Chapter 39: James

It feels like my head is underwater today—far too many bourbons and not enough sleep. Why do I do this to myself? You’d think hangovers wouldn’t exist for werewolves, but nope. We can heal from a gunshot wound or stabbing, but a little strain on the kidneys, and we’re as weak as a human.

Anthony was right about Alicia, too. She’s changed nearly every element of this stupid funeral—some twice—in the last 8 hours, and I’m left trying to both avoid her and comply with her requests. He was her brother. I keep reminding myself of that. I don’t have any siblings myself, but I hear that’s a strong bond.

Now she wants a podium to give a eulogy. Not just any podium, either. It needs to be made from oak, painted black, and trimmed with lilies—fucking white lilies—as if Marcus gave two fucks about flowers. She can’t just stand on the lake bank like everyone else. Of course not, that wouldn’t make any extra work for me.

I’m an alpha now. I shouldn’t even have to put up with this shit, and yet,