Chapter 13

Chapter 13
The Antidote Attempt

Blake's POV

The room smelled like burnt herbs and despair.

Mirabel’s lab was a mess—flasks clinking, herbs scattered, scrolls of notes with no answers. I stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching her inject the pale green liquid into the warrior’s vein.

Her hands trembled. I didn’t trust that. You don’t shake when lives depend on you.

“Are you sure this one’s different?” I asked, voice low.

Mirabel nodded, too fast. “I adjusted the wolf’s bane ratio. It should neutralize the venom now.”

Should.

The warrior lay limp on the table, sweat beading across his temple. His breathing rattled like something trapped inside his chest wanted out.

A burn mark spread over his collarbone—the poison leaving its mark, same as the one on my own body. I didn’t want to watch another man die like that.

The needle came out. We waited.

I counted every second. One, two, three…

He started to shake.

Mirabel moved back. “No, no—why is he—?”

His eyes flew open and then rolled back.

He convulsed once, then twice—then his spine arched so hard it lifted his body off the slab. His skin turned ashen, and foam spilled from his mouth. One last jolt, and he stopped moving.

Silence. Cold, flat silence.

The monitor beside him screamed with a sharp, steady beep.

“Shit!” I growled and slammed my fist into the stone wall. The sharp pain cut into my knuckles, but it didn’t bring relief. Nothing ever did.

Mirabel flinched. She turned slowly toward me, face pale, lips trembling. “That’s the third failure this week.”

I didn’t answer.

“Alpha, you need to punish her. She’s infecting them. That pup—everyone knows what she is.”

I turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Be very careful what you say next.”

She blinked, but the fire in her eyes only burned brighter. “Claire is dangerous. You know it. This poison isn’t just killing your warriors—it’s eating at the pack. At you. And it started when she arrived.”

I looked away, jaw tight. My mark burned on my chest, right under the shirt. The same way it always did when she was near. It didn’t make sense.

Nothing about Claire ever did. Not her silence. Not her touch. Not the way my instincts flared like wildfire every damn time she looked at me.

I didn’t believe she was the one poisoning them. The curse that always been there before she arrived.

But I wanted to believe it. Because hating her would make this easier.

“You said your antidote would work,” I snapped. “It didn’t.”

“Because we’re treating symptoms, not the source! And she is the source!”

The door creaked open behind me.

Her scent hit me first—sharp herbs and sweet rain. Claire. She walked in, slow and careful, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed here. Her eyes scanned the room, landed on the dead warrior, then on me.

I saw the question in her eyes: Again?

I nodded once.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. Just exhaled and moved toward the table to close the man’s eyes.

“Leave us,” I told Mirabel without turning around.

“What? No—”

“Now.”

Her heels clicked too loudly as she stormed out, muttering something under her breath.

Claire stayed by the table, her hand resting on the man’s still chest. She looked tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix—the kind that came from being hated, feared, and misunderstood.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” she murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m already guilty.”

I stepped forward, closer than I should’ve. “I’m looking at you like I don’t know what the hell to believe anymore.”

Her shoulders tensed, but she didn’t look away. “Then believe this: I didn’t do this.”

I did believe her. At least, most of me did. But the mark on my chest burned hotter now. Like it was reacting to her voice, her presence.

I wanted to take her words and wrap them around myself like armor. But doubt crept in through the cracks.

Why else will the thing react to her presence like this?

“What if you try your method?” I asked, voice low.

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You want me to…?”

“Your way. Your herbs. Your style. Just you.”

Claire stepped back. “Blake—if I try and it fails, and he dies—”

“He’s already dead,” I said harshly. “And this one—he’s not.”

I turned, gesturing toward the second patient—the one barely hanging on. His breathing was shallow. His skin flushed a sickly yellow.

Claire hesitated. Her fingers twitched by her sides. “I need quiet. No one else.”

“You have it.”

She walked to him and gently rolled up his sleeve. Her touch was deliberate. Calm. But I noticed the tremble in her hands. The way she looked up at me like she needed permission to keep going.

“You’re sure?” she whispered.

“I’m sure.”

Her lips parted, and then she leaned over the warrior. Her hands hovered just above his chest, and a soft glow began to pulse from her palms.

Not bright. Barely visible. But I felt it in the air—the shift. Something ancient. Unnatural. Or maybe too natural for our kind to understand.

She closed her eyes. A flicker of pain crossed her face. Then another. Her brows furrowed as the glow deepened. Sweat beaded across her brow. Her breathing grew uneven.

“Claire—”

“Don’t stop me,” she gasped. “Just—please. Not yet.”

Something dark and oily slithered out from the man’s mouth. It evaporated before it hit the floor, like smoke sucked into the wind.

I stepped closer. “What is that?”

“The poison,” she panted. “It’s fighting me.”

“Then stop—”

“No,” she gritted. “I have him.”

The man arched, convulsing. I rushed forward, catching his shoulders, holding him down. Claire cried out—the glow flared, then flickered.

Then disappeared.

Everything went still.

Claire collapsed forward, catching herself on the edge of the table. Her shoulders shook. I grabbed her arm, steadying her. “Are you alright?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the man.

I followed her gaze.

His chest rose. Once. Then again.

Then nothing.

No sound.

No breath.

Then a deep gasp tore through the man’s throat. His eyes opened—but they didn’t focus.

“Claire,” I whispered. “What did you—”

He convulsed once and slumped back. Not dead.

But not waking either.

His breathing steadied… and then slowed… and then—

“Blake,” Claire said, voice barely audible. “He’s… not responding.”

She placed her fingers at his temple. Checked his pulse.

Still there.

But…

“He’s alive,” she murmured, “but he’s not here. He’s fallen into a coma.”

My stomach dropped.

Behind me, the lab door creaked open again.

Mirabel’s voice rang out, cold and sharp.

“What did you do to him?”