Captive of The Beast Alpha: Drugging the CEO Was a Mistake.-Chapter 34: Naya: Welcome home.

The second the jet’s wheels touched the tarmac, and we started taxiing down the runway, I went into full panic mode.

Hansel had gotten worse. So much worse.

His skin had gone from feverish and flushed to a deathly white that made him look like a corpse, and his skin looked like thin paper stretched over bone. The only way I could tell he was still alive was the laboured, rattling sound of his breathing—each inhale seemed to take tremendous effort, and each exhale was coming out as a pained wheeze.

The sweating had intensified, too. He was drenched to the extent that a small pool of water was forming around him. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his body was slick with moisture despite the cold towels I’d been pressing against his skin for the entire forty-five-minute flight.

But what terrified me most were the jerks.

His whole body would suddenly convulse, straining against the iron restraints hard enough that I was afraid he’d dislocate something. The cuffs bit into his wrists and ankles, leaving angry red marks, but they held firm. Now I understood why Doctor Morgan had insisted on them because without the restraints, Hansel would have hurt himself badly during these violent episodes.

And he kept talking. Or maybe not talking exactly—more like words were being forced out of him in a language I recognised as Gaelic, but couldn’t understand what he was saying. It was the same language I’d heard Mina using on the phone.

"Mo mháistir," he gasped during one particularly violent spasm, his back arching off the stretcher. "Mo mháistir, tá tú anseo."

"What’s he saying?" I asked desperately, looking at the flight attendant who’d been helping me throughout the journey. She was older, maybe in her fifties, with kind eyes that kept staring at me weirdly.

Honestly, everything about this trip just felt weird. I didn’t know how to explain it, but I had a semi-bad feeling about everything.

"He’s speaking Gaelic," she said quietly. "Old Gaelic. He’s saying ’my master, you are here.’"

My master? Was that like a cult code or something?

"Any idea what he’s talking about? Who’s this master?"

The flight attendant turned away from me to look at the window, totally ignoring my question. That was it, something was fishy.

"Saor mé!" Hansel suddenly screamed, thrashing so violently that the entire stretcher shook. "Saor mé! Ligeadh dom dul!"

"Free me," the attendant translated again, her face turning grave. "He’s saying ’free me, let me go.’"

Was it me, or was she telling me in a way that she expected me to take action? Because that was exactly what it felt like.

I grabbed one of his restrained hands, not caring that it was covered in sweat, and held on tight. "Hansel, I’m here. You’re going to be okay. We’re almost there. Just hold on a little longer."

I didn’t know if he could hear me or if any part of him was still conscious beneath whatever was consuming him from the inside.

But I kept talking anyway, holding his hand and wiping his face with cold towels and trying to bring down the fever that seemed determined to burn him alive from the inside out.

When the jet finally came to a complete stop and the door opened, I nearly sobbed with relief.

A team of people was waiting on the tarmac—six men in dark clothing with a symbol I didn’t recognise stitched into their chests who moved as if they’d rehearsed. They didn’t ask any questions or introduce themselves; they just wheeled a gurney up the jet’s stairs and immediately started transferring Hansel onto it.

I followed them down the stairs, my legs shaky from sitting and my heart racing with fear. They moved fast, practically running as they wheeled Hansel toward a large black van waiting near the hangar.

I stood there at the bottom of the jet stairs, watching as all six men gathered around Hansel, holding him down as he thrashed and screamed more Gaelic words.

One man grabbed his ankles, another his shoulders. Two more held his wrists steady while the last one pulled out a vial of black liquid and forced Hansel’s jaw open. He fought them even in his delirium, but they seemed stronger, and eventually they managed to pour the liquid down his throat.

Hansel choked and thrashed more, letting out a guttural, roary sound, but the effect was almost immediate. His thrashing slowed, his screaming cutting off into pained whimpers. But he didn’t stop moving entirely; his body was still jerking and shaking like he was being electrocuted. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

I didn’t realise I’d taken a step forward until someone blocked my view.

"Quite a sight, isn’t it?"

The person stepped into my line of vision, blocking my view of Hansel and the medical team. I looked up, and my breath caught in my throat.

The man standing in front of me had Hansel’s eyes. Not just similar—the same grey eyes only, this one was filled with mischief instead of Hansel’s intense gaze that seemed to see right through you.

But he was younger, maybe early twenties, and his hair was lighter than Hansel’s dark waves—more brown than black. And his face, while sharing the same sharp features, was softer somehow and less hardened by whatever life experiences had made Hansel so cold.

"I know, right?" He laughed, and the sound was warm and friendlier than Hansel’s. "People are always shocked by how much I look like Hansel, even though my brothers and I all look pretty similar. I’m Elon Ward, one of Hansel’s many brothers." He stretched out his hand with an easy smile. "And you must be Naya Rivers, right?"

"Yes," I managed to say, taking his hand and mirroring his smile. His friendliness shocked me. "It’s nice to meet you."

"Come on, let’s get you to the Pack house." He gestured toward another car parked near the hangar. "They’ll take care of Hansel. The healers know what they’re doing."