Chapter 6: Grab Her
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.
Through the trees ahead, I spotted stone markers—territorial boundaries of another pack. A desperate hope surged within me.
Behind me, three of my pursuers shifted into wolf form, their transformation accelerating their pursuit. Their eyes glowed red in the darkness as they gained ground.
"Stop!" The remaining two men called to their companions. "Don't follow her there!"
I pushed harder, lungs burning, legs screaming.
"You're dead either way!" one yelled after me, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "Cross that border and they'll tear you apart—if they don't torture you first!"
I ignored them. Whatever awaited me across that border couldn't be worse than what chased me now.
With a final burst of speed, I leaped over the boundary stones, collapsing onto the ground of the neighboring territory. I rolled over to face my pursuers.
The Rogues skidded to a halt at the border, growling and pacing. None dared cross. With snarls of frustration, they retreated into the darkness of the forest.
I allowed myself a moment to breathe, gulping air into starved lungs. But I couldn't rest yet. I needed to put more distance between myself and the border.
Rising unsteadily, I continued deeper into the unknown territory. My body had reached its limit. Each step became a battle of will against physical exhaustion. The silver poisoning worked its way through my system, making my vision blur.
"For Orion," I whispered. "For Lyra." Their names became my mantra, the only thing keeping me upright.
Strange sensations rippled through me as I ventured deeper into this territory.
Suddenly, the snap of twigs and the rustle of leaves reached my ears. Someone was approaching—likely border guards who'd detected my intrusion.
I forced my leaden legs to move again, stumbling forward blindly. My head spun, black spots dancing across my vision. Each breath became more difficult than the last.
The world tilted sideways as my strength finally gave out. As I collapsed, I caught a glimpse of polished leather boots approaching. A strong hand caught me before I hit the ground.
Then darkness claimed me.
Beeping monitors pulled me back to consciousness. My eyes fluttered open to find myself in an unfamiliar hospital room. Panic surged through me as memories returned—the ritual, the forest, the Rogues.
I sat up abruptly, hands flying to my stomach. "My babies!"
"They're safe." A deep voice came from beside the bed.
I turned to find a man watching me intently. He was handsome, with dark hair and striking green eyes that looked startlingly familiar. He wore the formal attire of high-ranking pack nobility, but his posture was relaxed as he leaned forward in his chair.
"Who are you?" I demanded, voice hoarse. "Where am I? What happened to my children?"
He raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Your twins are perfectly fine. Our doctors have monitored them closely. The silver poisoning didn't reach them."
I pressed back against the pillows, keeping my guard up. "Tell me who you are first. And where I am."
He hesitated, then leaned forward. The overhead lights caught his face at an angle that triggered a strange sense of déjà vu.
"You're in Moonshade Pack territory," he said. "I'm Alaric Ravencroft, future Alpha of this pack."
The name meant nothing to me, but something about his face...
He reached out slowly, placing his hand over mine. His touch sent an odd sense of familiarity through me.
"And you," he continued, a smile spreading across his face, "are Elysia. My sister."
