The car door opened, and Colette stepped out, smoothing her black dress with a trembling hand.
She immediately spotted Henrik at the top of the cathedral steps; he towered over the stone entrance, dressed in a dark suit that accentuated his imposing, formidable build.
Behind her, two guards maintained a discreet perimeter.
She carried only a small velvet bag containing a single pink rose from her garden.
Colette clasped her trembling hands to steady them before starting up the steps.
Before she reached the halfway mark, Laura’s face lit up with excitement.
“The pretty lady!” Laura let go of Henrik’s hand and raced down the steps straight into Colette’s arms.
Colette scooped the little girl up without hesitation.
“Hello, little wolf.” She smiled, settling Laura onto her hip.
“You look very elegant today.” “Papa said I had to be good.” “You’re always good.” “I’m so glad you came,” Laura said, burying her face in Colette’s neck.
Colette held her close, walking the remaining steps toward Henrik.
Henrik descended the last two steps to meet them.
The moment their eyes met, something shifted; an unspoken awkwardness settled in.
He studied her intently; for a split second, a golden glint flashed in his eyes before they returned to gray.
She told herself she had imagined that detail, yet a flush rose to her neck at the memory of the man’s tongue against her skin and his face inches from hers, just two nights before.
He was the first to look away, his jaw tight.
“Where is Elias?” he asked in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the guard walking just behind her.
“You don’t usually go anywhere without him.” “I asked him to stay behind and oversee security at the estate,” she replied confidently.
“Vance is escorting me today.” Henrik nodded and paused before adding, “You look…
lovely.
You look lovely today.” “Thank you,” Colette said, blushing beneath her veil.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” Laura gave a little laugh, then lifted her head from Colette’s shoulder to look at her father.
“When is she coming to live with us, Papa?” Her gray eyes blinked innocently at him.
Henrik stood frozen, his mouth agape.
Colette laughed, realizing the child knew exactly what mattered most.
“Soon, my princess.
And we’ll be able to spend lots of time together,” she said, walking past a flustered Henrik toward the heavy oak doors.
She turned back to him from the top of the stairs.
“Are you coming?” she asked, pivoting with Laura still in her arms.
A peculiar expression crossed his face as he watched the two of them.
He shook his head with a slight smile and fell into step beside her.
As soon as they crossed the threshold of the sanctuary, the faint warmth Laura had passed to her vanished.
Henrik guided them to a pew with an unobstructed view of Marcus and Pridda playing the grieving family near the altar.
Her stomach knotted.
This was the man who had smiled at her the morning she died.
Now he sat dabbing at tearless eyes.
She dug her fingernails into her palm to keep from tearing the mask off his face.
She set Laura between herself and Henrik.
The service passed in a blur of hollow words until mourners stepped forward to lay flowers.
Colette walked up holding Laura’s hand.
When her turn came, she looked down at that face, frozen like wax; a sharp, unexpected pang of grief struck her as she thought of the young girl who had never lived past the age of twenty.
Marcus and Pridda were standing near the coffin, close enough that the familiar scent of Marcus’s cologne made her stomach turn with violent revulsion.
Her inner wolf bristled beneath her skin, but she held Marcus’s gaze as he studied her like a riddle he couldn’t solve, letting her grief harden into something far more icy.
Colette opened her velvet bag, took out a single pink rose, and laid it against Rosella’s clasped hands.
All the other flowers on the coffin were white or deep red.
Hers stood out, delicate and completely out of place.
“How did you know pink roses were her favorite?” Pridda asked, watching her closely.
“I didn’t.” Colette met her gaze.
“I guessed.
They’re my favorite, too.” Pridda said nothing but did not look away.
Henrik’s hand rested on the small of Colette’s back as she moved away from the coffin.
The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of her dress; she leaned against him, grateful for the solid support.
The rest of the day passed in a hazy blur.
At the pack’s burial ground, Colette watched with silent disgust as Marcus and Pridda sobbed over the coffin, clinging to each other in a loud display of grief above a grave they had dug themselves.
Later, by the riverbank, an elder burned dried herbs, letting the smoke rise in swirls toward the gray sky.
Colette breathed in the scent, feeling nothing but the sting in her eyes.
By the time they reached Dunehall for the reception, wine flowed and easy laughter filled the room.
Marcus stood at the center, glass raised, toasting his daughter’s memory like a host at a celebration.
When Marcus stepped forward to address the gathering, Colette stiffened, her face freezing into a mask of a smile.
“I first met Rosella when my late wife introduced us…” Marcus began, his voice heavy with a practiced, feigned sadness.
Blood began to pound at her temples, and her vision swam with red.
Her hands clenched into fists so tight that her wolf’s claws dug into her left palm, tearing the skin and sending blood trickling down her hand.
She stood there, paralyzed by rage.
A warm hand settled firmly on her shoulder.
Colette spun around with a start and met the worried grey gaze of Henrik, who was leaning toward her.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, stepping closer.
“You look so pale.” His gaze dropped to her left hand, spotting the thin crimson trickle flowing from it.
He grasped her wrist; worry was clearly etched on his face as his scent suddenly intensified.
Colette snatched her hand away and took a sharp step back toward the side exit.
She felt herself losing her grip.
Fury was rising too fast to contain; her entire focus was locked on Marcus’s smiling face across the room.
Her wolf was stirring beneath her skin, clamoring for blood.
I have to get out of here.
While the audience remained captivated by Marcus’s speech, Colette turned on her heel and quietly made her way up the side staircase.
She reached the third floor, hurried down the familiar hallway, and pushed open the door to her old room.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against the solid wood, her heart pounding wildly in her ears.
Her wolf was thrashing just beneath her skin, demanding blood, while her left palm throbbed with pain where her claws had dug in deep.
She needed to pull herself together before someone followed her.
She stepped into the bathroom.
Everything was exactly as she had left it.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror: a pale face with violet eyes stared back.
She turned on the tap and held her left hand under the cold water to wash away the traces.
A swirl of fresh blood spiraled down the drain as her breathing remained ragged; she focused all her energy on forcing her wolf back into the deepest recesses of her being.
She grabbed a towel and wrapped it tightly around her injured palm to stop the bleeding.
“What are you doing in here?” Colette froze, her left hand still holding the blood-stained towel against her palm.
She turned around slowly.