The Alpha's Unwanted Luna (by Miss L) novel Chapter 262

Chapter 262

17 – Finn

I draw in a shaky breath, my ribs aching painfully, yet somehow I can still breathe. My limbs respond faintly—I can feel my legs and arms, though weak. The toxin must have been spreading through me before the overwhelming agony knocked me out. I know I have some resistance to Claude’s poison, but the wounds inflicted by Janelle and Justin’s men were brutal. By all logic, I shouldn’t be conscious—or even alive. Scanning my body, I notice no fresh pain beyond the dull soreness. I’m lying on something soft and warm, but my muscles refuse to obey my commands to move.

For some reason, my eyelids remain firmly shut. Perhaps my body is still battling the toxin’s effects. Taking another slow, deep breath, a delicate, sweet scent drifts to me, coaxing me back toward the void. Maybe I’m already dead or slipping away, and the Goddess is easing my passage. I let the comforting aroma envelop me, surrendering to the gentle darkness.

“Should we wake them?” a low voice murmurs nearby.

“Nah. But make sure she knows we caught her cuddling. That’s something she’ll never live down,” another voice replies with a teasing tone.

I recognize these voices, though my mind feels clouded and sluggish. I can’t quite place them.

“Shut up, you idiots. The last two days have been hell,” Greta snaps sharply. My heart skips a beat. Her voice is so close, right beside my ear. Why is she standing this near?

“He’s still healing. Whatever they did nearly killed him. Then I had to drag his heavy, lifeless body all the way back while he bled everywhere—on me and all over half the forest,” she hisses. Bleeding? What the hell is happening?

Though I can’t move a muscle, my mind seems intact. I breathe in again, catching the sweet scent more clearly now—cherries, like the warm, sticky sweetness of fresh-baked pie that clings to your lungs and comforts your soul. Then I feel it: a gentle pressure against my back, warm breath grazing my neck, weight resting on my arm. She’s behind me, holding me. My second chance mate is cradling me as I recover. She’s hated me for six months, barely speaking unless forced. What changed?

“How long has this been happening?” I manage to whisper, grateful for her closeness, which helps clear my foggy thoughts.

“Two days, asshole. Do you even know what’s going on?” she asks, squeezing me tightly. Fear lurks beneath her tough exterior—she won’t admit it, but she hates being in control, hates not knowing what’s coming next. And this is terrifying her.

“It’s a neurotoxin,” I say, lungs tightening as I cough. “Something Claude gave us. We used to coat our claws with it, like nail polish…” My skin suddenly itches fiercely. “There’s no real cure, but…” I grunt, trying to sit up. My arm buckles, and I slump back. Greta’s arms tighten protectively around me, and I can’t describe the flood of warmth her care brings. “A few of us built up a tolerance.” I glance at Sammy. He, I, and a couple others suspected Claude was shady and might betray us someday. “We wanted to know what we were dealing with.”

“What do you mean, ‘built a tolerance’? How do you build tolerance to a neurotoxin?” Sammy asks, his voice a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.