My Sister Stole My Mate, And I Let Her Chapter 468 UNKILLABLE

SERAPHINA’S POV

By the time morning arrived, the capture of Jack Draven had transcended mere victory. It became undeniable proof. Proof that he was capable of bleeding, of succumbing, that he was not some insurmountable entity beyond the reach of consequences. He was, after all, a man. A dangerous, corrupted man, but a man nonetheless. And men could be brought low.

The shift within Nightfang was palpable. Representatives from the allied forces, who had spent days laboring under the oppressive weight of public apprehension, now carried themselves with renewed confidence. Messengers traversed the courtyard with a more driven urgency. Scouts exchanged hushed laughter, comparing their tallies of captured foes – a sound born from exhaustion finally finding a stable footing. Even the members of the OTS, stationed at the makeshift base, sent dispatches through Judy’s network that carried a less strained tone than before.

For the first time since Kieran’s declaration, hope ceased to feel like a performance staged for the benefit of others. It genuinely felt within reach. However, this burgeoning hope carried its own peril. While hope could fortify spirits, it also held the potential to breed carelessness.

Consequently, as I entered Nightfang’s interrogation sector with Kieran by my side, I consciously pushed aside the reverberations of the courtyard’s cheers. Instead, I focused on the stark reality that awaited us below.

Jack Draven had been apprehended, not vanquished.

The atmosphere within the dungeon grew heavier with each descending step, the warmth of the daylight fading until only the stark presence of stone, iron, and the lingering scent of past violence remained. Nightfang's holding cells had been fortified prior to Jack's arrival. Alois had meticulously woven suppression wards into the very walls, while Corin had reinforced them with barriers of psychic pressure. Kieran, for his part, had stationed guards outside in such numbers as to resemble a small, formidable army.

Yet, despite the layers of wards and barriers, as we neared the final threshold, a palpable darkness emanated from the other side of the reinforced steel. It pushed against the metal, a presence that felt neither purely psychic nor of the wolf aura, but something more substantial, more ravenous.

Kieran halted beside me. “You feel that?”

“Yes.”

His jaw clenched. “We won’t linger longer than necessary.”

I met his gaze, and for a fleeting moment, the oppressive gloom of the dungeon dissolved beneath the intensity of his eyes. His fury remained, not the explosive rage of Jack, but a contained, silent intensity that rendered Kieran significantly more formidable. Jack had attacked our home, our allies, our people. He had threatened me countless times, but I knew the thought weighing most heavily on Kieran’s mind was not that. Jack had proven himself a tool for Catherine and Marcus, implying that every breath he took might still partly belong to them.

“I won’t be reckless,” I assured him.

Kieran’s expression softened, though only marginally. “I know.”

He then pushed open the door.

Jack Draven was seated in the interrogation chair at the room’s center, his wrists secured by silver restraints, his ankles fixed to the floor, and his torso bound by layered bands etched with Alois’s potent inscriptions. Bruises marred one side of his face, and dried blood traced a line near his temple. Ashar’s claw marks, still slow to heal under the suppressants, crisscrossed his shoulder. But his eyes… his eyes held a disturbing emptiness. A darkness had taken root behind them, so profound it felt like gazing into an abyss.

His gaze first fixed upon Kieran. “Alpha Kieran,” he drawled, his voice laced with mocking familiarity. “This must bring back some rather… interesting memories, wouldn’t you agree?”

Aside from a low growl, Kieran offered no reply. Jack let out a dry chuckle. “I suppose I’m the only one indulging in nostalgia.”

His focus then shifted to me, and a smile spread across his face. “There she is,” he rasped, his voice rough. “The little silver miracle.”

I approached him deliberately, keeping my own power subdued beneath my skin. Stopping a few feet from his chair, I commented, “You appear to be in somewhat disrepair.”

He emitted a low, unpleasant laugh. “And you, my dear, look utterly triumphant. You truly believe you have achieved victory?”

“We captured you alive.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” His grin widened. “You merely seized a vessel.”

The implication of his words hung heavy in the air. Alois, standing near the wall with Corin, frowned deeply. Ethan’s stance stiffened by the doorway. Kieran’s voice dropped to a dangerous low. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Jack ignored him, his gaze locked onto me with an unnerving, feverish intensity. “You feel it, don’t you?” he whispered, his eyes burning with dark amusement. “That’s why you’re treading so cautiously. That’s why your precious power hasn’t lashed out and clawed its way into my mind yet.” His smile stretched unnervingly. “Go on, silver wolf. Give it a try.”

Corin’s warning echoed in my mind: ‘Careful.’

Slowly, I extended my awareness towards Jack. The instant my power made contact with the periphery of his mind, a surge of alien darkness erupted – sentient and far more ancient than mere instinct. Flashes flooded my perception, distorted fragments that defied coherent memory: Jack laughing amidst a spray of blood; Marcus’s hand gripping the back of his neck; Catherine’s voice whispering unintelligible words; a ritualistic circle beneath his feet; something inky black spreading through his veins like a suffocating tide.

My power recoiled instinctively, before I consciously withdrew it. The room snapped back into sharp focus. Kieran’s hand was suddenly at my waist, a grounding presence. “Sera.”

“I’m alright,” I managed, exhaling.

A cackle from Jack echoed through the room.

“No, you are not.”

I glanced back at him, finally grasping why his aura had felt aberrant. This wasn't merely the typical corruption that Catherine's machinations left behind.

