Fated to the Alpha Widow
It simply existed like weather—unavoidable, unargued with, and never questioned twice.
At the front stood Lyra Varr.
She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking. Her hands were folded neatly, her chin lifted, her expression set into something sharp enough to cut. Grief, on her, looked like command.
The name hanging in the air—spoken in silence more than sound—was the one inside the coffin.
Caelan Varr.
Alpha.
Dead.
Sable swallowed and fixed her gaze on the lid.
She told herself she didn’t know him. Not truly.