Revenge to the Alpha Mate-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:

"Mr. Lytton, Mrs. Lytton. It appears my people completed their task."

We turned.

Liam Thornton stood there. He wore dark tactical pants and a simple black sweater under a leather jacket, looking like he’d rushed here too. His face remained unreadable, though his gaze softened a fraction as it swept over Brett, surrounded by his family.

Behind him stood two other similarly capable-looking men. One had his shoulder bandaged, face pale—the one who’d been shot.

The atmosphere shifted, a complex mix of gratitude, lingering fear, and the innate wariness toward him and his pack hanging in the air.

Father recovered first. He stepped forward, extending his hand to Liam, his tone grave. "Mr. Thornton. This time... we owe you a significant debt. Thank you for saving our son." For the Alpha of the Moonlight Pack to say "owe a debt" to a young, foreign pack leader carried immense weight.

Liam shook his hand, grip firm. "No debt necessary, Mr. Lytton. The situation required action. And," he glanced at Brett, supported by Mother and me, "Brett and his companions proved remarkably... resilient themselves."

Mother gave a slight, acknowledging nod. Her demeanor retained the reserve of the Alpha’s mate, but the scrutiny in her eyes had lessened, replaced by genuine thanks. "Mr. Thornton, your man is injured. He must receive the best care at our facilities. All costs and compensation will be handled by the Moonlight Pack."

"Appreciated," Liam didn’t refuse. This concerned his man’s well-being and pack honor. "Alan will need specialized anti-Lycotine treatment and monitoring."

I let go of Brett and walked up to Liam. He was much taller. I had to look up. Up close, I saw faint weariness in his eyes too. Perhaps this night had been tense for him as well.

"Liam," I used his name directly, my voice soft but clear, earnest. "Thank you. Really... thank you so much. If your people hadn’t..." I couldn’t finish the thought, just held his gaze. He’d saved me. Now he’d helped save Brett. The weight of that was immense.

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.

What followed were necessary but slightly delicate exchanges and briefings. Father and Uncle Jacob spoke with Liam and his men for more details. Mother and Aunt Celena urgently herded the medical staff to give Brett a full workup. Brett kept muttering "I’m fine," but he was pale, the pallor of blood loss and exhaustion.

Protocol demanded a full battery of tests for Brett—to check for internal injuries, infection, and, critically, his Lycotine metabolic levels. He grumbled but was effectively escorted by Aunt Celena and me to Radiology and the lab.

"Aurora , I’m *fine*. Just tired. Arm hurts," Brett whispered to me in the hallway while waiting for CT results, leaning against the wall. The mask of nonchalance finally cracked, revealing profound weariness.

"Shut up. Let the doctors decide," I glared, but my own heart was clenched tight.

Results trickled in. The external injuries were worse than they looked—extensive soft tissue damage, a torn muscle in his left arm. Time would heal those.

The problem was the blood work.

A stern senior pack doctor approached with the reports, nodding to Brett first, then looking at me and Aunt Celena. "Brett’s wounds were treated promptly. No signs of infection. However..." He adjusted his glasses. "The Lycotine concentration in his blood is over three times the safe threshold. And there are metabolic fluctuations indicating he likely forced a first-phase shift recently, while still under significant Lycotine suppression."

Aunt Celena’s face turned ashen, as if struck by a terrible memory.

My blood rushed to my head, then turned to ice. *Three times over!* And he’d shifted under that?! It was like running a marathon with a noose around your heart! Excruciating pain, organ damage, permanent weakening or loss of control... Every possible outcome made me shudder.

"Those bastards... every single one in that place..." I hissed, fury burning away the last remnants of relief, leaving only a cold, violent rage. They hadn’t just imprisoned him. They’d poisoned him with that vile substance.

Brett saw our expressions, his mouth twisting. He started to say something, then just turned his head, staring silently out the dark window. He knew better than anyone what it meant.

I spun on my heel, unable to stay still. I had to *do* something, or this anger would consume me. I strode out of the exam area, down the hall, until I saw Mother speaking in low tones with Father and a few senior pack members who had arrived.

"Mom!" I interrupted, my voice sharp with anger.

Lily turned. Seeing my face, she understood immediately. "Aurora , calm down."

"How can I?!" I kept my voice low, but each word was edged with fire. "Brett’s Lycotine levels are triple the limit! He was forced to shift under it! That place... those people... they can’t get away with this!"

Mother’s eyes turned razor-sharp, like unsheathed blades. But her voice was calm. A terrifying calm. "Of course they won’t."

She stepped forward, taking my slightly trembling hands in hers. Hers were cool, yet they steadied me. "Listen. While you were with Brett, Keith—your uncle—has already taken a team of our best and moved out. Their target is that factory zone and all related leads. He will find that place, cleanse it, and bring back every piece of information and ’evidence’ he can."

Uncle Keith. Mother’s brother. The pack’s military commander, known for his decisiveness and iron will.

"And Celena," Lily continued, her gaze shifting to Aunt Celena, who was approaching with a face like a thundercloud, "after learning about the Lycotine, Jacob went with him immediately. I don’t think anyone is more eager to... *personally address* those who hurt his son."

Celena stopped before us, her face an emotionless mask over a seething volcano.

"They took enough personnel and equipment," Father added, his own eyes glancing down the hall toward where Liam Thornton and his men were. His meaning was clear. "Tonight, many accounts will be settled."

I slowly let out a heated breath, clenching my fists. The fury still burned, but it was no longer directionless. It was being channeled into a cold, patient thirst for retribution.

The Moonlight Pack was never a flock of sheep to be slaughtered.

Tonight, the roles of hunter and prey were about to be reversed.

I looked out the window at the heavy night, imagining I could hear it—the distant crush of tires on gravel, the low growl of wolves, the unsheathing of claws.