Alpha's Discarded Luna (Talia) novel Chapter 296

< Alpha’s Discarded Luna

Chapter 293

Aires’ POV

#2 Bom:d

The sports car screeches to a violent halt against the curb outside the elite residential district, the tires smoking against the wet asphalt.

I throw the door open and leap out into the freezing midnight rain, leaving the engine idling behind me. My lungs burn for air, my chest heaving with a frantic, suffocating panic that makes my heart hammer like a trapped beast against my ribs. Nick’s final, bloody confession echoes inside my skull like a ticking bomb.

I love you, Imema… always have…

The thought of her sitting entirely unprotected in her luxury apartment, completely oblivious to the fact that her lifelong confidant is a depraved rogue who just tried to destroy Talia, drives my wolf into a state of blind, frantic urgency. I sprint across the manicured lawns, my heavy boots pounding against the stone pavement as I rush toward the private courtyard gate that leads to her ground-floor veranda. I need to get to her. I need to pull her out of the dark before any lingering underground mercenaries shift their crosshairs

onto her innocence

+2 Bonus

< Chapter 293

I reach the tall, decorative black iron gate, my breathing a ragged, thunderous gasp in the quiet night. I extend my right hand, my fingers spreading out, ready to slam against the heavy iron latch and burst into the courtyard.

But just as the tips of my fingers graze the freezing metal of the handle, a sudden, violent jolt of pure, instinctual terror strikes me straight in the soul.

Every single nerve ending in my body turns to solid ice. My wolf inside me rears back with a sharp, defensive snarl, baring its teeth, violently digging its claws into my consciousness to pull me back from the threshold. It is a

primitive, supernatural warning so absolute that it paralyzes

my arm mid-air, forcing my hand to freeze just millimeters away from the iron latch.

Halt.

The invisible command screams through my bloodline,

sending a violent shiver down my spine. My hyper-acute

senses hum with a sudden, suffocating clarity, explicitly

reminding me how those exact same raw, unyielding instincts

had forced me to stop outside Nick’s penthouse door earlier

tonight.

2/5

15:28

Those instincts ha

at the 12th intersection. If I had ignored them then, she would be gone. Now, the beast is screaming the exact same warning at this gate, telling me that the reality beyond the iron bars is not what my blind, desperate mind assumes it to

I slowly lower my hand, my fingers trembling as I swallow down the rising lump of panic in my throat. I mask my scent entirely, dropping my heavy Alpha aura until I am nothing but a silent ghost slipping through the midnight shadows.

I don’t press the intercom. I don’t make a sound. Moving with a quiet, calculated precision, I slip over the low brick wall of the courtyard, dropping soundlessly into the thick grass, and creep toward the deep shadows of the stone veranda.

The wind shifts, carrying the faint, muffled sound of a voice drifting through the cracked-open glass French doors of her

living room.

I press my back flat against the cold exterior wall, completely melting into the darkness of the heavy ivy vines, and tilt my

head closer to the gap in the glass. The interior lights are dim, casting a long, narrow strip of dirty gold light across the wet stone tiles of the porch. I take a slow, silent breath,

xpecting to hear the frantic, weeping murmurs of a

a terrified

through the silence.

It is Imema’s voice. But it is completely devoid of the sweet, fragile, and vulnerable purr she has always used to look up at me. The soft, helpless tone that I have spent years trying to shield from the world has evaporated entirely. Her voice is low, sharp, and tactical, dripping with a venomous authority

that makes my blood run dead cold in an instant.

I narrow my eyes, my vision focusing through the crack in the French doors. She is pacing the floor of her pristine living

room, her ruined silk dress from the gala whispering against

the rug, a sleek satellite phone pressed tightly to her ear.

“I don’t care about your excuses, it is already handled,”

Imema snaps into the receiver, her tone carrying a chilling,

calculated malice that shifts the entire atmospheric

pressure in my chest. She stops her pacing, turning her

back to the window as she stares at her own reflection in a

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