THE FUNERAL

KAIA POV

I don't remember the run.

That's the first sign something is wrong. I shift at dawn like I always do, let the wolf take over, and the next thing I know I'm waking up human in the woods with blood under my fingernails and no memory of how it got there.

The sun is already high. I'm late for training.

I'm running back to the compound when I see them. Warriors in a circle. Their faces wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

"What happened?" I ask, already knowing something has broken.

One of them—Marcus, a sentry I've sparred with a hundred times—won't look at me.

"It's Lyra."

The world stops.

"What do you mean, 'it's Lyra'? Where is she?" I'm already moving, pushing past them, and no one tries to stop me. That's how I know. "Where is *she*?"

The clearing smells like death before I see her.

She's hanging from an old oak tree, her body twisted, her skin already gray. Her throat is torn open. Not by a human. By teeth. By claws. By something that wanted her to suffer.

I don't scream. I don't cry. I just stand there and watch my best friend's body sway in the wind, and something inside me dies too.

"Kaia."

Damien's voice comes from behind me. I don't turn around.

"Don't touch me," I say.

"I wasn't going to."

I finally look at him. He's in his Alpha heir armor—all dark leather and ice—and his face is completely blank. Like Lyra swinging from a tree is just another problem to solve.

"Who found her?" I ask.

"Rafe. This morning. On his run."

Of course it was Rafe.

The pack starts arriving as the sun gets higher. I watch them gather, watch them stare at my best friend's body, and I feel it happening. The shift. The way their eyes slide from pity to something else. Something worse.

Suspicion.

The Alpha—Damien's father—arrives with the council. They cut Lyra down carefully, like she's still alive, still matters. Someone wraps her in white cloth. The traditional funeral cloth.

I reach out to touch her hand one last time, and Rafe is suddenly there.

His arm blocks me.

"Don't," he says, soft.

"She's my best friend," I whisper.

"I know," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes my skin crawl. "That makes this worse, doesn't it?"

I finally look at him. Really look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed like he's been crying, but his mouth is too still. Too controlled.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, but I already know.

"She was killed last night," he says loudly, making sure the pack hears. "Right after you rejected me in front of everyone."

The whispers start immediately.

"What are you—" I start, but he's already turning to address the whole pack.

"Kaia and I had a conflict last night. A public conflict. And this morning, her best friend—the girl who knew her best—is dead." He looks at me with something that looks like heartbreak but tastes like poison. "I'm not saying anything. I'm just saying the timing is interesting."

"You're a *liar*," I hiss, but my voice is shaking. My hands are shaking. I have blood under my fingernails that I can't explain and a gap in my memory and he's standing there suggesting—

"I didn't do this," I say, louder.

"I know you didn't," Rafe says, and he sounds so *sad*. "But did you know she was in danger? Did you know and not warn her? Because you were too busy with your own drama?"

Damien is suddenly between us.

"Enough," he says, and his voice is glacial. "The funeral is in three hours. We gather at sunset."

But he doesn't look at me. Doesn't defend me. Just creates distance like I'm already guilty.

The funeral is a blur of fire and prayer and Lyra's mother screaming.

I stand at the back, separated from the pack by invisible walls. I watch them burn my best friend's body, watch the smoke rise up to the moon goddess, and I can't stop thinking: *I rejected Rafe. Lyra died. I did this*.

The guilt is a weight on my chest that I can't breathe under.

After, when everyone else has left, I find myself alone at the edge of the temple clearing. The moon is just starting to rise.

"You didn't kill her."

I spin around. Damien is standing there, and his expression has changed. There's something in his eyes that looks like conflict. Like he wants to say something but won't let himself.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Because I know what you look like when you're lying. You've never looked like that."

He steps closer, and the bond between us flares. I can feel it humming under my skin—the pull of a fated mate, the thing that should make everything simple but makes everything harder.

"But the pack thinks—" I start.

"The pack is scared," he cuts me off. "Rafe is making them scared. There's a difference."

"Is there?" I laugh, and it sounds broken. "Because right now, those feel like the same thing."

He reaches out, and his hand stops just before my face. His fingers hover near the tear I didn't know I was crying.

"Don't," I whisper.

He drops his hand.

"Damien—"

"Get some rest," he says, already walking away. "Council meets tomorrow morning. We're launching an investigation."

I watch him disappear into the darkness, and I realize I've never felt more alone.

That's when I see it.

A piece of fabric caught on the branch above where Lyra hung. Silver thread. Expensive. The kind of material only the Alpha family wears.

I reach up and pull it down carefully, and my blood goes cold.

It's from Rafe's ceremonial jacket. The one he was wearing last night.

But that's impossible. Rafe wouldn't kill Lyra. He was sad apparently. He even mourned her. He—

Unless.

Unless he killed her because I rejected him. Unless he killed her to punish me. Unless the boy who smiled at me for years was actually capable of murder all along, and I never saw it.

My hands start shaking.

I need to tell someone. I need to tell Damien. I need to—

"Hello, little wolf."

I spin around, and Rafe is standing at the edge of the clearing. His eyes are glowing amber in the moonlight. His smile is soft and gentle and absolutely feral.

"Did you find something?" he asks, nodding at the fabric in my hand.

"Rafe, I—"

"Because here's the thing about pack investigations," he says, stepping closer. "They find what the Alpha tells them to find. And you know what the Alpha's son told me earlier?"

He's close enough now that I can smell him. Blood and something else. Something dark.

"He told me he believes you're innocent. Isn't that sweet?"

I don't understand what he's saying, but my instincts are screaming.

"He said he'd make sure the investigation clears you completely." Rafe's smile gets wider. "Which means tomorrow, when they search your quarters and find Lyra's pendant—the one with my scent all over it, but your hair in the clasp—everyone's going to think *you* killed her. Out of jealousy. Out of spite."

My stomach drops.

"I planted it an hour ago," he continues, "while you were at the funeral. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to give me that fabric. You're going to keep quiet. And you're going to accept that the only way you survive this is by staying useful to me."

He reaches out and touches my cheek. Gently. Like a lover.

"Or everyone finds out you killed your best friend."

I look down at the fabric in my hand.

At the evidence that could save me.

At the evidence that will destroy me.

And I realize with crystal clarity: I'm trapped.