While I Kneel to Clean Your Tombstone, Your Mistress Is on Top of You

Elara's POV: Elena's door was ajar, the cloying, sickly-sweet scent of roses wafting into the hallway. I stood there, paralyzed, my hand still raised to knock. When Elena saw me, her eyes nearly bugged out. Her lips trembled, and she lunged to slam the door shut. I slammed my palm against the wood, stopping her cold. Elena was no match for my strength. The door stayed stuck halfway. She recoiled, the color draining from her face until she was as white as a sheet, her eyes darting around like a cornered rabbit. "Elara... you... how are you...?" I didn't utter a word. I just stared her down. Behind me, the elevator chimed. Familiar voices echoed down the corridor. "I heard Elara's wolf is still out cold. No wolf, no mate—who'd even want her?" That was Marcus, Silas's best friend. Another of Silas's inner circle chimed in: "Word is she's hooked up with some guy named Liam. Agreed to a chosen mate ceremony. Can't blame her; her fated mate's been dead three years. She can't stay a virgin widow forever." Someone snickered. "You know," Marcus said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather, "Silas didn't even crash because he was rushing back for her birthday. Elena sent him some... suggestive photos that night. He was speeding to the border to get to her, eyes glued to his communicator, and didn't see the cliff until it was too late." "So she's spent three years guarding a grave and crying her eyes out—even letting her wolf go dormant—all over an accident that had nothing to do with her?" "Exactly. She's convinced he died for her. The guilt alone was enough to put Vivian into a coma." My fingers dug into the doorframe, my knuckles turning ghostly white. The footsteps drew closer. They rounded the corner, and the laughter died instantly. Marcus was in the lead, carrying a gift bag. The moment he saw me, he turned into a statue. The two men behind him went silent. The air in the hallway turned thick and suffocating. "Elara?" Marcus stammered, his eyes shifting guiltily as his Adam's apple bobbed. "What are you doing here?" Before I could answer, a voice drifted from inside the apartment. "Elena? Is that Marcus and the guys?" The sound of that voice felt like an ice-tipped needle driven through my spine. My blood turned to slush. Footsteps approached from within, and then, he stepped into the frame. I saw Silas. He was holding a bouquet of red roses, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His skin was unscarred, his features perfect, his breathing steady and rhythmic. He was alive. He had been alive for every single second of the last three years. I stared at his face—the face I had sobbed over in front of a headstone until my voice gave out. Something deep in my chest shattered; a door that had been sealed shut for three years was suddenly kicked open from the inside. Vivian was awake. She let out a low, guttural roar of pure, unadulterated hostility. The power surged into my limbs, making my fingertips tingle with lethal electricity. Silas froze. His gaze locked onto mine, the roses tilting slightly in his grip. I looked past his shoulder. Hanging on the living room wall was a banner. "Happy birthday to my beloved Elena." It was exquisite—balloons and ribbons adorned the entire wall in a celebration of love. I heard my own voice, raspy and forced, tear itself from my throat: "It seems you've been doing quite well for yourself."