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I keep my distance from the crowd—just enough to dodge their stares, but close enough to watch the casket hovering over the open earth. The polished black wood gleams cold beneath the October sun. Too pristine. Too absolute. As if even death must dress up for a former Beta. My brother would despise it. He loathes pretense. Hates the performative, the ornamental. I can almost catch his voice curling into my ear, mocking my rigid posture and that stiff funeral dress. Relax, Nev. You’re not auditioning to be a mortician’s pet. My throat closes tight. I haven't wept. Not once. Not when the pack elder phoned with news of the accident. Not when I helped Mother pick out this very coffin. Not when I ironed Father's shirt because his hands shook too badly to hold the iron steady. And certainly not now. Because if the dam breaks, nothing will hold back the flood. I'm the Beta's little sister. The Luna of this pack. No one here—not my husband, not my parents, not even Easton’s four-year-old son—can afford to watch me shatter. None of that matters anymore. The only soul who ever truly saw me—who chose me, not my title—is sinking into the ground. A murmur ripples through the mourners. I lift my gaze. Celeste has arrived. My sister-in-law. Late to her own husband’s funeral. I struggle to imagine a greater disrespect. She wears a black dress molded to her figure like a second skin, honey-blonde hair pinned into a low knot, dark glasses hiding whatever her eyes might reveal. She looks the picture of a grieving widow. But I know better. I've watched her smile too quickly at pack gatherings. Seen how she always seems to wait for applause, for someone to assure her she's played the role well. Keaton trots beside her, gripping the hem of her dress. The poor boy looks utterly lost. His tie hangs crooked. His shoes gape untied. Not a single person steps forward to help. I move toward him on instinct—then stop myself. Someone else reaches him first. My husband, Alpha Landon,
