Chapter 3

JAYCEE POV:

The day after the funeral, Cohen called. His voice was laced with an impatient, almost rehearsed apology.

"I'm sorry about your mother, Jaycee. It was a tragic accident."

I said nothing. The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.

"My Beta told me you moved out of the house I set up for you on pack lands," he said, his tone shifting. It was no longer apologetic; it was accusatory. "Why would you do that?"

"I wanted to be in my mother's house," I replied, my voice flat and empty.

He sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. "Look, this whole situation has been very stressful. Hillary is completely distraught. Her War Wolf has been agitated ever since... the incident."

He was talking about the wolf's feelings. Not my mother's death. Not my grief.

"Is Hillary with you now?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm.

"Yes, she is," he admitted. "She's been a great support."

"Put her on the phone."

There was a muffled exchange, and then Hillary's sickly sweet voice filled my ear. "Jaycee, darling, I am so, so sorry. I feel just awful. My poor Ares would never hurt a fly. Your mother must have wandered into his training perimeter by mistake..."

She kept talking, her voice a syrupy drone, but one phrase snagged in my mind.

"...Cohen was so good about it. He had the pack Healer sign off on the official report. A complete accident, of course. No one is at fault."

They had covered it up. They had falsified a report to protect her.

I felt a wave of nausea. "Let me speak to Cohen."

His voice came back on the line, hard and defensive. "What did she tell you?"

"She told me you buried the truth," I said.

"Ares was defending his territory," Cohen snapped. "It's understandable behavior for a War Wolf."

A strange, cold clarity washed over me. "The doctor said the wolf hadn't had his inhibitor shots. The ones that stop the poison in his saliva from being fatal to humans."

A low growl rumbled through the phone. "*Enough!*" The force of his *Alpha's Command* hit me, a familiar, crushing weight, demanding submission. But this time, something new rose to meet it-a shard of ice-cold fury.

"You're overwrought with grief," he continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "Stay in the house. Don't go anywhere. I'll sort everything out when I get back."

He was talking to me like a child, like a problem to be managed. I was a stain they needed to wipe away.

I didn't say goodbye. I simply ended the call.

Then I closed my eyes and reached into my own mind, searching for the shimmering thread that connected me to him. The Mind-Link. It felt warm, familiar, a part of me.

With a silent, psychic shriek of will, I found that shimmering, silver thread... and yanked it until it snapped in two.

Miles away, I knew he would have felt it-a sudden, sharp pain behind the eyes, like a needle of ice piercing his skull. Good.