Revenge to the Alpha Mate novel Chapter 256

Chapter 256: Chapter 256

Aurora ’s Perspective

Through the arm locked around his throat, I could feel his pulse jackhammering, wild and frantic. A choked, gurgling sound escaped him, his face flushing, glasses askew. The scent of fear—sharp, sour, purely human terror—poured from him, overwhelming the smells of disinfectant and dust. Good. Fear was good. Fearful people told the truth.

"Don’t move! A sound, and I snap your neck!" I hissed, my voice low and guttural, carrying an unconscious, predatory rasp. "Talk! Where is this?! Who are you people?! Why am I here?!"

"Mmph... grrh..." He struggled weakly, fingers clawing at my forearm. I eased the pressure just enough for him to breathe and speak, but kept my hand clamped over his mouth.

"Talk!" I tightened my grip for a split second.

"D-don’t kill me!" he whimpered, the words muffled. "I... I’m just a researcher! I just work here! Please..."

A researcher? My gut twisted. Not a kidnapper’s den?

"What researcher? Researching what? What *is* this place?!" I demanded, my ears straining for sounds beyond the door. The alarm seemed to have shifted focus, but the footsteps hadn’t entirely faded.

"This... this is the Pandora Life Sciences Institute..." he gasped, speaking rapidly, desperate to distance himself. "Privately funded... research into... atypical humanoid genetics and physiology... I’m just a standard bio-researcher, I swear! My name is Eric Milton, I have ID! I don’t know anything! I just run tests, analyze data, collect a paycheck!"

Pandora Institute? Humanoid research? My mind reeled. *Humanoid*... that meant *us*. Werewolves. Others hiding in plain sight. A chill shot straight down my spine. This wasn’t random. It was a targeted capture! For *research*?!

"Was I brought here for ’research’ too?" My voice was glacial, my arm tightening again.

"I... I don’t know! I really don’t! Projects are compartmentalized, high clearance! I just heard... heard there was a new specimen recently acquired. I have no access! Let me go, please... I have a wife, two kids..." He was on the verge of tears, trembling violently.

Just then, footsteps echoed in the hall outside, stopping right at the door. A rough male voice, laced with impatience, came through the metal. "Dr. Milton? You okay in there? Monitoring flagged abnormal vibration in your sector’s ventilation. Alarm tripped."

Every muscle in my body locked. I pressed my hand harder over his mouth, my eyes boring into his wide, terrified ones, screaming a silent threat: *One wrong word and you’re dead.*

Dr. Eric Milton—if that was his real name—shuddered violently. Then, under the force of my murderous glare, he yelled toward the door. His voice was strained, distorted by fear and my grip, but loud enough.

"Get lost! Don’t interrupt the procedure! It’s... it’s the old ductwork coming loose! I’ve stabilized it! Damn system’s too sensitive! I’m at a critical point!"

Silence from the other side for a beat. Then the gruff voice muttered, "Fine, Doc. Suit yourself. Alarm’s still live. Sweep’s ongoing." The footsteps retreated.

I exhaled shakily but didn’t relax. I removed my hand from his mouth but kept my arm around his neck. With my free hand, I quickly patted down his lab coat, pulling a plastic ID badge from a pocket. His photo. Eric J. Milton. Senior Bio-Genetics PhD. It looked official. A terrified, caught-in-the-middle researcher.

"Listen, Eric," I said, softening my tone a fraction but leaving the threat intact. "I don’t want to hurt you. Or your family. But I’m getting out of here. Now. Tell me the way out. Every camera, every guard post, every exit you know. Don’t lie."

He panted, conflict and fear warring in his eyes behind his glasses. "Out... it’s difficult. We’re on Sub-level Three. Heavy security. Cameras everywhere. Patrols with tasers and... and special weapons. For the... uh... for ’specimens.’ Every door needs keycard or code. Some need retinal scans. You... you can’t get out. Really."

Sub-level Three. Special weapons. This was worse than I’d imagined.

"A phone? An outside line? Internet access?" I pushed, clinging to a thread of hope.

He shook his head, despair etched on his face. "Internal landlines only. Isolated network. Physically air-gapped to prevent leaks. All comms are monitored. You... you can’t call out."

Damn it. Completely sealed off. A frontal assault was suicide, especially now. I looked at his badge. Maybe it could open some doors? But he’d said some needed codes or retinal scans.

