Revenge to the Alpha Mate novel Chapter 271

Chapter 271: Chapter 271

Aurora ’s Perspective

The roar of the engine felt like it would tear the quiet night apart. Lex drove as if we were in a NASCAR race, every turn threatening to lift the tires off the asphalt. I sat in the passenger seat, fingers digging into the leather, knuckles white.

In the back, Mother sat ramrod straight, her profile in the fleeting streetlights looking like a marble statue—tense and unyielding. Father held her hand tightly, his silence heavier than any words.

The hospital’s harsh, sterile lights and the smell of antiseptic hit us like a physical wall.

We practically ran through the automatic doors into the emergency zone. The hallway was already occupied—Uncle Jacob paced like a caged bear, each heavy step seeming to crack the tiles beneath. Aunt Celena was curled in a cold plastic chair, hands clenched together on her knees, her eyes fixed on some distant point, her face ghostly pale. Seeing us, Jacob rushed over.

"Ethan! Lily!" His voice was gravelly. "They’re not here yet! The ambulance said they’re en route, but they’re not here!" His eyes were bloodshot, anxiety radiating from him. Celena stood up, her lips trembling, unable to form words.

"Steady, Jacob." Father stepped forward, gripping his shoulder, his voice calm, though I knew the worry churning beneath it. "Do we have a contact? The route?"

"It’s a pack medical van, with an escort." Jacob forced a deep breath, with little effect. "Should be any minute... should be..."

Every second of waiting stretched into an eternity, a slow torture. The hallway was eerily quiet, only the faint hum of distant announcements and our own held breaths.

I leaned against the cool wall, feeling my heart hammer against my ribs. Lex stood silently just behind me, a steady shadow. Mother and Father spoke in low tones, trying to piece things together, but their eyes kept darting to the entrance.

Then, we heard it.

The faint, then swelling, then piercing wail of an ambulance siren, cutting through the night’s silence like a blade. Everyone froze for a split second, then surged toward the hospital entrance as one.

The screech of tires, the *thump* of doors, the quick, professional calls of medical personnel all merged. A dark green ambulance marked with a private medical logo backed in swiftly. The rear doors flew open.

A gurney was rolled out. A figure lay on it, covered by a white sheet, face obscured...

My heart plummeted.

"Coming through! Critical patient!" a medic shouted.

We instinctively parted, but all eyes were locked on that sheet. As the gurney passed right in front of us, a jostle or a coincidence caused the oxygen mask over the patient’s face to shift slightly, revealing the lower half—the jaw and chin.

A vicious, fresh scar ran diagonally from the corner of the mouth toward the ear, the stitches like an ugly centipede.

*Not Brett!*

Hope and fear clutched me simultaneously. *Where was Brett?*

"Hey! Over here! Give me a hand with these damn steps!"

A voice so familiar it made my nose sting instantly, laced with impatience and obvious exhaustion, came from the back of the ambulance.

I whirled around.

Brett was maneuvering himself out of the ambulance. He wore oversized grey sweatpants and a too-big T-shirt someone must have given him, a thermal blanket draped haphazardly over his shoulders. His left arm was thickly bandaged from shoulder to forearm, secured in a sling across his chest. Dark spots of blood seeped through the gauze. His face was marked with scrapes and bruises, his hair a wild nest, his lips chapped.

But he was *standing*. He looked at us, at our rushing group, and even managed a lopsided, utterly *Brett* grin, showing his teeth—thank God, still all there.

"All this fuss?" His voice was hoarse but held strength. "Just a few scrapes, really."

The next moment, we were all on him.

Uncle Jacob reached him first, his huge hands clamping onto Brett’s shoulders, looking him up and down as if verifying he wasn’t a mirage. "You... you little..." The tough man’s voice caught, his eyes instantly glistening.

Aunt Celena came from behind, wrapping her arms tightly around Brett’s uninjured side, burying her face against his back. Her shoulders shook with silent, heartbreaking sobs.

Mother and Father closed in too. Mother’s hand gently brushed the unbruised side of Brett’s face, checking the marks. Father gave his back a firm thump. "Welcome home, kid," he said, his voice unmistakably thick.

Me? I squeezed in from the other side, alongside Aunt Celena, and threw my arms around Brett in a crushing hug. My arms locked around his waist, my face pressed against his T-shirt, which smelled of antiseptic, dirt, and a faint tang of blood. The solid feel of him, the warmth, the familiar-yet-altered scent of a young male wolf.

"You idiot..." I cursed into his shirt, my voice choked. "You damn idiot... you scared us half to death..."

Brett stiffened at first, seemingly unaccustomed to such open emotional assault. But slowly, he relaxed. His free right hand came up to pat my back clumsily, then ruffled Aunt Celena’s hair.

"Alright, alright... I’m fine, see?" he tried for a light tone, but I caught a hint of a crack in it. Then, as if remembering something, his tone shifted back to its annoying default. "Hey, you all crowded around Scarface back there. Couldn’t you tell it wasn’t me by scent? Noses on vacation?"

It broke the heaviness a little. Uncle Jacob wiped his face, laughing gruffly. "Brat! Who was thinking about scent then? Our hearts were in our throats!"

We surrounded him like a protective shield around reclaimed treasure, slowly moving him toward the ER. Until a calm, faintly Northern-accented voice spoke beside us:

He met my eyes, his ice-blue gaze inscrutable. After a few seconds, he gave a nearly imperceptible nod. "You called. I agreed. That’s all." He made it sound trivial, as if it hadn’t involved a firefight and a wounded subordinate. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

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