Chapter 262
Chapter 262
17 – Finn The source of this content ɪs
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?
“Mmmm,” I murmur, barely a sound.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Time to get your ass up and check in with the alpha,” Sammy teases, nudging my leg. Even when I probably look as awful as I feel, my oldest friend still knows how to be a jerk.
“Yeah,” I rasp, my voice rough and dry as sandpaper. “If I could move, that’s exactly what I’d do.” I clear my throat, hoping to coax some strength into my vocal cords.
“Alright, Warrior Princess, do you think he’s stable enough to move?” Sammy’s tone shifts, unusually serious, though there’s still a hint of humor. This is different—more urgent. “Grant has the truck ready to take you both back, and the healers are standing by to check you out p>
“Ugh. Yeah, he’s been stable all day. Let me shower first. Watch him,” Greta says, pulling away. Suddenly, an icy wave crashes over me. My lungs seize, and my whole body trembles uncontrollably. I have no control over my muscles. What the hell is going on?
I try to form words, but only grunts and groans escape. My body might be in pain, but it all feels numb-I can only sense the movement itself. Then a weight slams into my back, forcing the air from my lungs. “See? Something’s still seriously wrong with him,” Greta says sharply. Her arm slides beneath my head, the other wraps around my shoulder, and instantly I relax. She cradles my head against her chest, fingers soothing through my hair. The world feels right again.
“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 p>
“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.