Revenge to the Alpha Mate novel Chapter 259

Chapter 259: Chapter 259

Aurora’s Perspective

Darkness.

A thick, viscous dark, cloying with a chemical sweetness.

My head felt like it had been stuffed into a rusty blender—a dull, throbbing ache radiating from the base of my skull, a persistent buzzing filling the void. Consciousness was a weight, dragging me down into murky water, something pulling me deeper just as I tried to surface.

Groggy. Muffled sounds, as if through layers of heavy blankets.

The steady beep of machinery? And... voices?

I fought to open my eyes. My eyelids were slabs of lead.

Light—harsh, blinding white—needled into the sliver of vision I managed.

A shape moved into view. Lab coat. Glasses. Eric Milton.

That bastard. That lying, treacherous son of a bitch.

His face loomed close. I could smell him—the sharp tang of disinfectant, stale Americano, and beneath it, the nauseating, sweaty scent of a fanatic’s excitement. He was smiling. It chilled me to the bone, every pore screaming *danger*. It wasn’t a friendly smile, or a happy one. It was a leer. Obsessive. Greedy. The look of a collector appraising a rare, precious find.

His eyes gleamed behind his lenses like a miser’s over treasure.

Then, touch.

A hand, sheathed in thin latex, brushed my cheek.

I wanted to vomit.

The touch was light. Almost... gentle? Like handling fragile porcelain. The cool, slick rubber traced the line of my cheekbone, down the side of my face, even tucking a sweat-dampened strand of hair from my forehead.

*Gentle, my ass.*

A wave of revulsion shot down my spine, raising every hair on my body. My stomach twisted. Fear and absolute disgust screamed for me to shriek, to rip that hand off, to sink my teeth into his throat. But my body was a useless, boneless thing. I couldn’t twitch a finger. My throat produced only a weak, whimpering sigh.

He seemed to note my minute flinch, the sudden tension in my limp muscles.

That revolting face leaned closer. The manic light in his eyes flared, burning brighter.

A metal table.

Then: immobility. My wrists, ankles, waist, even... my neck. Secured by sturdy, padded restraints. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but utterly inescapable.

Worst of all: my head. A cold, padded metal halo clamped it in place, immobilizing it completely. I could only stare straight up.

Up at the blinding glare of an operating lamp, and a silver-grey ceiling.

Panic, this time, was more concrete, more vicious. I was strapped down. Like a frog pinned for dissection. Like an insect in a display case.

What were they going to do? Cut me open? Inject me? Shock me? The gleam of instrument trays hovered at the edge of my vision, laden with unrecognizable, menacing tools.

I wanted to scream, to struggle, to *shift*, to tear this all apart with tooth and claw! The restraints didn’t budge. My body was still weak. My wolf felt distant, muffled behind a thick membrane—I could feel it raging deep down, but I couldn’t reach it. And with my head clamped like this, trying to shift might snap my neck.

Helplessness coiled around my heart like cold vines, tightening.

*Mom... Dad... where are you? Please... I’m scared... so scared...*

Tears escaped, tracing cold, wet paths into my hairline. I’d never longed for home more—for my soft bed, for my mom’s nagging that hid her worry, for my dad’s silent, solid hugs, even for Lex’s stupid, punchable face. *Please...*