FATED BUT DANGEROUS

PULL

CHAPTER 4

CAEL’S POV

The chains rubbed raw against my skin every time I shifted, but I didn’t dare look away. Draven’s fists, the stranger’s defiance—it all blurred into a rhythm of impact and breath, a brutal storm I was forced to witness.

I should’ve closed my eyes. I should’ve shut it out, spared myself the sight. But I couldn’t. Not when my life dangled in the outcome.

Draven was winning. For a while, he always was. His strikes were merciless, practiced, the kind that reminded me why no one ever stood against him and lived long enough to tell it.

The words he threw around was piercing and breaking skins but the stranger seems immune to it.

Each time the stranger staggered, I swore it would be the last. I braced myself for the end, for the weight of death crawling back over me.

But he kept rising.

Every time Draven knocked him down, he pushed himself back up. Bloodied, unsteady, yet still standing.

I didn't want him to fall, to lose. I had hope that he will not lose to Draven.

And I hated myself for it—for the way something inside me clung to that stubbornness, for the way hope crept in like a thief through the cracks of my fear.

The air stung my lungs, thick with sweat and tension. And without thinking, I reached for that hidden part of me. The one I rarely touched. The one that let me glimpse what others could not.

I turned it toward Draven.

Nothing. No clear path, no shadow, no light. Just emptiness. A future that refused to open to me. My breath faltered. That had never happened before.

And then the world shifted.

Draven hit the ground. The stranger pinned him, his chest heaving, his grip unyielding. Draven struggled, but he didn’t rise.

I should’ve felt relief. Maybe I did. But something else slid under my skin, sharp and curious. I watched, I waited and dared myself to not cloak myself in the hope that is slowly creeping into my heart, when the stranger finally turned his gaze toward me.

Our eyes met.

I froze. The power inside me reacted without my asking, reaching for him the way it had with Draven. Only—nothing. The same emptiness. A wall I couldn’t pass, a thread cut before I even touched it.

A shiver ran through me, but not from fear.

It was something else. A trail of heat that coiled low in my chest, something nameless and foreign, pulling me toward him even as I fought to breathe.

I didn’t know him. He was nobody to me. And yet, chained and broken as I was, I couldn’t look away.

But he looked away first, his face set in an emotion I couldn't put a name to.

I kept on staring at him, using the opportunity to look at him thoroughly before dropping my gaze to Draven only to find his eyes on me.

He has a knowing look on him and my body grew tense. He smirked, turned his gaze to the stranger. I looked at the stranger too.

His chest rose and fell against Draven’s, his breath heavy but steady, unyielding. For a moment, I thought it was over—until Draven snarled and jerked beneath him, twisting, his body arching like a beast refusing defeat. Chains rattled somewhere inside my head, echoing my own restraint.

The stranger fought back, teeth clenched, fury spilling from every movement. My pulse stuttered. For half a heartbeat, I thought he might win, that the stranger’s grip would slip.

But it didn’t.

The stranger’s hold only shifted, sharp and merciless, forcing Draven back down until the fight seemed to drain out of him, leaving nothing but that raw, ragged breathing.

For a moment, silence filled the cell—thick, heavy, trembling with unaccepted defeat and beaten pride.

Then his eyes returned to me.

“Are you all right?” His voice was rough, raw from the fight, but steady enough to cut through the ringing in my ears.

My lips parted, but no words came. Instead, I forced the smallest nod, my neck stiff, every motion heavy. It was enough. Enough to make his shoulders shift, his eyes drag from me.

I followed them, saw him turn toward Draven. The monster was still pinned beneath him, glaring up, defiance burning even through the blood smeared across his face. The two of them stared at each other—silent, taut, as if I’d slipped into a battle of wills I couldn’t understand.

Then, slow, deliberate, the stranger pressed his hand flat against Draven’s chest. A warning. A claim. His voice low, almost a growl.

“I’m standing up now.”

Draven’s lips twisted, a broken chuckle clawing free. He didn’t fight it. He didn’t resist. He only watched as the weight lifted from him.

The stranger rose, unfolding to his full height, his body shifting instinctively between me and Draven. Shielding. Guarding.

