“Why would I?” I thought bitterly, my teeth grinding together as I stared at the wall. Why would I stand over the grave of the man who stabbed me, buried me, tried to kill my mate, and dared to call himself my brother? Why would I offer prayers to a coffin that should have burned? I had already given him more than he deserved by letting him have a grave at all.
The silence stretched until I forced myself to answer. “Alright,” I said at last. “Bring her in.”
The door opened, and I felt her before I saw her. And she looked at me. She didn’t blink. Her gaze swept down to my hands, the hands that had killed her other son, and lingered there before lifting back to my face.
“You didn’t come,” she continued, her chin lifting, her eyes narrowing like blades being sharpened. “Your brother’s an
