ISLA'S POV
The first blow comes without warning.
A fist connects with my side, and the air explodes from my lungs. I collapse to my knees in the dirt of the pack square, gasping, trying to understand what's happening. The guards aren't just escorting me to the border. They're executing a sentence right here. Right now. In front of everyone.
I'm going to die here.
The thought is so clear, so absolute, that for a moment I can't breathe.
Another blow—this time to my shoulder. Then another. Then another.
"Stop!" I scream, my hands coming up to protect my face. "Please, stop!"
But nobody stops. The guards form a circle around me, and they rain blows down like I'm not even human. Like I'm something disposable. Something worthless.
I think of Damien. How he stood there watching. How he didn't say a single word to defend me.
The pain becomes white-hot and all-consuming.
But then I feel it again—that flutter deep in my stomach. The baby. My baby. The one thing I have left that's real and mine and worth fighting for.
Without thinking, without hesitation, I curl myself into a tight ball. My arms wrap around my stomach, my entire body bending into a protective shield around the life growing inside me. The blows rain down on my back, on my ribs, on my legs—anywhere but the precious space I'm guarding.
"Hit her," someone commands. One of the Alpha's enforcers. "Make sure she won't survive the night."
They're trying to kill me.
Not just exile me. Kill me.
Each blow is designed to break me, to shatter my bones, to make sure that even if I somehow make it past the border, I won't live long enough to be anyone's problem ever again.
My mouth fills with blood. I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from crying out, because I won't give them the satisfaction. I won't give them the pleasure of hearing my screams. Instead, I focus on my breathing, on the baby, on surviving this moment.
Just this moment. Then the next.
That's all I can do.
That's all I have to do.
A boot connects with my ribs, and I hear something crack. Actual, physical cracking. But I don't scream. I hold tighter around my stomach and I endure.
"Is she dead yet?" A guard's voice, bored and impatient.
"Not quite," another one answers.
Through my half-closed eyes, I see a shadow move closer. Vivienne. My stepsister walks right into the circle of violence, looking at me like I'm an insect she's about to crush.
"Such a shame," she says, her voice dripping false sadness. "You really thought you deserved him, didn't you?"
I try to speak, but my jaw won't work. Won't cooperate. All I can manage is a sound—something between a gasp and a sob.
Vivienne leans down, and I see the cruelty in her eyes. The pure, undiluted satisfaction. "I've wanted you gone since the moment Damien first claimed you. Do you know how long I've been planning this? How many nights I've dreamed about watching you fall?"
She straightens up, and she laughs. The sound is like shattered glass in my ears.
"Enjoy dying in the Rogue Lands, sister," she says.
Then she steps back, and the beating continues.
I don't know how much time passes. Could be minutes. Could be hours. My body has stopped responding to pain—it's all just a blur of white-hot agony and desperate, shallow breathing. The only thought I can hold onto is the baby. The baby. The baby.
Hold on, baby. Hold on.
Finally, when I'm barely conscious, when my body is nothing but broken bone and bleeding skin, the guards stop.
"That's enough," the enforcer says. "She won't last the night anyway."
Hands grab my ankles. I try to fight—I actually try—but I have nothing left. No strength. No will. They drag me across the dirt, and I feel the border approaching. The line between pack territory and the Rogue Lands. The line between survival and death.
"Any last words?" someone asks mockingly.
I don't answer. I'm too busy protecting my stomach one more time, even though it doesn't matter anymore. Even though we're both probably going to die.
Then I feel the moment of weightlessness as they swing me between them.
"One... two... three!"
I'm flying through the air.
For one brief second, I'm weightless. Suspended between two worlds. Between the pack that rejected me and the wilderness that will devour me.
Then I hit the ground on the other side of the border.
The impact steals what little breath I have left. I lie there in the dirt and leaves, barely conscious, barely alive, and I hear the gates slam shut behind me.
I'm alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
The darkness of the Rogue Lands surrounds me, and I can hear the sound of the pack returning to their celebration. Probably dancing now. Probably toasting to my death.
I close my eyes and wait for unconsciousness to claim me.
And it does.
When I wake, it's to a sound that makes every cell in my body go rigid.
A growl.
Not a human growl. Not a pack werewolf growl. This is something else. Something wild and predatory and ancient.
My eyes snap open, and I'm staring into absolute darkness. The forest around me is dense and thick, and it's full of shadows that move like living things.
That's when I see them.
Eyes.
Glowing eyes surrounding me in a perfect circle. Red eyes. Yellow eyes. Eyes that gleam with hunger and intelligence. There are at least six of them—maybe more. I can't tell. Can't count. Can't think straight through the terror that's freezing my blood solid.
Rogues.
Pack rogues. Wolves rejected from their homes or born without packs. Wolves who've turned feral in this wild territory. Wolves who hunt anything that moves, and I'm bleeding. I'm injured. I'm helpless.
The closest one takes a step forward, and I hear the sound of claws scraping against earth.
My hand instinctively moves to my stomach, and I realize with absolute, soul-crushing certainty:
Not only am I about to die.
Not only is my baby about to die.
But we're going to die together in the worst way possible.
The rogues circle closer.
And I'm too broken to fight.
Too broken to run.
Too broken to do anything but watch as the predators move in for the kill.