Page 11 of Beautifully Shattered (Secrets & Scars #3)

“ T he Rebel isn’t talking, but one of the pigs has started squealing.” Griffin smirks, his stance wide and arms crossed over his chest as he stands next to me.

Four black SUVs sit in the driveway, and Marx Security hang back on the sidelines while I chat with Griffin. His crew has been working in the background, interrogating a Rebel and two dirty cops who won’t see the light of day again once they’re done.

They were grabbed by Griffin’s security team at that cult chapel we raided to get to Abbey, and after everything that went down with Abs… well, I was fucking grateful Griffin’s team offered to take over. It gave me the space to focus on my Angel and her grief.

“What did he say?” I mutter, flicking a glance over my shoulder at the lake house, waiting for Jols and Abbey to emerge .

“He coughed up the location of a safe house Allen has been using. I’ve got a team monitoring it now, but so far, there’s no movement.” Griffin’s gaze shifts past me, his brows hitching. “Fuck. That your girl?”

I glance back over my shoulder as Jols steps down from the porch with Abbey trailing behind, and for a fucking moment, I swear, everything stops.

“My wife,” I correct absentmindedly, and Griffin mutters a quiet, “Yeah.”

I’ve got tunnel vision. That’s the only way I can fucking explain how everything else around me fades until all that’s left is my blonde Angel.

Although the sweet girl I call Angel looks more like a sinner right now, dressed head to toe in black. Leather pants slick and tight like they are painted on, hugging every curve. She’s got more meat on her now, the little pregnancy weight she carried only making her more woman than I’ve ever seen.

How the fuck didn’t I notice that before?

Sure, she’s been in sweatpants and drowning in my oversized t-shirts since we left the hospital, but fuck, I never pictured this.

“Close your mouth. You’re drooling,” Jols snickers as she passes me, snapping me out of my fucking trance.

“Pretty sure every man here is,” Griffin chuckles, and my fucking scowl cuts straight to his security team, who are, in-fucking-fact, practically drooling.

“Eyes off!” I bark, and they all stiffen, snapping their heads away as boots crunch over gravel, getting closer to me.

“Why are you yelling at them?” Abbey asks, and my eyes find her sharp glare.

Fuck. Even her glare is hot .

She looks so fucking different wearing the gear Jols gave her. Leather pants. A black tee stretching a little too tight over those huge tits, engorged with milk—still can’t wrap my head around that fact. And a black leather jacket that seals the whole fucking look.

Not to mention the boots. A pair of Jols’ riding boots. Black. Stopping halfway up her calves, thick sole, chunky as hell, and fuck… has there been anything sexier?

Sure, stilettos and leather scream, fuck me, but a woman dressed to ride? That’s fucking tough. And right now, my Angel looks like the sweetest sin there ever was with her blonde hair straight, but not too slick.

It kinda has that ‘I didn’t really try look’ , or ‘I’ve just been fucked and didn’t put much effort into fixing it’ look.

Fucking sexy as fuck.

“That’s right, Angel. I’ll yell at any fucker who drools over what’s mine.”

Her brows shoot up, like she’s fucking surprised anyone would, but before I can say more to reassure her, JD clears his throat, butting in.

“Gotta hit the road, man.”

I nod, clenching my jaw as Griffin lifts his hand, signalling his crew, and one by one, they pile into the SUVs.

“Do me the honour?” JD asks Jols, nodding to his hog.

She has her own ride, but club rules are club rules. Only brothers and prospects ride today, so she nods, and the two of them head over to his Harley.

“Saddle up, Angel,” I rasp, needing to clear my throat, because fuck, I can’t stop staring.

The way she looks dressed like this is fucking hot. Dangerous .

Nodding, Abbey grabs the helmet waiting on the back of my bike, slipping it on.

But fuck, I can’t move… because my eyes drop to her arse in those leather pants, tight enough to have me about fucking ready to drop to my knees and worship her. My cock jolts awake for the first time since she was taken. Nearly two fucking weeks ago.

She spins, catching me staring as she fastens the helmet.

“What?” she snaps, still in the same mood she was when I woke this morning.

I’m not sure she even slept.

“Oh, nothing… just admiring how fucking edible your arse looks in those pants.” I smirk, stepping over to my hog and grabbing my own helmet.

She rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t think that if you saw the nappy-sized pad I’m wearing to soak up all the blood I’m still bleeding.”

I flinch.

Shit.

I hadn’t thought about that at all. Very fucking far from it.

That alone would put anyone in a shit mood, let alone after everything she’s been through.

