Hades' Cursed Luna

Chapter 161 - 161: I AM NOT JULES

Eve

The suddenly blaring alarms nearly scared me out of my skin. It sounded like like a fire alarm. I calmed myself reasoning that it was just a fire drill or a minor security alert. But deep down, unease curled in my stomach.

But I continued to

Panic clawed at my throat as she leaned closer, her expression softening in a way that only made my fear spike. "

My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out the alarms, the room, everything except the crushing weight of Jules—no, not Jules, something else, something wrong.

"You have no right," she growled again, her voice reverberating through my bones, a twisted symphony of rage and grief. Her fingers curled tighter around my wrist, the pain sharp and unrelenting, as if she could snap it with a flick of her wrist. I gasped, struggling, but she was stronger—so much stronger than she should have been.

My mind screamed for logic, for a reason, but fear twisted everything into chaos. This isn't Jules. This isn't the woman I knew, the friend who had once laughed with me, confided in me. This was something darker, something that had been festering beneath the surface for far too long. And now it was free.

Her breath was hot against my cheek. "He threw her away," she hissed, her voice trembling with something deeper than anger—anguish. "They all did. But not you, right, Ellen? You're the good one. The perfect one."

I shook my head, gasping. "No... Jules, please—"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" She roared, and before I could react, she slammed me backward. My back hit the table with brutal force, knocking the air from my lungs. A painting crashed to the floor, glass shattering into a thousand razor-sharp pieces around me.

I coughed, stars bursting in my vision, but there was no time to recover. She was on me again, her hand around my throat, lifting me effortlessly off the ground. My feet kicked uselessly, scraping against the wooden floor, my nails clawing at her grip.

I'm going to die.

No.

Something snapped inside me, a primal instinct I didn't know I had. My body surged, heat flooding through me in a way I'd never felt before. My vision sharpened, the world crystallizing into painful clarity. I could see the faint twitch of muscle in her arm, the dilation of her pupils—a warning before she moved.

I moved first.

With every ounce of strength I had, I twisted my body and brought my knee up, ramming it into her stomach. The impact was brutal, and for the first time, Jules—or whatever she was—staggered, her grip loosening just enough for me to wrench free.

I hit the floor hard, coughing, gulping in ragged breaths, but I couldn't stop. My body moved on autopilot, instincts screaming at me to fight or die.

I grabbed the largest shard of broken glass from the fallen painting and whirled, slashing blindly. The edge bit into her forearm, blood welling instantly.

Jules—or the thing inside her—didn't scream. She only blinked, staring down at the crimson seeping from the wound. Then, slowly, she looked at me, and for a terrifying moment, something human flickered in her gaze.

"You're fighting back," she whispered, almost in awe. "Finally. You better hope that the man she loved trained you well enough."

She pounced.