Jack’s very consciousness seemed submerged, buried under such profound layers of darkness that his human form was nearly lost within it.

“You’ve been changed,” I stated softly.

Jack cocked his head. “Enhanced.”

“Is that what Catherine told you while she was experimenting on you?”

His grin faltered as he leaned forward, his restraints limiting his movement. “You believe your silver wolf and psychic abilities make you some kind of savior. But there are forces beyond your capacity to mend.”

The oppressive darkness in the chamber intensified with his assertion.

“I’m more inclined to dismantle you than repair you,” I retorted, my voice chillingly calm.

He emitted another chuckle, a dry, grating sound. “Go ahead. The more you inflict on me, the more potent it becomes. Torment nourishes it. Fear fuels it. Fury empowers it.”

His eyes gleamed with unsettling intensity. “You could subject me to days of torture, and all it would achieve is amplifying my condition.”

I raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Is that a dare?”

Jack’s smile grew sharper, yet his scent shifted. Beneath the undertones of blood, smoke, and dark power, a faint thread of apprehension began to weave itself.

“There is no counter to what resides within me,” he declared stubbornly. “It is now intrinsic. My own. You can restrain me, starve me, dismember me, and it will be inconsequential.”

His voice deepened to a conspiratorial whisper. “Even if you end my life, Catherine and Marcus possess the means to resurrect me.”

An unnerving stillness descended upon the room.

Jack observed our reactions to his words, a clear look of satisfaction on his face.

“In essence,” he breathed, his eyes alight with a fervent, almost maniacal gleam, “I am immortal.”

For a prolonged moment, silence reigned.

Then, a small, disbelieving laugh escaped my lips.

Jack’s gaze sharpened, fixing on me. “What?”

“You actually believed their lies,” I responded.

His expression hardened, bristling with indignation. “It is the absolute truth.”

“Is it?” I mused aloud. “You don't just desire us to perceive you as invincible. You need to convince yourself of it, too.”

His jaw clenched involuntarily.

I advanced another step toward Jack.

“You are aware of Catherine’s methods,” I continued, my voice steady. “You understand what her concept of resurrection truly entails. You’ve witnessed her puppets. You’ve seen the remnants of those whose souls she’s torn asunder, stitching obedience into the void left behind.”

“Be silent.”

There it was – a visible fissure in his facade.

I softened my tone. “If you perish, Jack, Catherine will not restore you.”

His breathing hitched, becoming ragged.

“She will merely exploit what remains of you.”

“Shut up!” he roared, the sound filled with fury.

“She will extract your wolf if it serves her purpose. She will preserve any facet of you that proves useful. Your fury. Your might. Even your name, should Marcus find it convenient. But you?”

I leaned in slightly, ensuring he could perceive the unwavering conviction in my eyes. “You will not emerge from her machinations whole. Whatever is left will bear no resemblance to you. In fact,” I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in, “I doubt much of ‘you’ even remains.”

The oppressive darkness surrounding him writhed and pulsed with violent energy.

With a guttural roar, Jack lunged forward, his restraints straining against the surge of power. Yet, the chair held firm.

For one horrifying instant, the entity dwelling within him clawed its way perilously close to the surface.

His eyes turned completely black. Dark veins pulsed visibly along his neck. The very room seemed to tremble under the sheer force of the outburst.

“You understand nothing!” he bellowed, his voice strained and cracking amidst the tempest of his rage. “My father requires me!”

“As a convenient scapegoat, perhaps?” I countered with a dismissive shrug. “Why else would he permit your capture?”

“He did not permit this,” Jack spat out venomously. “I defied his orders to engage you.”

I let out a scoff of disbelief. “You honestly believe Marcus would be oblivious to you mustering forces under his very nose? Come now, Jack, you aren’t quite that dim-witted.”

The ensuing silence was more deafening than any outburst.

Jack’s features contorted. For a fleeting moment, his practiced arrogance evaporated, revealing something raw, ugly, and far more vulnerable than I had anticipated.

Then, the encroaching darkness surged back, reasserting its dominance and concealing the momentary lapse.

“Get the hell out,” he rasped, his voice strained.

I held his gaze for another beat, then turned away.

Outside the cell, the heavy metallic thud of the door sealing echoed behind us.

Only then did I release the breath I had been holding captive.

Kieran was immediately at my side, his hand finding mine and intertwining.

“That darkness,” he commented, his voice low.

“It’s more than just a defense mechanism,” I replied. “It’s consuming him, or he’s fueling it. I’m uncertain which.”

Corin’s expression was etched with concern. “Regardless, he represents an extreme danger.”

My gaze drifted down the corridor toward the heavily guarded exit.

For a brief instant, my thoughts turned to my mother, held captive somewhere within Catherine’s grasp. I envisioned the countless victims still sequestered away in hidden facilities, their bodies and souls reduced to mere resources for Catherine’s insatiable ambition.

“And bait,” I whispered, the realization chilling me to the bone.

I met Kieran’s eyes, which were already fixed on mine.

He comprehended my unspoken thought before I voiced it.

“Dispatch the message to Marcus and Catherine,” he instructed, his voice firm.

My own voice settled into a cold, measured tone. “Inform them that if they wish to see Jack and the captured defectors returned alive, they will arrange an exchange: Margaret Lockwood and every single surviving victim currently in their possession.”

Corin raised his eyebrows slightly. “And should they refuse?”

I cast one last look back at the impenetrable, sealed cell door.