Lysandra’s POV

The white ritual dress clung to my trembling body as I stepped beyond the Silverblood Pack border. My palm throbbed where the ritual knife had sliced through skin and flesh, a physical reminder of bonds now severed.

Each step away from what had been my home for two years felt both liberating and terrifying. Tristan’s final words echoed in my mind: “Go. Run to whatever hell will take you.” No last-minute plea to stay. No regret in those cold eyes. Nothing but contempt until the very end.

The ritual had drained me, leaving a hollowness that matched the empty road stretching before me. I touched my stomach, the only warmth in my frozen world.

“Just us now,” I whispered to my unborn children.

Wind whipped my hair across my face as I trudged forward, my thin slippers offering little protection against the rough terrain. The severance ritual had taken more from me than just my pack association—it had sapped my physical strength too. Each muscle protested as I forced myself to keep moving.

A narrow path veered off the main road, disappearing into the dense forest. I hesitated. The woods were dangerous for a lone wolf—especially a wolfless one. But the forest offered cover, and right now, concealment mattered more than comfort.

I turned onto the path, disappearing beneath the trees.

Hours passed. My feet dragged. Now exhaustion claimed every part of me.

Yet somewhere deep within, a strange warmth radiated from my core. As if my twins sensed my despair and offered what little comfort they could. The thought gave me strength to push forward, one painful step after another.

The forest grew denser. I’d lost all sense of direction, guided only by instinct and desperation. Then sharp, searing pain shot through my foot.

“Ah!” I crumpled to the ground, grabbing my ankle.

A silver thorn had embedded itself deep in my flesh. Silver—the one substance that could truly hurt our kind. I yanked it free, biting my lip to keep from screaming as it tore through my skin.

The small wound burned like acid. Blood trickled down my foot, staining the forest floor. I tried to stand but collapsed again, the pain too intense. The silver’s poison spread through my veins, weakening me further.

I buried my face in my hands, all pretense of strength abandoned. Alone in the forest, miles from anything familiar, I let the tears come. Not for Tristan—I’d wasted enough tears on him. For myself. For my children, who deserved better than this desperate flight through dangerous wilderness.

A twig snapped behind me. Then another.

I froze, fear replacing grief in an instant. My heightened senses detected unfamiliar scents—male werewolves, unwashed and feral. Rogues.

“Well, what do we have here?” The voice was rough, amused. “A pretty little thing all alone in the big bad woods.”

I turned slowly to face them. Five men emerged from the shadows, their clothes tattered but their eyes sharp with predatory interest. The tallest one stared at my white ritual dress, now dirty and torn.

“Look at her,” he said. “She looks like a damn whore. What’s she doing out here?”

Another Rogue circled to my left, inhaling deeply. “Fuck! She’s a pretty bitch.”

The five men formed a loose circle around me. I scanned for an escape route, but they had me surrounded.

“Grab her!” one shouted.

Terror shot through me. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the burning pain from the silver thorn wound. I lunged through a gap between two of them, running blindly into the forest.

“Get back here!” They crashed through the underbrush behind me.

Branches whipped my face and arms. My dress caught on brambles, tearing further with each desperate stride. Blood from dozens of small cuts stained the white fabric red, but I couldn’t slow down.

My mind raced faster than my feet. I’d heard stories of what happened to lone women captured by Rogue packs. The thought of my babies in danger gave me strength I didn’t know I possessed.