CLARABEL'S POV

"I said fifty!" Greenwood bellowed, his Alpha command snapping through the air like a whip. "Flog her until she understands the weight of her malice. Then throw her into the wasteland. She is no longer of this Pack. She is nothing."

The guards hesitated for a heartbeat longer before the weight of the Alpha’s command forced their hands. They grabbed my arms, dragging me toward the center of the hall where the stone floor was cold and unforgiving.

I didn't struggle. I didn't scream when they forced me onto my knees. I kept my eyes locked on Greenwood, watching as he stood there, shielding Monica as if she were the victim.

The first lash was a shock. It wasn't just pain; it was the sound—a wet, sharp crack that tore through the fabric of my dress and bit into the skin of my back. I gasped, my lungs seizing, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a cry.

The second lash came down harder. This time, the heat followed. It felt like a line of liquid fire had been drawn across my shoulders. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, my fingers clawing at the stone floor.

By the tenth, the world began to blur. Each strike was a rhythm of agony. I could hear the wet thud of the leather hitting raw flesh. I could feel the warmth of my own blood beginning to soak into the remains of my dress, trickling down to the floor.

Greenwood didn't look away. He watched with a grim, stony expression, his hand resting on Monica’s shoulder. She, however, was watching with a small, sick smile.

I lost count around twenty. The pain had moved past burning and into a dull throb that vibrated through my skull. My breathing was ragged, shallow bursts of air that barely filled my lungs. I wanted to collapse, to let the darkness take me, but the rage kept me upright. Every lash was a debt I was recording. Every drop of blood on the stone was a reason to survive.

By the time the final lash landed, I was slumped forward, my forehead resting against the cold floor. The silence returned, heavier than before.

"Now throw her out of this Pack," Greenwood’s voice came from a great distance. “Dump her in the territory of our enemy Pack. Let them recognize her and do with her whatever they please.”

I felt hands grabbing me, less gentle than before. They dragged me through the halls I used to call home, my feet scraping against the floor. I didn't see the faces of the Pack members watching from the shadows. I didn't see the pity or the fear. I only saw the blood trail I was leaving behind.

They threw me past the boundary line like a piece of refuse. The guards didn't speak. They simply turned and walked back toward the safety of the gates, leaving me in the dirt.

I lay there for a long time, the cold night air biting into the raw wounds on my back. My body screamed, a symphony of physical and emotional agony. I had nothing. No shoes, no coat, no pack. Just the child inside me—if the child had even survived the trauma.

I have to move, I thought. If I stay here, the scavengers will find me.

I forced myself onto my hands and knees. The movement sent a fresh wave of white-hot pain through my spine. I let out a low, broken moan, but I pushed through it. I began to crawl, then eventually found the strength to stumble to my feet.

The woods were a nightmare of shadows and thorns. Every branch that brushed against my back felt like a knife. My vision was fading, dark spots dancing at the edges of my sight. I clutched my stomach, shielding it instinctively as I tripped over a gnarled root and crashed into a tree.

I was dizzy. The world was tilting. I didn't know where I was going; I only knew I had to be far away from Moonlit Pack.

A sharp thwip sounded through the air.

I froze. A second later, a black-fletched arrow slammed into the trunk of the tree inches from my head. The vibration hummed through the wood and into my temple.

I didn't have the strength to run. I barely had the strength to turn my head.

Heavy boots crunched on the dry leaves. A man stepped out from the shadows of the ancient oaks. He was massive, draped in dark furs and tactical leather, a recurve bow held with effortless grace. His presence was suffocating—powerful, controlled, and dangerous.

He stopped ten feet away, his eyes scanning me with the cold precision of a predator. He looked at my tattered dress, the blood-soaked fabric, and the mark on my cheek.

“You?” he said, his voice a deep, resonant growl that made the hair on my arms stand up. “Greenwood’s mate. How dare you step into my territory?"

~His territory?~ The two words made me recognize him at once.

Malakai. The feared Alpha of the Blood-Wing Pack. The man who hated Greenwood more than anyone in the world.

He stepped closer, his scent hitting me all at once; forest rain, dark cedar, and something sharp, like ozone before a storm.

I prepared for the end. I expected him to finish what Greenwood started. But as he reached out to tilt my chin up, something happened.

A spark.

It wasn't a spark. It was an explosion. A golden thread of light seemed to snap into place between us, vibrating with an intensity that made my soul ache. The mate bond. But it was impossible. I had just been rejected.

Malakai froze. His hand jerked back as if he had been burned. His eyes, normally a calculated grey, bled into a dark, predatory gold. He felt it. I could see the shock warring with the hatred in his expression.

"No," he hissed, his voice trembling with a sudden, violent conflict.

I didn't have the strength to process the impossibility of it. The world finally gave way to the darkness. As my knees buckled, I felt his strong, calloused hands catch me before I hit the dirt.

The last thing I felt was the warmth of his skin against mine. Then, nothing.