But Draven… Draven stood too. Not with shame, not with surrender. No. He rose with pride sharp in his spine, his movements measured, controlled, as if his defeat hadn’t touched him at all. His eyes glinted, cruel humor dancing there, wicked pride curling his mouth into something that wasn’t a smile, not really. His gaze slid from me to the stranger, back and forth, until his laugh cracked through the silence.

“This isn’t over ,” he said, venom thick in the words. Then he spat, wiped his mouth, “I’m not done with you.” his gaze snapped to me, cold, cruel. “Or her.”, he rasped before turning away, shoulders rigid, honor somehow intact despite the ruin.

The whole scene instilled a chilling fear into me, Draven sounded like a wonderful animal and what's that they say about wounded animals.

Lost in thought, I flinched when the stranger moved closer, but he didn’t stop. He came to me slowly, as if careful not to startle, and crouched low. His hand reached for the chain, then paused—hesitant—before brushing against my wrist.

The touch burned. Not like fire, not like pain, but something sharper, stranger—electric. It raced up my arm, spread through my chest, tangled itself in the very breath I tried to catch. My eyes widened, meeting his, but the shock didn’t let go.

He helped me up, steady and quiet, and for a second I thought he might keep on holding me—give me space to breathe, to think, to pretend I wasn’t a thing pulled from the edge of death.

But then he looked away, took few hesitant steps back like he didn’t know what to do with me or himself. He scanned the cell once, twice, like he was counting exits or excuses. I watched him move and I felt stupid for expecting a hero.

Instead, he only straightened and said, soft and raw from the fight, “I’ll see what I can do to help your umm, you.”

Half promise, half question. Then he stepped back. He didn’t wait much longer. He turned and left.

The door shut. Sound ate his heels. I was left with the chains and the bright, stupid ache of lacking the ability to not ask for anything.

I wish I was able to say something. Anything. A name. A curse. A thank you. A request—please, help me with the bullet—please, tie my wound— please, set me free from these chains—please, don’t let him come back— please,take me away from here.

But my mouth made nothing useful. A slow, useless nod was all I had managed, and now, my head filled with the kind of self-reproach that tastes like the metallic aftertaste of blood.

Anger rushed through my body, I was mad at my helplessness, for not trying enough.

I could have…. I could have done something, say anything?

Why didn’t you try? I internally screamed at myself, hard enough that the thought sounded like a slap. You i***t. You could’ve ask … what's his name?

You could’ve asked for his name. You could’ve asked for help.

The truth throbbed against that anger: I couldn’t. Words stuck where the bullet had lodged. Every breath pulled the world in jagged and loud. My body was a map of bruises—color blooming under skin, ribs whining with each shallow inhale. The silver slug in my body hummed like a small, hot thing, reminding me it was still very much there. I was barely held together by muscle and stubbornness. Asking required more than what I had.

I felt small and furious at myself for being helpless. It was a private rage, the kind that would have tightened my hands on the chain until my knuckles went white.

And here was the other bitter coil of it: even if I could speak, what would I ask? How do you ask a stranger who just fought your monster to help you carry the weight of what’s been done to you? How do you ask someone to fix a body he didn’t break?

I counted the practical things instead, the ones that didn’t need a name. The bullet had to come out, or at least be tended. Infection would make a slow death quick and cruel. The bruises needed rest and clean. I needed to stop the bleeding under the skin that kept knotting into fresh pain. Escape—if escape was still an option—required planning, not pleading. And planning needed strength, and right now my strength had been auctioned off in pieces.

Draven had left like a scab on the air — proud and venomous. He’d meant the words he spat. He’d come back angrier. That was the shape of the next hours: watch, wait, survive. Maybe the stranger would come back tonight with bandages and a look that meant he will help. Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, the fact sat in my chest like a stone: I was still soft and broken. I could not do it alone.

The hopelessness of it all slammed into me so hard that I winced. I don't even know what to do anymore, the thoughts seems to highlight every weakness of my situation right now.

So I sat there and cursed myself instead. Hard. Quiet. I wanted to throw the chain at the wall and scream until the guards came and killed me because at least that would’ve been honest. Instead I clung to a tiny, useless plan: breathe. Don’t pass out. Don’t beg.

Then I heard it—footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried. Each one slamming dread deeper into my chest.

My thoughts started running wild again, “I’m not done with you, or her”, he had threatened.

Was he coming back so soon?