Page 12 of Beautifully Shattered (Secrets & Scars #3)

“No burials here, Angel. Our fallen have already been cremated. They’ll rest forever in a memorial wall, just over by the big oak tree.” I gesture across the yard, past the pool, to the massive tree.

“Oh…” she murmurs, and I turn to catch the frown pinching her brows. “I assumed your club would do a whole burial thing.”

Leaning in conspiratorially, I smirk at her. “Cremation burns the evidence. No bodies. No DNA. No loose ends. No digging up our dead, Angel.”

“But wouldn’t you want the police to have the evidence to find whoever did it?”

I shake my head. “Yeah-nah. That’s not how the Southern Sadists roll. We take care of shit ourselves. No pigs involved.”

“You have them as allies, though. Like that police officer in Fox Pines.” Her frown deepens, and fuck, it’s cute.

“We've got some in our pocket. But we’re outlaws, beautiful. We live by our own set of rules. Not theirs.” Reaching out, I graze my fingers over her cheek before brushing her soft blonde strands behind her ear. “Sure, the pigs help when it suits us, but justice?” I shrug. “That’s ours to serve.”

Her caramel gaze flicks up to mine, and something like understanding flashes behind them.

She’s starting to get it.

“Come on. I’ve got something to show you before the service starts.” I take her hand, ignoring the stares we’re getting, and lead her to the scrubby patch near the barn that reeks of stale piss.

She smells it immediately, pinching her nose as she cringes.

I chuckle.

“Are there no toilets here?” She sounds nasally with her fingers still closing off her nose.

“There are, but this is the sacred spot my brothers love to piss. Right where we usually keep the mangy dog tied up.”

Her brows hitch, and she drops her hand from her nose, her eyes snapping to mine.

“You’ve been keeping Wendy here?”

I nod. “She gets this sweet aroma, day in, day out.”

Abbey scoffs. “I wouldn’t call it sweet.” She shivers with another cringe. “It’s fitting for that bitch, though.”

This time, it’s my brows that hike up, taking in the fire in her eyes as she glares down at the chain looped around a tree that Wendy is normally locked to.

The old Abbey would find this unacceptable. Probably would’ve lost it over seeing this, her soft, gentle heart not able to take such inhumane treatment. But that girl is gone now. I need to keep reminding myself of that.

A bike horn blares, and we both turn as the crowd starts moving around the motorcycles parked in the centre of the yard.

“Service is starting,” I mutter, glancing down at my wife. “You wanna go into the barn?”

Eyeing the crowd, she pauses for a moment before shaking her head, and fuck, I didn’t realise just how much I wanted her to stay. To stand beside me and honour my club brothers.

“They’re dead because of me,” she says, voice flat. “The least I can do is farewell them, too.”

I want to correct her. They aren’t dead because of her.

I hate that she’s blaming herself, so really, she doesn’t have to farewell them out of obligation.

But I’m a selfish fucker and reminding her that there’s something bigger going on might talk her out of joining me for the service, meaning I’d be alone.

I never used to be bothered by that, but since meeting her… since marrying her, I realise I want her by my side for everything from now on.

I don’t have to do things alone anymore.

So, instead of talking her out of it, I reach out and take her hand before leading her into the yard.

Joining my club, I feel Abbey’s grip tighten in mine as Doxies offer her warm but sad smiles, and my brothers bow their heads, like she’s royalty.

She’s not the queen of our club, but she’s my fucking queen, and they all know it.

They all respect it.

And they’d all bleed for her, because she’s part of the Southern Sadists family now. And that fucking means something in this found family of ours.

Up the front, Smitty stands with his wife, Jols’ mum, Maureen, and next to them, Spud has his arm wrapped around his old lady, as the two women quietly cry.

As we approach, Jols steps up and hugs her mum, her eyes finding us as she pulls back before doing a quick, quiet introduction.

“Mum, this is Abbey.”

My Angel offers a nod. The kind that holds warmth and sympathy and a helluva lot of respect .

How she manages it given her own grief, I have no fucking clue.

Smitty and Spud each offer their condolences to my wife, pressing respectful kisses to her cheek.

Her palm is sweaty in mine, her grip tight, and there’s a slight tremble running through it.

I can feel how on edge she is. I bet she’s thinking about fleeing.

I wouldn’t blame her. Her fucking daughter died a week ago today. The fact that she’s even here says everything about how fucking strong she is.

Behind us, the eight motorbikes roar to life, and Abbey flinches, glancing over her shoulder, confusion pinching her brow.

She has no clue what will happen at a Southern Sadists funeral, but she doesn’t ask any questions. She simply shifts a little closer and takes it all in.

Another engine fires up in front of us, and we glance past Smitty to see the hearse bike.

There are no coffins in it, only boxes. Eight of them. Holding the ashes of our fallen brothers.

Abbey’s trembling grows stronger as the reality of today’s events sink in, so I tug her closer, keeping her hand in mine as her other hand reaches across her body, clinging to my arm.

This is exactly where she should be. Right here next to me.

Always.

The hearse bike slowly idles forward, and we trail behind on foot, rounding the pool area until we reach the oak tree, and the new wall, freshly built from stone.

The eight bikes of our fallen idle behind us in a tight formation, ridden by their closest brothers, breaking off as they reach the tree, and parking them at either end of the memorial wall, before draping the cuts of our lost over the handlebars.

Abbey is sniffing, clutching onto me as she trembles from the wave of emotion that flows through the crowd.

