Mated to Her Alpha Instructor Chapter 69

Eileen

The laboratory smelled of failure.

I stared at the gray-purple stain spreading across the treated cloth sample, my fourth attempt in as many hours. The combination of silver leaf, woundwort, and lunar moss should have worked—the ancient texts had been clear about their purifying properties. But the infection didn't respond. It never responded.

Around me, glass vials and mortar bowls littered the workbench in chaotic arrays, each one a testament to another dead end. My fingers trembled as I added three drops of distilled moonwater to the mixture, watching the liquid turn a promising pale blue before darkening again to that familiar, sickly gray.

"Come on," I whispered, pressing the fresh cloth against a sample of infected tissue I'd been permitted to collect. "Please work."

Nothing. The tissue remained discolored, the smell of rot intensifying rather than fading.

I sank onto the stool, pressing my palms against my eyes until spots of light danced behind my lids. Two days. I'd been at this for two full days, and all I had to show for it was a collection of failed formulas and a growing list of warriors who looked at me with thinly veiled skepticism.

The door creaked. I didn't look up, assuming it was Mira coming to drag me to lunch again.

"Still trying the standard purification approach, I see."

My head snapped up. Nina Grey stood in the doorway, her expression as cool and unreadable as ever. She'd never spoken to me directly before—we existed in parallel orbits within the healing arts division, her brilliance sharp and solitary, mine tentative and overlooked.

"I—yes." I gestured helplessly at my notes. "The combinations should work. In theory."

She stepped closer, pale eyes scanning my meticulous documentation of symptoms: the spreading discoloration, the resistance to conventional treatments, the way the wounds seemed to actively reject healing energy. Her finger traced one line I'd written: *Infection spreads despite treatment, as if feeding on healing attempts.*

"Infection that spreads has agency," she said flatly. "That's not toxin behavior. Toxins break down, disperse, degrade. This?" She tapped the page. "This sounds parasitic."

The word hit me like cold water. "Parasitic?"

"Micro-parasites. Potentially magical in origin, feeding on lycanthrope healing energy itself. Check the Border Plague Chronicles."

She was already turning to leave.

"Wait—" I stood so quickly the stool scraped against stone. "Why are you helping me?"

Nina paused at the threshold, her back still to me. "Because if you're going to occupy laboratory space, you might as well use it properly."

Then she was gone.

I immediately went to the library. I found the book, flipping to the relevant chapter with shaking hands. The text was dense, archaic, but there—right there—was a description of wounds that "blackened and spread as if inhabited," that "burned with stench," that "worsened with moon's waning and healer's touch alike."

The formula was complex. Three herbs, each requiring specific preparation. Silver leaf grass crushed with mortar blessed under moonlight. Bitter root powder aged in silver vessels. Moonflower extract gathered at dawn. The timing was critical—too early and the lunar potency wouldn't be sufficient, too late and it would be wasted.

"Parasitic," I breathed, mind racing. "Not poison. Something alive. Something that evolved to feed on what makes us strong."

The full moon was four days away. If I started preparations now—if I could convince the herbalists to give me access to their restricted stores—if the warriors would let me try—

My stomach twisted with a complex knot of hope and terror. This could work. Or it could make everything worse.

But at least now I had a direction.

---

By dusk, my eyes burned from hours of cross-referencing texts, my notes covered in sketches of parasitic life cycles and treatment protocols.

I barely noticed when the last rays of sunlight faded from the high windows, replaced by the soft glow of lamps. My focus had narrowed to a single point: understanding these parasites well enough to kill them without killing their hosts.

"Eileen."

I looked up to find Derek standing at the end of my table, hands in his pockets, expression carefully neutral. My stomach clenched reflexively—not with the old longing, but with weary annoyance at the interruption.

"What do you want, Derek?" I kept my voice level, not bothering to stand.

He moved closer, and I caught the faint scent of training yard sweat. "I heard you've been spending time in the observation ward. Trying to play healer for the border casualties."

*Play.* The word stung precisely because it echoed my own insecurities.

"I'm conducting research," I said, turning back to my notes.

"Right. Research." He leaned against the bookshelf, studying me with that same expression he'd worn when I used to help him study—half-interested, half-patronizing. "I also heard that you're having trouble getting the warriors to trust you."

My jaw tightened. "I'm managing."

"Are you?" He shifted his weight, and something in his posture made me look up again. His eyes held a calculating gleam I'd never noticed before, or perhaps had been too infatuated to see. "Because from what Blake told me, most of them think you're wasting their time. Playing at being important."

The book in front of me blurred slightly. I forced myself to breathe, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

"You don't have to keep doing this, you know," Derek continued, his voice dropping to something that might have been mistaken for concern. "Trying so hard to prove yourself. To get attention."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, Eileen." He actually smiled, the expression somewhere between sympathetic and smug. "We both know what this is really about. You've been trying to get my attention for years. And now that I'm with Celeste, you're throwing yourself into this... project. Making yourself visible. Making yourself seem valuable."

For a long moment, I could only stare at him. The sheer audacity of his assumption left me speechless.

"I actually considered it," he said, moving closer. His voice took on a conspiratorial tone that made my skin crawl. "You were always sweet, always helpful. And you're not... unattractive. So I thought—maybe we could come to an arrangement. You could have what you want. Celeste doesn't need to know. It could be our secret."

The words hung in the air between us, so casually vile I almost couldn't process them.

"You're offering to make me your mistress," I said slowly. "That's what you're suggesting."

"I'm offering to give you a chance." He actually looked pleased with himself, as if he were doing me a tremendous favor. "You clearly want to be noticed, to matter to someone. I can give you that. Discreetly."

Something cold and clear settled over me. I closed my book carefully, stood, and met his eyes with absolute calm.

"No."

"Eileen—"

"The warriors will trust my results soon enough," I said, gathering my materials with steady hands. "I'm not here for your attention, Derek. I stopped wanting that a long time ago. Now please move—I need to leave."

His expression shifted to annoyance. "Playing hard to get now? That's a new tactic."

"I'm not playing." I stepped toward him, and something in my face made him shift aside. "I have work to do. Real work. Important work. And you're wasting my time."

I moved past him, books clutched to my chest, my heart pounding but my steps steady.

"You're making a mistake," he called after me.

I didn't look back.