Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Aric
Funerals and weddings aren’t so different. Same black suits. Same forced solemnity. Same quiet understanding that something irreversible just happened.
The only difference?
At weddings, people lie about happiness. At funerals, they lie about forgiveness.
I didn’t want to come, but Ayanna is my wife, and a husband stands beside his wife. I make it clear she isn’t alone, and that no one gets near her unless I allow it. That’s the role now. Duty.
Or that’s the lie I keep telling myself, because the truth would mean admitting I didn’t come out of obligation at all.
The Monsera sun sits high, too warm and too bright even at this hour, almost an insult given the reason we’re gathered.
Ayanna stands beside me, hands clasped in front of her, chin lifted as though to keep herself from breaking.
Her gaze stays fixed on the coffin, and I hate how instinctively I track it.
Hate how aware I am that the man inside once filled a space in her life I’ll never fully erase.
Dead, and still standing between us.
Pathetic thought. I bury it where it belongs.
I shift half a step closer, close enough that if she sways, I’m already there. Whether possessive instinct or protective instinct—same coin.
The priest drones on. Peace. Eternity. Forgiveness. None of those things exist in my world, so I don’t listen. I watch her instead—every shift in her breathing, every tightening of her fingers, the way she treats grief like something to be negotiated with instead of surrendered to.
Tassilo and Maylin keep their distance behind us, and their eyes open. I didn’t expect trouble, but expecting nothing is how men end up in boxes like the one we’re here to lower.
In the space of a heartbeat, a murmur ripples through the crowd. Subtle at first. Then sharper. Uneasy.
Something’s off.
A man in a dark suit steps to the priest and whispers into his ear. The priest’s face folds in on itself—confusion gives way to surprise, then unease. The murmurs spread.
He clears his throat. “Before we proceed… there is something Luca left behind. A recorded message.” His gaze searches the crowd before settling on my wife. “For Princess Ayanna.”
Silence drops like a guillotine.
Ayanna stiffens beside me, and every protective instinct I own snaps awake. I don’t like surprises. Never have. My hand finds the small of her back as if to reassure her.
Static crackles through a portable speaker. Then his voice.
“Ayanna. If you’re hearing this, something went wrong.”
A sea of faces turns toward us, and my jaw locks.
Dead men shouldn’t still be talking.
“I didn’t plan on dying. And if anyone tells you I chose this, don’t believe them.”
Well. That complicates everything.
Ayanna’s breathing goes shallow as the recording continues.
“I’m not angry with you. I don’t blame you. I know you had to marry him. And I’m sorry for what I did. I hope one day you can forgive me. Everything I ever did, I did because I still love you.”
Something ugly twists low in my chest. Jealousy. Toward a corpse.
“I hope he gives you the life I couldn’t.”
Static swallows the rest.
The priest tries to resume. No one’s listening anymore. The whispers have already started, suspicion spreading faster than grief ever could.
That message wasn’t closure. It was a match struck beside gasoline. And it was meant to be. A man doesn’t record those words, then arrange for them to play over his own grave in front of his own mourners by accident. Someone wanted this said here. Out loud. With me standing in the middle of it.
A raw, animal sound tears out of a woman before any words do. She shoves through the crowd, grief curdling into fury, eyes fixed on me.
“You.” The word breaks apart in her mouth. “You did this.”
Ayanna goes rigid. I don’t move. Never give chaos the satisfaction of a reaction.
“You and your people. He was alive when he left Norway. Now he’s in the ground.”
Gasps ripple outward.
“He loved her.” The woman jabs a finger at my wife, tears tracking down her face. “And you couldn’t stand it. So you made sure he disappeared for good.”
Some mourners drop their eyes. Others watch with the morbid hunger tragedy always draws.
Ayanna stands there like she doesn’t know what to do with her own body, her hand trembling at her side. Mine is still at her back.
“My son loved you,” the woman spits at Ayanna, desperate, the accusation fraying. “And marrying him”—the finger swings to me—“is what brought death into his life.”
Tassilo shifts behind me, and a minimal shake of my head stops him.
“You’re putting your son in the ground today.” My voice stays flat. “So I’ll choose to overlook this.”
“You destroyed him,” she breathes. “My son is dead. That’s the only thing that’s true.”
Technically?
I did.
I took his eyes. I put a bullet and fear into him. I made sure he’d never look at Ayanna again.
And if given the choice, I’d do it all over again.
But I didn’t kill him.
And whoever arranged that recording wanted the world to forget the difference. Someone wanted to pin it on me. On the Volds. On the alliance itself.
I thought burying Luca would close a door.
Instead, someone just kicked it open.