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Patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 94: A Warning Ignored
The morning sun hung low but sharp in the sky, spilling gold across the cracked pavement of the nearly deserted gas station. This was the quiet, in-between hour of the day — past the bustle of commuters heading to work, yet not quite late enough for the roads to empty under the noon heat. At the edge of town, the station sat lonely and still, the only sound the flick of moths against the humming light fixture and the distant rustle of warm wind through dry grass.
Derek Hale's eyes felt like lead weights, dragging with every blink. His body was a machine that had been running for too long without oil, creaking, straining, threatening to collapse under the weight of exhaustion. Sleep had become a stranger—something he glimpsed on the horizon but never reached. Even now, pulling his car into the wide emptiness of a forgotten station at the edge of Beacon Hills, there was no peace. Just the steady hum of his nerves and the sharp gnaw of unrest grinding away at his chest.
He stepped out, sliding the nozzle into the tank, the hum of gasoline rushing into the car disturbingly loud in the stillness.
The ordinary silence of morning should have been calming. It wasn't. His shoulders ached, every nerve charged. His mind refused peace. For days, Derek had been tracking the Argents — their trucks, their routes, the edges of their patrols. Laura's voice haunted him—her warning, sharp with authority: Leave them. Do not poke at the hornet's nest. He had tried to obey, if only for her sake. But how could he? Not with these hunters in Beacon Hills, not with so much blood between their family and his.
The low rumble of an engine broke his thoughts. A beat-up pickup truck rolled into the station, its headlights cutting across Derek like a spotlight. He didn't need to see the plates. He knew the truck. He had tailed it just last night, watched the men inside patrol the outskirts like hunting dogs.
Three hunters stepped out. Derek's jaw tightened. He could smell the metal of their weapons, the stench of arrogance on their skin.
The oldest moved first. His every step was smooth but deliberate, measured like the line of his voice when it carried across the glowing lot. Calm, but knife-sharp. "Chris Argent says you've been sniffing around where you don't belong. He told us to deliver a message. Stay away."
Derek's hand flexed on the pump handle, but he didn't move. His green eyes locked onto the men, unblinking. "You finished?"
The reply came not in words but action. The youngest — fresh-faced, mid-twenties at most — swaggered past him. He didn't even spare Derek a glance. His elbow jolted out, striking Derek's car window in a single, sharp motion. Glass rained instantly, scattering into a thousand glittering fragments that caught the morning sun like cruel little diamonds.
Derek's nostrils flared. His chest burned with a heat that was all fury and no air. For a heartbeat he swayed on the edge of violence, every instinct screaming to tear the smugness off the guy's face and leave nothing but blood in its place. But he stood there, fists trembling, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
The older hunter caught the kid's shoulder and hissed, "Enough! Chris said just a warning."
But restraint meant nothing now; the warning had already burned to ash. The younger smirked, cruel satisfaction curling his lips as he spat his venom. "The Hales. Always so proud. So untouchable. But tell me — your family wasn't so mighty that night, were they?"
The words hit harder than any weapon. They were gasoline to dry sparks.
Derek snapped.
One instant he was still, a coil of silent threat. The next, he was motion—pure, feral, unrestrained. His fist drove into the guy's gut with the force of a hammer through wood. Air rushed out of the guy in a strangled gasp as his knees buckled. Derek didn't wait. He pivoted, his second blow cracking hard against another hunter's jaw, the sound echoing as the man crashed wildly into the side of the gas pump.
The fight exploded.
Knives flashed quick and merciless in the sunlight. One blade cut across Derek's arm, leaving a jagged streak of scarlet. He hardly felt it. He drove a punch into the man's ribs, his knuckles struck bone, ribs snapping beneath his punch—a sickening, hollow crack. Another hunter swung a blade, but Derek ducked, his body flowing like instinct itself, before he seized the attacker and slammed him across the hood of the beat-up pickup. The impact caved the metal in, a drumbeat of violence that shook the ground.
They kept coming—trained, relentless—but Derek was fury in motion. His fists were fast, his strikes brutal. He fought like a predator who'd had enough of being caged.
Still, it wasn't clean. A knife raked across his side. Another grazed his shoulder. Blood darkened his shirt, but his expression never broke. He fought through the pain, striking harder, faster, until all three hunters were on the ground—groaning, broken, and very far from smug.
Breathing hard, Derek stood over them, chest rising and falling like a storm finally breaking. His knuckles dripped with both his blood and theirs.
Without another word, he walked back to his car. His shattered window sparkled in the sunlight as he climbed inside.
The engine roared to life, and Derek pulled away, leaving the three hunters battered in the dust, their warning delivered back tenfold.
But in the rearview mirror, Derek's own reflection stared back at him. Tired. Bleeding. And more haunted than ever.