“I’m sorry.” I step up to her, fisting the front of her helmet near the mouth vent and tugging her closer, loving the little squeak of surprise that slips past her lips.

“You’re still fucking delicious, Angel. Now, be my good girl and get on my hog.

I wanna feel you snuggled up behind me, pressing those tits against my back. ”

Her cheeks flare to life, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of my old Angel. The one from before. The one I used to talk dirty to without guilt clawing at my chest .

“What if the nipple pads Andrea dropped off this morning don’t hold up? What if I start leaking milk?” she whispers, eyes darting around us like someone might hear, and I fucking grin.

“I’ll lick you clean, Angel.”

Her mouth forms an O as she stares, wide eyed at me, and I hope like hell Andrea was right when I spoke to her on the phone this morning.

She told me the best thing I can do is treat Abbey how I normally would. Don’t treat her like she might break. Save that for the moments she does. She needs to feel some sort of normalcy to be able to get through each day, even if nothing is normal for her anymore.

It sounded like good advice at the time, but now I’m wondering if maybe I took it a little too far…

Did I really just tell her I’d lick up her leaking milk?

Fuck.

I did.

And fuck.

I don’t exactly hate the thought of it.

Fuck… now my cock is like stone.

Pretending like I’m still that cocky fucker she met weeks ago, I shoot her a wink, and the corner of her mouth twitches, a slight grin tugging at her lips like muscle memory.

But then, like she realises she was about to smile, it’s gone.

Her face drops, and she ducks her head, pretending to double-check her helmet.

Andrea told me that might happen too. And fuck, I get it. I remember that feeling all too well.

At first, I couldn’t fucking fathom how anyone could laugh or joke or even enjoy a single fucking thing after Hope died. Then came the moments where I laughed or made a joke. Fuck, the guilt hit like a sledgehammer. How the fuck could I feel happy?

So I understand that part, and I hate that my Angel has to suffer through that as well.

We mount up, our hogs roaring to life before we follow two of the SUVs, JD’s hog next to mine with Jols on the back like that’s exactly where she belongs.

Trailing behind us are Vender, Trigger, Brody, Trunk, Murf and Stocky, with the last two SUVs coming up the rear.

It’s a twenty-minute ride from Redfield Lake to the new compound on the fringe of Fox Pines. We have a smooth run, not encountering any issues like rival clubs, cops, or fucking pandemic roadblocks.

The fucking urge to just keep riding is a huge fucking pull. What I’d give to be done with the bullshit of life and just hit the open road with my Angel’s arms wrapped around me.

Fuck, we probably wouldn’t get far if she was dressed like she is now in all that leather.

But today isn’t about me.

Hell, it’s not even about her.

Today is for the Southern Sadists MC, and our fallen brothers.

The Marx escort pulls up outside the compound gates, where they’ll hold position for the day, clearing the road for us to enter.

Abbey’s fingers dig into my cut as she stiffens behind me, and I can tell she’s taking everything in as we ride down the long driveway in a silent procession. A low rumble of grief and honour.

The space in front of the barn, which we now call the yard, is packed. Club brothers are everywhere, all in their cuts, their bikes in a line on the far side, settled under the huge trees, out of the sun.

But it’s the eight bikes parked in a row in the centre of the yard that hits the hardest.

Seeing them… remembering who we are here to farewell… puts a huge lump in my throat.

Fuck.

Pulling up, we park our rides with the others, our engines falling silent, one by one.

Dozens of eyes land on us as we dismount, and I see Abbey tense, her shoulders stiff the second she feels the weight of the crowd.

Lifting the visor, her tear-glazed eyes lock with mine.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispers, and I step in close, making sure I’m the only thing she sees right now.

“Angel, you don’t have to. If at any stage it gets too much, you can bow out. No one will question it. You can go inside the barn if you prefer.”

Her lower lip trembles, and she shifts, peering past me towards the sea of Southern Sadists.

“They must all hate me,” she whispers again, one tear escaping before she swipes it away through the visor.

“Trust me, they don’t,” I say, hoping she can hear the truth in my tone. “They are your family now, Angel. They’ve been worried sick over what happened to you and…” I trail off because fuck, even I can’t bring myself to speak about her baby today.

She blows out a breath… and then another, like she’s trying to gather every broken piece of her heart.

When her eyes lock with mine again, she gives me a nod, climbs off my hog, and tugs off her helmet .

Fuck me. What is it about a woman taking off a helmet and letting her hair tumble free?

“Where will they be buried?” she asks, setting her helmet on the back of my bike.