"Please," Eric begged, tears welling. "Don’t kill me... I... I can try to help. But you can’t hurt me. Don’t drag me in too deep. They’ll find out. I’ll lose everything..."

Help? I scrutinized his fearful face. Was this a trick? Or a desperate bid for self-preservation?

"How?" I asked cautiously.

"I... I can get you out of this core lab zone. In... in a bio-sample transport crate. You’re small. Should fit. I can wheel you past a few checkpoints to the outer bio-waste processing area. They... they have a dedicated refuse truck. Comes before dawn. Takes waste to the external incinerator." He spoke fast, eyes darting. "You... you could jump from the truck once it’s off Institute grounds, on a remote stretch of road. It’s... it’s the only way I can think of."

Hide in a crate? Get wheeled out? Jump from a garbage truck? The plan sounded insane, riddled with holes. But... what choice did I have? Fighting was death. Waiting was death.

I stared, trying to see past his panic. Was he genuinely trying to save his own skin by helping me? Or laying another trap?

My gaze fell on his wallet, which had fallen open during the struggle. In a clear sleeve was a photo. A smiling blonde woman with two young kids, no older than ten, on a sun-drenched beach. A family.

Maybe... he was just a terrified man, trying to protect his ordinary life.

A gamble. A huge one. Betting on his humanity. Betting his fear was real.

I gritted my teeth. No time to second-guess.

"Fine." I released his neck but stayed between him and the door, poised to strike. "I promise. Get me out, and I won’t hurt you. I’ll do my best not to implicate you. But if this is a trick..." I bared my teeth, the threat clear even in human form.

He flinched, nodding furiously. "No trick! I swear! I just... I want this over!"

He scrambled to his feet, righting his glasses, pale and shaky. He scanned the room—a "spare equipment storage" he’d called it—and hurried to a corner stacked with white hard-plastic crates bearing biohazard symbols and labels reading *Perishable Specimen - Cryogenic Transport*. He selected the largest, opening it. Empty, lined with soft buffer material and the ghostly outlines of cold-packs. "You... you’ll have to curl up. It’ll be tight. Cold. I’ll cover you with some discarded packing material."

He looked at me, stranded in this horrific place. His expression was complex—fear, and something that might have been pity. "Be careful. After the main gate, there’s a remote stretch by the river, about twenty minutes out. No cameras. Best chance to jump. After that... you’re on your own."

I nodded, throat too dry for words. The plan was flimsy, but it was hope. "Thanks," I croaked.

He managed a weak, grimace-like smile, then pushed the empty crate away and hurried out. The heavy door thudded shut.

Alone. Surrounded by blood-stink and silence. I hid as instructed, behind stacked empty crates and piles of thick black trash bags. The stench was worse here, but it was cover. I curled up, trying to calm my racing heart, ears straining, body aching with cold and bruises.

Time dragged. Each second an eternity. Only the low hum of industrial freezers broke the silence. I stared at the loading door, mentally rehearsing the moves: sneaking onto the truck, hiding during the ride, the jump.

Exhaustion from the adrenaline crash tugged at me. My eyelids grew heavy. My injured hand and myriad scrapes throbbed. *Don’t sleep. Don’t.*

Just as the silence and the stench threatened to overwhelm me, I caught a new scent. Faint. Threaded through the blood and chemicals. Cloyingly sweet, like flowers, with a chemical bite... unfamiliar.

Where was it coming from? I sniffed the air, trying to locate the source.

Too late.

The scent seemed to solidify, rushing into my nostrils, straight to my brain. A wave of violent dizziness hit. The room spun, blurred. Strength drained from my limbs like water.

*Trap!*

I tried to stand, to scream, to run. My body refused, going limp, sliding down against the bags. Darkness swarmed at the edges of my vision. In the last sliver of sight, through a gap in the bags, I saw the processing room’s side door swing open silently.

Dr. Eric Milton stood there. Gone was the fear, the panic, the false pity. His face was a blank, clinical slate, marked only by a cold, observant smile. He watched me collapse, a small remote-like device in his hand, his thumb resting on a button.

He was no terrified family man.

It was all an act.

And I, a complete idiot, had fallen for it. The wallet photo. The trembling voice. The ludicrous escape plan.

The last thing I heard was the sound of heavy boots approaching, and Eric’s flat, detached voice, as if noting a routine result:

"Specimen A-017. Escape attempt terminated. Recovery successful. Sedative G-7 efficacy confirmed."