Revenge to the Alpha Mate novel Chapter 232

Chapter 232: Chapter 232

Celena’s Perspective

Pain.

Boundless, endless pain, seeping from the marrow of my bones, a rending deep within my soul. I wasn’t unconscious, not truly. More like trapped behind a thin film of awareness. I could perceive the outside world hazily, but I was paralyzed, voiceless.

Then, I "saw."

Not with my eyes. A more inward form of sight. A shadow, a feminine outline, was struggling, slowly "standing up" from my own limp form. She had no substance, composed more of pale mist and flowing darkness. I could just make out curves, but no flesh, no warmth. Just a... phantom reflection.

Who was that? A part of me?

The shadow wavered, turning. On the floor lay Karl. And from beneath him, dark red, viscous blood began to well up uncontrollably, defying gravity. It gathered, flowed as if alive, slithering toward the shadow. The moment shadow and blood met, the silhouette seemed injected with a vile vitality, becoming slightly more solid. Then, together, they turned toward the room’s most prominent feature—the silver pod holding Brett.

Wrapped in Karl’s blood like a venomous serpent, the shadow-thread slithered into a seam at the base of the pod. Or rather, the pod seemed to actively draw it in.

A soft click and a hiss of releasing pressure followed from inside. The sturdy canopy that Jacob and I couldn’t force open with brute strength was now pushed aside effortlessly from within by a single hand.

A figure sat up.

Brett. That face I’d seen for over a decade, familiar from every angle and expression. Dark brown hair, strong jaw, prominent nose. But... no. Completely wrong.

The "Brett" who sat up moved with a lazy, almost elegant grace that did not belong to him.

He—no, she—lifted a hand, examining Brett’s own long, masculine fingers with curiosity. Then, she traced her fingertips over the cheek, the neck, the chest. Every subtle shift of expression, every flicker in those eyes radiated a cold, appraising, and profoundly unsettling feminine essence. It wasn’t an act. It bled from every pore of this borrowed shell.

My brother, the Brett who would wink at me in secret, was gone.

Inhabiting this still-warm skin, wearing his familiar face, was a complete stranger. A usurper. A demon... using his remains.

"Brett" turned her head, her gaze pinpointing the direction of my trapped awareness. She—I had to use that pronoun—curved Brett’s lips into a smile. She spoke with his voice, but the tone was light, melodious, laced with an ancient, mocking cadence. "Lucky little wolf... giggle... If my old rival hadn’t been so impatient, leaving her ’mark’ and nourishment within your soul so early, you would have been drained dry by now. The final piece of kindling to ignite this lovely vessel."

Old rival? What was she talking about? That woman?

With a disturbing, feline grace utterly alien to Brett’s long-limbed male form, she stepped naked from the pod onto the cold floor, unconcerned. She paced the room as if inspecting new territory, finally snatching a grey utility blanket from a workbench and draping it casually around herself.

Then, without another glance at us—at Karl dead from blood loss on the floor, at Jacob unconscious, at me trapped in agony—she simply opened the door and walked out. The sound of her footsteps faded down the empty corridor.

Time lost meaning. It might have been long minutes, or only a few. The film trapping me finally shattered. The acute pain receded like a tide, replaced by total, profound weakness. I felt as if I’d survived a grave illness. Every joint creaked stiffly, muscles ached and felt useless, a deep, lethargic exhaustion settled over me, making even thought an effort.

I pushed myself up weakly, leaning against the wall, gasping. Beside me, Jacob lay sprawled on the floor, sleeping deeply, even emitting soft, regular snores. This guy... really.

And the "voice" inside me, the wolf-spirit that was my companion, my protector, sometimes reckless and impulsive... was back, lively and present. It first wrapped me in a warm, clumsy emotion, as if checking on me, assuring itself I was whole. Then, it conveyed a strange sensation: excitement, and... relieved joy? It seemed happy.

Slowly, I understood. The presence that had always lurked in the depths of my consciousness—more mature, more powerful, a shadow-sister who flashed during my most extreme emotions—that was the feminine phantom who had risen from me. She was gone. My wolf-spirit was now restored to its purer, more direct state, the companion soul belonging solely to "Celena."

I crawled weakly over to Karl. He lay on his back, eyes wide open, frozen in an expression of startled disbelief, resentment, and a residue of madness from his final moment. His face was the ashen grey of fatal blood loss, his skin cold. I checked for breath, then placed my fingers on his neck. Nothing. No pulse.

The man who had given me endless pain and nightmares was truly dead.

A complex knot of emotion rose in my throat. Not grief. More like a heavy stone, long-embedded and grown into the fabric of my soul, had been violently pried loose. It left a hollow ache, but mostly... an overwhelming sense of relief. A vast, debilitating release.

But the relief was quickly smothered by fresh anxiety.

Our goal had been to find Brett... and now we had, only to lose him forever. His body was occupied by something. A mysterious woman who called me "little wolf." Where had she gone? What did she want? And Brett... the real Brett... was he gone for good?

Jacob’s Perspective

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