Chapter 143

Ava

I pursed my lips as I stared at my reflection, tugging at the fitted black dress to smooth out any wrinkles. The dark fabric clung to my curves, the skirt swishing at my knees as I turned to inspect myself at another angle. On any normal day, I would have felt good about wearing something like this. But not today.

Degas’s funeral was today.

It had been three days since everything had come to a head—three days since Amelia had been caught. Three days since Degas had passed. Three days since my neighbor, Gemma, had been placed under house arrest.

I shuddered as I recalled the moment that Gemma had been brought into the Packhouse in handcuffs.

“I’m so sorry,” Gemma had cried, falling to her knees and pressing her forehead to the floor in front of Chris’s and my feet. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone… I was just so scared…”

Chris had, of course, been furious. Too furious to even speak to her. Amelia was one thing, but Gemma… Gemma was a member of our pack. She had been my next-door neighbor for years. I had watched her son grow up from infancy.

For her to do something like this was treason.

But I couldn’t bear to see her banished. I had listened to her pleas, and I had spoken to Chris.

A soft knock came at the door as I prepared for the funeral. “Come in,” I called out.

Gemma slipped inside, wringing her hands nervously as she approached. Her eyes were rimmed with red, a telltale sign that she hadn’t stopped crying since all of this happened.

“The gardening is finished for the day,” she murmured.

I nodded and met her gaze in the mirror. “Thank you, Gemma. Would you mind hanging the damp laundry on the line before you go?”

Gemma nodded stiffly and turned. I watched her retreating form with a sigh; part of her punishment was to spend the next thirty days being my housekeeper. It made me a bit uncomfortable, but Chris had insisted.

Suddenly, Gemma stopped in the doorway and turned.

“Ava…” She sniffled, her voice hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry about Elder Degas. This is all my fault.”

I sighed heavily and shook my head. Turning to face her, I reached out to squeeze her arm reassuringly.

“No, Gemma. Don’t blame yourself,” I said gently. “You were manipulated and threatened, just like Amelia was. If anything, we’re lucky you confessed before it escalated further.”

Gemma nodded slowly, although the guilt obviously still weighed heavily on her. “I should have come to you sooner, Ava. To the pack... Said something before it was too late for Degas…”

My chest tightened at the mention of poor, sweet Degas. “You were just trying to protect your son, Gemma,” I said. “Any mother would do the same if she was threatened like that.”

“Still…” She swallowed hard. “I can’t help but feel responsible. If I hadn’t baked that peanut brittle with that Moonbite powder…”

The mention of the peanut brittle made my jaw clench instinctively. Gemma had confessed to everything that day when she had been thrown at our feet in the Packhouse.

She claimed that, on the night of the ball, she was supposed to give me the peanut brittle laced with Moonbite powder to make me pass out while Amelia tried to get Chris alone. I had been distracted with that man from the party, however, and had just missed her.

And Degas, unsuspecting, had stolen a little piece of peanut brittle and enjoyed it for himself—not thinking at all that it might be laced.

“Well…” I swallowed hard and returned my gaze to the mirror. “All you can do for us now is serve out your sentence, and do whatever you can to help us figure out whoever it was that was distributing the Moonbite powder.”

Gemma nodded stiffly. She knew the implications of her sentence; when she wasn’t working as my housekeeper, both she and her son were under strict house arrest. If they had to leave the house for whatever reason, they would be guarded closely.

I knew, though, that Gemma wouldn’t try anything again. She had been threatened by the hooded figure, plain and simple—just as Amelia had been. The figure had located her in the dead of night, giving her baggies of the drug to bake into treats for me. Over time, she was meant to increase the dose, slowly acclimating me to it until…

Well, I didn’t want to think about what would happen if that plan had gone through. All I knew was that someone had threatened to kill her son, and she was terrified. I couldn’t blame her.

“Whatever you need,” she said, “I’m here. I’ll tell you anything, Ava. Anything to help bring that hooded bastard to justice.”

After Gemma left, I returned my attention to my funeral outfit, readjusting the lace trim on the collar of my dress. It didn’t feel right to primp for a funeral, but I wanted to look dignified out of respect for Degas.

The bedroom door opened a few minutes later as I was sweeping my hair into an updo and Chris stepped inside, his expression solemn. But his eyes roamed over my outfit appreciatively as he walked up to me.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, pulling me into his arms. I leaned into him willingly and pressed my forehead against his chest.

“It feels silly.”

Chris sighed and shrugged. “Degas wouldn’t want any of us to be wallowing. You know that.”

I bit my lip and nodded against his chest, fighting back the tears that burned my eyes. Chris held me for a long moment before pulling away slightly. He tilted my chin up to meet my gaze.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, tracing my jawline with his index finger as he studied my expression.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” I managed in a tight voice. “I’m just… overwhelmed by everything. This entire situation, Degas’s murder…” I shook my head slowly, not even willing to bring up the aspect of our relationship; everyone had seen us holding hands as we emerged from the clinic the day that Degas had passed. Everyone was talking, no doubt about it.

Chris cupped my cheek in his warm palm and let his thumb brush along my skin, which soothed me. “We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough. Whoever is behind all of this will slip up eventually, and when they do, we’ll be ready.”

I leaned back a little bit, shooting him a disbelieving look. “Do you really think so?” I muttered, shaking my head. “I mean, what if—”

“Shh. Hey.” He cut me off by pressing his finger to my lips. Then, once I had quieted, he replaced his finger with his own lips and kissed me deeply. When he pulled back, his eyes were practically smoldering.

“No more what-ifs,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my eyes. “At least for today. Alright?”

I managed a small nod, although it did nothing to stop my mind from whirling relentlessly. Still, his closeness bolstered me. I leaned against him one last time, letting my lips brush across the soft, buttery skin of his neck. His new body wash tasted sweet and soothing—like pomegranate.

Finally, letting out a slow breath through my pursed lips, I stepped back and smoothed down my dress. Chris reached for my hand, and I allowed him to take it.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get this over with.”