Derek's POV
The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as Ryan's fist connects with my jaw for the third time in as many minutes. The basement of pack headquarters—once a storage area for ceremonial items—has been transformed into a makeshift torture chamber. Silver-edged instruments lie on a nearby table, some still coated with my blood.
"Where are they meeting?" Ryan demands, grabbing my hair and yanking my head back. "Where is the Western Stone gathering happening?"
I spit blood onto the concrete floor, a bitter laugh escaping my split lips. "If you have to ask, you haven't been listening."
Ryan's response is another blow, this one to my ribs. Something cracks, sending white-hot pain through my torso. The silver-infused restraints binding me to the chair burn against my wrists and a