Jols steps up on my Angel’s other side, offering a tissue before running her hand up and down Abbey’s back in comfort, and we watch on silently as the riders who brought the fallen’s bikes move over to the hearse, each one retrieving a metal box.

Each urn is stamped with the Southern Sadists MC death head, road dust worked into the design like scars around their names.

They carry them with reverence, placing each box gently on the boulder in the centre of the memorial site, before Smitty steps forward and turns to face our club.

“Club brother, Stoner. Otherwise known as Theo Watson.” Smitty calls out the name of our first fallen, his voice steady but hard with grief.

Every club brother thumps his hand to his heart.

“Club brother, Tucker. Otherwise known as Freddie Tuckerson.”

Another round of thumps fill the air.

“Club brother, Mule. Otherwise known as Jamie Halley.”

More thumps, but this time, Abbey’s knees buckle next to me, and a strangled sob escapes her.

I catch her with both arms, holding her up, and Jols moves quickly to steady her from the other side.

Fuck.

Jols told me about the bond Abbey had formed with Mule. He was the one I’d ordered to be her shadow and watch her back while I was away. I hadn’t told her he was one of the dead. Mainly because she didn’t ask, and I didn’t have the fucking balls to add that to the weight already crushing her.

“Club brother, Kite. Otherwise known as Rory Stein.”

Another round of thumps.

“Club brother, Roadie. Otherwise known as Tim Vega.”

Thump.

“Club brother, Barts. Otherwise known as Darryl Martin.”

Thump.

“Club brother, Bowey. Otherwise known as Ray Bowey.”

Thump.

“And lastly, club brother, Zeus. Otherwise known as Kevin Leeds.”

Thump.

The air is thick with grief. Whimpers and sniffles fill the crowd behind us, mostly from Doxies, but some of the men, too.

Even tough bastards break when it’s one of our own.

Smitty gives a nod to the side, and Celina, Casey, Nola and Helina step forward, each carrying trays lined with shot glasses.

They move through the crowd, offering one to each club brother, and to any Doxies, wives or old ladies who wish to raise a glass.

At the front, Smitty lifts his shot high, and Vender steps up beside our Prez, his voice rough as he speaks a few kind words about Stoner.

Then he raises his own glass.

“Stoner’s drink of choice,” Vender calls, his voice cracking with emotion. “Tequila.”

We all lift our shots, and beside me, I can feel Abbey taking everything in, her head moving from one side then the other.

“We toast,” Vender calls, and we all chant .

“One for the road, brother.”

We all slam back the foul tequila, the burn cutting through the lump of grief clogging my throat.

Fuck, that shot is harsh. Fucking fitting for today, if you ask me.

The Doxies return, offering another round. We swap our empties for full glasses as Spud steps forward, this time, sharing a story about Tucker that has us snickering at the old guy’s antics, before we fall silent and Spud raises his glass.

“Tucker’s drink of choice. Jimmy,” Spud calls. “We toast.”

Again, we all chant. “One for the road, brother.”

Since I’m not much of a drinker these days, the bourbon burns, but it’s fucking welcome, warming my chest as it settles.

Next, Mex steps up, shot already in hand, his story darker and violent about Mule, our silent predator. The man who kept to the shadows, suffered in silence, but fucking always had your back.

These stories aren’t sugar-coated. They’re not about painting saints.

They’re about honour. Truth.

About the men who lived and bled beside us. Who died protecting what we stand for.

Their sacrifice will never be forgotten.

As Helina passes with the tray, I swap out my glass, and Abbey grabs one too, her tear-filled eyes flicking up to meet mine, her cheeks flushed and wet.

It’s like she’s silently asking if it’s okay for her to take a shot. Asking for permission.

Right now, her submissive side is present. It’s probably the closest she’s been to the old Abbey as she stares up with those big doe eyes, seeking approval .

She doesn’t need my permission to have a drink, but fuck, if she needs it, I’ll give it, so I nod, watching her submissive gaze lower as she bows her head, her shoulders relaxing before turning her attention back to Mex.

“Mule’s drink of choice. Bundy,” he announces, and we all raise our glasses as he finishes. “We toast.”

“One for the road, brother,” we chant, then down the rum.

Fuck. That shit is like rocket fuel.

Naturally, my gaze drops to my Angel to see how she’s faring after the rancid shot.

She hasn’t touched a drop since I’ve known her, given she’s nothing like Kylie, and would never risk harming her baby. But she’s not pregnant anymore.

She shudders, her pretty face twisting as the Bundy hits her, trying to shake off the strong molasses burn, coughing a little as her watery eyes dart up to mine.

I offer her a small smile, taking her empty glass just as the next tray makes its rounds. Clearing her throat, she hooks her arm through mine, holding on like she’s scared I’ll vanish into thin fucking air. And fuck, it grounds me feeling her tight grip.

Things between us have been tense up until the late hours of last night, when I thought we had somewhat figured ourselves out… but her coldness this morning has had me on edge again.

I need to remember what Andrea said and give her the space to go through each emotion that hits her and be there ready with open arms when she needs me.

Like right now.

Fuck, it feels good to be wanted by her.

We go through the ritual for each of our fallen, shot after shot, memory after memory .

It’s brutal. Crushing. A stark reminder of how precious life is.

Once all the empties have been set aside, Vender opens each urn, scooping a small portion of ashes from each one and places them into a single stone bowl, mixing them together.

Eight lives.

One brotherhood.

Glancing down at my Angel, I notice her curiosity and remember what she said the day we got married. That us bikers were poetic.

And fuck, maybe she’s right, because what we’re about to do next is sacred. It’s not something you’ll see at any civilian funeral.