Chapter 260

Aurora’s Perspective

Just as my heart threatened to stutter-stop, my mind conjuring every horror-movie vivisection scene, a heated argument erupted outside the door, voices rising as they approached.

Eric Milton’s voice, shrill and cracking with outrage: “…You can’t! She’s *my* project! *My* discovery! Her data is unique! Give me more time, just a little, and I’ll have a breakthrough! You can’t just take her!”

Another voice, calm, steady, carrying unshakeable authority. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was overwhelming.

“No! You don’t understand! She’s art! She’s science! You brutish thugs swinging your fists have no concept of her value!” Milton was shrieking now, pure frenzy and defeat.

Then, more footsteps. Heavy, synchronized boots, moving fast.

*BANG!*

The room’s heavy, sealed door flew open, slamming against the wall.

I strained my eyes, catching a glimpse in my peripheral vision.

Eric Milton was flanked by two large men in black tactical gear, his arms pinned. He struggled and cursed, glasses askew, hair wild, lab coat rumpled—a madman who’d lost it all. He was unceremoniously blocked at the threshold.

Then, a figure walked in. Backlit by the corridor light, he was just a tall silhouette at first.

He moved toward me, his steps measured, unhurried. As he entered the room’s light, his features resolved.

Brown hair, curling slightly, neatly trimmed.

His eyes… God. *Eyes*. The most astonishing shade of clear, crystalline blue. Like the sky after a storm, or sunlit ocean depths. They were piercingly bright yet held a profound, soul-catching depth. His features were sharply defined—a strong jaw, a masculine cast—but softened by a surprising gentleness around the brows and mouth, creating a uniquely… damnably harmonious look. He wore a well-tailored dark jacket over a simple shirt. He was clean, upright, exuding a trained, effortless calm.

I froze.

Partly because the face was… objectively, distractingly gorgeous, especially after the visual pollution of Milton. Partly because I *smelled* it.

Even through the drug haze and chemical stink of the lab, it reached me.

Coffee. The rich, bitter aroma of freshly ground beans.

Sea salt. Clean, crisp, oceanic.

A hint of subtle, expensive cologne—woody, understated.

But beneath that, deeper, more fundamental… a *scent*. Powerful. Contained. A wild, potent force held under absolute control.

Wolf.

My brain short-circuited for a full second. *This guy… is a werewolf?* What was he doing here? Rescuing me? Another wolf? From human researchers? *What the actual hell is going on?*

As my mind churned with confusion, suspicion warring with sheer bewilderment, he reached the table. He leaned over slightly. Those impossible blue eyes met mine—wide with lingering terror, damp with tears, filled with a million questions.

Then, he winked.

A quick, almost playful flicker of his left eye.

In this hellhole. Strapped down like a lab rat. This outrageously handsome stranger, a fellow wolf, winked at me.

I just stared.

He reached for the restraints. Not touching me, but efficiently, expertly undoing them. Long, capable fingers worked the buckles and clasps with precise movements. Waist. Wrists. Ankles. Finally, he cradled my head, found a hidden release on the metal halo. A soft *click*, and the cursed thing loosened.

He didn’t speak a word until every restraint was gone. He helped me sit up slowly, a steadying hand on my shoulder. Then, in a tone that was calm, soothing, and disarmingly clear, he said:

“Easy now. You’re safe.”

His voice was quiet but carried a strange, settling power, like his scent of coffee and sea salt.

The next ten minutes passed in a surreal, fast-forward blur.

I was helped off the table by the two tactical-clad men. My legs were jelly. Someone handed me a set of clean, grey sweatpants and a hoodie, along with sneakers—my size. I was guided to a small changing alcove and left to change alone. Thank God.

I emerged, the red marks from the restraints vivid on my skin, every bone aching. The blue-eyed man gestured to a wheelchair waiting nearby—a practical concession to my shaky state.

“We need to move,” was all he said before pushing the chair, leading me out of the nightmare lab.

The corridors were brightly lit but eerily silent.

No white-coated researchers. No guards. Only a few more of the black-clad, grim-faced operatives stationed at key points. They nodded to the blue-eyed man as we passed. Their glances at me were assessing, but not hostile.

We moved through familiar areas. No resistance. No pursuit. The quiet was unnerving.

I *looked* rescued. No ropes, no guns pointed at me. Clean clothes, a wheelchair, a man leading the way. He walked half a step ahead, his stride confident, his back broad, seeming to block any danger.

But…

My senses, clearing further, picked up the scent beneath the comforting coffee, sea salt, and cologne. Unmistakable. The potent, primal signature of a powerful alpha wolf.

He was a werewolf. A clearly highly-trained werewolf commanding a team of elite humans, who had just waltzed into this fortified institute and extracted me.

Why? What pack? How did he know I was here? What was his connection to this place? Friend or foe? He didn’t *seem* like a villain. He was ridiculously good-looking. But Milton had seemed harmless once, too.

It was too much. My head, which I’d always considered reasonably competent, felt like an overloaded computer, fans whirring uselessly as it tried to process a tidal wave of contradictions.

Sitting in the wheelchair, being pushed swiftly through the silent halls, my eyes fixed on that broad back ahead, I felt a tangled knot of emotions.

Rescued? Maybe.

Safe? Hell if I knew.

Damn it all.