

The storm pulled me sideways, and suddenly, I stood within a memory that reeked of oil, stale beer, and damp concrete. The impression came in fragments rather than clear details: Jack’s voice brushed past me, distant and uncaring, “Just keep them breathing until transport.” Another voice—nervous, “And if one wakes up?” A scoff. “Then you make sure they wish they hadn’t.” The memory trembled under the surge of my anger, threatening to disintegrate. I tightened my grip. “Where?” I demanded. “Show me.” The answer manifested as a direction—a point on a map that burned itself into my awareness. The puppet’s mind began to collapse inward, depleted by the magnitude of what I had extracted.

I returned to myself with a sharp gasp. For an instant, nothing registered. My hand still rested against the puppet's temple, my fingers trembling against his cool skin, but everything else— Kieran stood behind me, his hand raised halfway, as if he had intended to reach for me and never completed the movement.