Don’t Poke the Luna Chapter 240

Xena's POV

"Thank you," Jericho whispered, his voice breaking with relief. "Thank you so much."

"We need to move quickly," Logan said, already turning toward the exit. "If what you're saying is true about the bond, time is critical."

Ryder stepped forward. "What about Wiley's remaining forces? We killed him and Tatum, but there could still be loyalists."

"With both Wiley and Tatum dead, they'll be looking for new leadership. Some might scatter, others might try to claim power for themselves," Jericho explained.

"Then we need to secure that facility completely," I said. "We can't leave those weapons and serums for someone else to find."

Logan nodded. "I'll send teams to sweep the entire compound. But first, let's get to Tansy."

"I want to go with you," I said firmly, my voice cutting through the sudden silence in the room.

Both Logan and Ryder turned to stare at me with identical expressions of shock and concern.

"Absolutely not," Ryder said immediately, moving closer to my bed. "You just got out of surgery. You need to rest."

"Xena, you're in no condition to—" Logan began.

"I am the Luna," I interrupted, my voice growing stronger despite the pain radiating through my body. "I have the right to be involved in all decisions that affect our territory and our people. And let's not forget—I'm the one who killed both Wiley and Tatum."

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Both men looked at each other, then back at me, clearly recognizing the steel in my voice.

"This isn't about your rank," Ryder said softly, his eyes pleading. "This is about your safety. You almost died."

"But I didn't die," I replied coldly. "And I won't be sidelined anymore. Penelope is my friend, and this affects all of us. I'm going."

Logan sighed heavily, running his hand through his hair. "Xena—"

"The decision is made," I said with finality. "Either you take me with you, or I'll find my own way there. Your choice."

Ryder's jaw clenched, and I could see the internal battle playing across his features. Finally, Logan spoke up.

"Fine," he said reluctantly. "But you follow medical protocols. No arguments."

Ryder looked like he wanted to protest further, but he nodded grimly. "I'll get the doctor to prep you for transport."

"I'll take Jericho to the helicopter," Logan said, already heading toward the door with Jericho following behind.

After they left, I pushed the covers aside with my right hand. The moment I tried to move, every muscle in my body screamed in protest. It felt like I'd been hit by a freight train. Pain shot through my ribs, my legs felt like jelly, and my left arm... I caught sight of it in my peripheral vision, the stark white cast and the empty space where my hand should be.

My heart sank, and a dark cloud settled over my mood. The reality of my loss hit me like a physical blow, but I forced myself to push those thoughts aside. I had to focus on the task at hand.

Using my right hand to support myself, I muttered "Fuck" under my breath and began the agonizing process of moving toward the edge of the bed. Every inch was a battle, my body protesting with waves of pain that made me dizzy.

Just as I was struggling to find my balance, Ryder returned with a doctor. "What are you doing?" he said, his voice filled with concern as he quickly moved to support me. "You shouldn't be moving on your own."

"Don't touch me," I snapped, irritation flaring in my chest. The words came out harsher than I intended, but I couldn't stop them. I tried to push him away with my good hand, desperately wanting to prove I could stand on my own.

But Ryder didn't back away. Instead, he steadied me with gentle but firm hands, his touch careful around my injuries. His refusal to listen to my harsh words only made my anger spike higher.

"I said don't touch me!" I hissed, pushing against him with more force.

The movement threw off my already precarious balance, and I pitched forward toward the floor. Ryder's arms immediately wrapped around my waist, catching me before I could fall.

We were frozen like that—me leaning against his chest, his strong arms holding me steady. I looked up to meet his eyes, those beautiful green eyes that were looking at me with such tenderness and concern. There was no anger there despite my outburst, no frustration at my unreasonable behavior. Just love and worry.

The guilt hit me like a physical blow. Here he was, being nothing but caring and supportive, and I was taking my pain and fear out on him. The dark cloud in my heart began to dissipate, replaced by shame at my behavior.

I felt my lower lip tremble as I fought back tears that threatened to spill over. Without saying anything, I leaned into him, wrapping my good arm around his neck in a desperate embrace.

"Ryder, how are you guys doing? I'm in position," Logan's voice crackled through the radio in Ryder's pocket.

I pulled back from the embrace, watching as Ryder retrieved the radio. "Getting Xena cleared for transport. We'll be there soon," he replied.

He helped me settle into the chair beside the examination table, his movements careful and gentle. The doctor stepped forward, his manner professional but kind.

The examination was quick but thorough—checking my vitals, examining my wounds, ensuring my cast was secure. The doctor fitted my left arm with a proper sling that hung around my neck, distributing the weight more evenly.

"Everything looks good," the doctor told us both. "Just take it easy and don't overexert yourself."

Ryder's face lit up with visible relief. I managed to give him a small smile, which seemed to ease his worry even more.

"Thank you, doctor," Ryder said gratefully.

The doctor nodded respectfully and left the room, leaving us alone.

"We need to get you dressed," Ryder said softly, moving toward the small closet where the clothes hung.

As he held up the shirt, we both noticed how the left sleeve had been altered to accommodate my cast.

"Let me help you," he said gently, kneeling beside my chair.

I wanted to protest, to insist I could do it myself, but the reality was that dressing with one hand would be nearly impossible. So I stayed quiet and let him help.

Ryder worked with infinite patience, carefully maneuvering the shirt over my head and working my good arm through the right sleeve. When it came to my left arm, he was extraordinarily gentle, slowly guiding the fabric over the cast without jarring my shoulder.

I winced as certain movements sent spikes of pain through my body, but I bit back any sounds of discomfort.

Each time his fingers brushed against my skin or he had to adjust my positioning, we both became acutely aware of my missing hand. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken acknowledgment of my loss. Neither of us mentioned it directly, but it hung in the air like a ghost.

"There," he said softly as he finished with the shorts, his fingers gentle as he smoothed the fabric. "How does that feel?"

"Fine," I replied.

He helped me with my shoes next, kneeling to slip them onto my feet. When he offered to get me a wheelchair, I shook my head immediately. "No. I don't want to be seen in one."

The image of myself broken in a wheelchair was more than I could bear. I needed to maintain some semblance of dignity, some appearance of strength.

Ryder simply nodded, not arguing or trying to convince me otherwise. "Okay. We'll take it slow."

He positioned himself beside me, offering his arm for support. I leaned against him heavily as we began the slow journey toward the helicopter. Each step was a monumental effort, my legs shaky and unsteady, but Ryder matched my pace perfectly. He never rushed me, never showed impatience with my glacial progress.

The walk felt endless, like we were crossing miles instead of hospital corridors. My breathing grew labored, and exhaustion weighed down every limb. By the time we reached the helicopter pad, I felt like I'd run a marathon.

Logan and Ryder worked together to carefully lift me into the aircraft, their movements coordinated to avoid jarring my injuries. Once I was settled in my seat, Ryder placed headphones over my ears.

As the helicopter lifted off, I watched the hospital grow smaller below us. The landscape spread out like a patchwork quilt, but I had no energy to appreciate the view. Instead, I let my head rest against Ryder's shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath my cheek.

The exhaustion that had been building finally won the battle. My eyelids grew heavy, sleep began to claim me. The last thing I was aware of was Ryder's hand gently stroking my hair as darkness enveloped me completely.