Chapter 67

Chapter 67:

“Mr. Hyde,” the receptionist interrupted, turning the monitor so I could see it clearly.

Across the screen, in bold, flashing crimson letters, was my judgment.

SECURITY ALERT: BRAYDON HYDE STATUS: BANNED THREAT LEVEL: OMEGA

My breath hitched. Omega.

He hadn’t just banned me. He had categorized me as the lowest of the low — a weakling, a non-threat. It was a public castration of my rank, visible to anyone in the Blackwood network.

“This is a mistake,” I whispered, my face burning.

“No mistake p>

Before I could protest, two shadows detached themselves from the wall. Blackwood warriors — massive, their tactical gear straining against muscles that looked carved from granite. They didn’t speak. They simply moved.

One grabbed my left arm, the other my right. My feet left the floor.

𝘘𝗎𝖺𝗹𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝗍𝗋𝘢n𝘀la𝘁𝗂𝗼𝗇𝗌 on

“Get your hands off me!” I thrashed, but their grip was iron. I was a child in the hands of giants.

They dragged me toward the automatic doors like a bag of garbage. As I was hauled backward, my heels skidding uselessly across the polished floor, I caught a glimpse of the elevator doors at the far end of the lobby sliding open.

Azalea stepped out, looking pale but determined, the Pack Doctor beside her in his white coat.

“Azalea!” I screamed, desperate for a familiar face, for any ally. “Tell them — I need to see her p>

She looked up. Her eyes met mine across the lobby. There was no sympathy in them. Only cold, hard disgust.

The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off her view of my humiliation.

The warriors threw me onto the concrete pavement outside. I stumbled, scraping my palms against the rough ground, gravel biting into my skin.

“Stay out,” one of them rumbled. It was the only thing either of them said.

I knelt there, gasping in the shadow of the massive medical tower. Threat Level: Omega. The words burned in my mind like a brand. Dallas Marshall wasn’t simply going to kill me. He was going to dismantle everything I was, piece by piece — starting with my pride.

The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the Alpha’s Suite, but it did little to warm the room. The air was kept at a precise, clinical chill, smelling faintly of antiseptic and overwhelmingly of him — storm clouds, ozone, and deep, rich cedar.

I shifted against the Egyptian cotton sheets, wincing as the movement pulled at the healing burns in my throat. The silver poisoning had left me feeling hollowed out, my body a fragile shell that might crack at the slightest touch.

Dallas Marshall sat in a dark leather armchair in the corner, his long legs stretched out, a laptop balanced on his knees. He hadn’t moved for hours. He was like a gargoyle perched on the edge of a cathedral — silent, watchful, and terrifying.

A soft knock broke the heavy silence.

The door creaked open and Azalea peeked in, her face brightening when she saw I was awake. But it was the person behind her that made my breath hitch.