I knew that bitter scent. It was Hestia, Malachi’s mother. She had never seen me as anything more than a stain on her family’s name. I managed to stand, facing her with a trembling jaw. She gasped, but not with pity—only with disgust at the blood on my clothes.
“Do you wish to bring shame to my son? Why must you choose to die here? Go and breathe your last outside our borders!” she hissed.
“I was leaving... but your grandson shot me,” I whispered.
She scoffed, her eyes cold as Moonstone. “You probably hurt yourself just to look pitiful. You want Malachi to take pity on you and beg you to stay. You know you have no rank here the moment you turned your back on the Pack.”
“I want nothing from your bloodline, Hestia! It was the boy who did this!” I snapped, the pain making my wolf growl.
“Then you should have no trouble leaving,” she sneered. Before I could move, she grabbed my travel boxes and tossed them out past the iron gates into the dirt.
“Get out!” she snarled, shoving me toward the boundary line. “Go and die in the wild. Leave my son in peace!”
I staggered and fell, my hand clutching my shredded shoulder. The iron gates slammed shut behind me.