Vander tensed beside me. “Luther, don’t do this—”
“Get her out of my sight,” Luther cut him off, his voice like ice. “Before I rip that bastard from her myself.”
My blood ran cold. Luther held my gaze for a long, agonizing moment. And then he turned on his heel, striding away, leaving me standing there, shaking, broken—but alive.
I barely registered the guards moving toward me. I barely heard Vander’s voice, arguing, pushing back, trying to stop this.
Because the only thing ringing in my ears was Luther’s final warning.
'YOU BETTER RUN, CHERYL.'
The Skyler Pack stood before me, a sea of judgmental faces, their gazes sharp with disgust. My body was stiff, my nails digging into my palms as the elders delivered their verdict.
“You are hereby exiled from the Skyler Pack, Cheryl.” The elder’s voice rang through the hall like a final nail in a coffin.
I swallowed hard, refusing to let them see the fear clawing at my chest. I wouldn’t beg. I wouldn’t plead for a place among people who had already discarded me. I lifted my chin, staring at them defiantly.
“Fine,” I said, my voice stronger than I felt. “You can have your pack. I never belonged here anyway.”