Page 13 of Beautifully Shattered (Secrets & Scars #3)

I ’ve never known a funeral to be like this. There’s so much honour. So much grief, yet also so much celebration. This service is, well… unexpected, but utterly beautiful, and for the first time since Bobbi died a week ago, I let myself think about how I’ll honour the few minutes she lived.

It’s something I’ve been avoiding. When Ace called Ringo a few days ago and asked if I needed help choosing a casket, I completely shut down.

All I wanted was to smash the vase on the table, straight into Ringo’s skull, and that… terrified me.

He was just the messenger, and Ace was just trying to help as well.

But my rage has been consuming me. I haven’t even tried to fight it, if I’m being honest with myself.

Why should I?

Why should I push it down just to make other people more comfortable?

They don’t know what this is like. They haven’t lost a child… Except, that’s not true, is it?

Ringo has.

Jols was right. Our experiences aren’t the same, but he knows this kind of heartache.

I have to keep reminding myself of that. Remind myself that he loves me . That I love him . That he’d do anything for me.

Because sometimes, the rage inside me wants to take over. It wants to destroy. It wants to make this whole world suffer.

And sometimes, I want to let it.

Music starts playing from a hidden speaker, and my brows shoot up when the heavy beat drops.

“It’s a playlist of their favourite songs,” Ringo rasps quietly in my ear, picking up on my confusion. “Today, their music is the only music we’ll hear.”

Ohhh. I love that.

That’s so special.

My thoughts shift to Bobbi’s funeral, and my gut twists.

She never got to listen to music. Never got to decide what she did and didn’t like.

Does that mean her funeral will be silent?

“Hey.” Ringo’s warm palm comes up to cup my cheek as he shifts in front of me. “What can I do?”

Shit.

I bet he knows I’m thinking about my little girl. He’s so perceptive. Especially when it comes to me.

It makes me feel guilty for the real reason I agreed to come today. I hate myself a little for it, but I’m also glad. It’s what got me here today. Because as hard as this is. I needed this. The reminder of how fiercely the Southern Sadists take care of their own.

“Nothing,” I breathe. “I’m okay. Promise.”

He doesn’t buy my lie. I see it in his eyes, almost like I’ve let him down.

Did he want me to ask him for help?

Maybe.

But I just can’t.

Not right now.

Not yet.

Leaning in, he presses a kiss to my forehead, his beard brushing my skin, and my eyes flutter closed, soaking in the feel of him. His scent wraps around me, and for a moment, I’m cocooned in the safety of his presence.

“Come on, Angel.” He eases back, his dark eyes locking with mine the second they blink open. “Let’s go.”

I frown but let him lace our fingers together and lead me to a line forming by the boulder where Vender is now sitting. The familiar buzzing sound instantly takes me back to our wedding day, when Ringo got my name tattooed on his finger, and I got his forever etched into mine.

It’s a tattoo machine.

“What’s happening?” I whisper, rising on my toes to get a better look past the wall of the bikers already in line.

“Vender has mixed the ashes with ink,” Ringo says quietly. “And now, each club brother will get our fallen brothers’ names inked on them.”

My brows shoot up in surprise.

Yet another truly honourable thing to do .

God, all we do at funerals is pray to a made-up deity, and talk about the dead like they were saints, even if they weren’t. We drop flowers into their graves, then eat and drink, and move on.

Okay, so maybe that’s a slightly jaded summary, because obviously it’s more meaningful to those that are closest to whoever died, but still. We don’t do stuff like this.

As we move up the line, I get a better view just as Mex takes his turn. He shrugs out of his vest and pulls off his shirt, revealing a torso of art already inked into his skin, but on his side, there’s a blank patch, and I realise it’s under what looks to be a list.

“All of my club brothers have a list inked on them somewhere. A list of fallen men they called their brother at some point over the years.” Ringo’s voice is rough, laced with emotion as he speaks quietly beside me.

“Some lists are longer than others, depending on how long they’ve been patched in…

but today, that list grows. Substantially. ”

I glance up at my husband, his eyes trained on Mex, his expression filled with sorrow.

“Eight names. Eight lives lost in one night. Eight brothers we’ll never ride beside again.”

Hot tears sting my eyes, and guilt nearly has me collapsing. But I force myself to keep it together, because this isn’t about me. This is about Ringo. About his club. And the men he loved like brothers.

I turn back, watching Mex’s face as Vender tattoos the names into his bronze skin. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. But when it’s done, he and Vender clap hands and pull into a rough hug, before Mex steps aside, making room for the next man to take his place .

When it’s Ringo’s turn, he takes me with him, passing me his vest and shirt before linking our fingers again and tugging me close on one side. On the other, Vender gets to work on the list.

Ringo doesn’t flinch as the needle scrapes ink into his skin. He just stands there, silent and patient, soaking in the pain, like he deserves it.

In a matter of minutes, Vender is finished, and Ringo releases me, clapping his palm with Vender and pulling him in for the same bro-hug Mex gave.

When they pull apart, Ringo takes my hand again, leading us off to the side. His eyes fall to his ribs, scanning the list I hadn’t realised was a list until now.

But now it’s longer.

Forever etched into his skin. Eight new names added to it.

Stoner Tucker Mule Kite Roadie Barts Bowey Zeus

It’s permanent, and poetically brutal.

Reaching out, I run my finger gently over the names, feeling the skin raised beneath the black ink.

“I’m bound to them now. Through blood and ash,” he chokes out, clearing his throat as our eyes meet. “It’s how we keep our fallen brothers with us. Always. ”

I swallow hard, my vision blurring my view of his ruggedly handsome face.

His hand dives into my hair, tugging me against the heat of his bare chest, and I wrap my arms around him, never wanting to let go.

He turns us away from the crowd, shielding this moment of raw grief. It gives us a sliver of solitude to mourn a tragedy that should never have happened.

We stay wrapped in each other for a long time. The music changes from heavy to soft rock, then to something quirky I’ve never heard, before we finally ease apart.

“I’ve been pissed at Smitty lately… for trying to drag me back into club business.

” He trails off, his eyes drifting over my head to the gathered crowd beyond.

“I didn’t want to think about any of this,” his gaze flicks down to me, “because I wanted to keep my focus on you. My beautiful, grieving wife.” He brushes my hair back with both hands, cradling my face between his rough palms. “You’re my number one priority. I’ll do anything for you…”

He trails off again, and I blink up again, my stomach knotting as dread seeps in.

“But?” I ask, because it sounds like there should be a but.

He sighs, bringing his forehead to mine in that way he loves, so close now that I can see flecks of black in his whiskey eyes.

“But they’re my family. And you’re my family.” He eases back slightly, his gaze flicking to my lips before returning to my eyes. “Somehow, I’ve got to figure out how to make that fit together.”

I frown, not sure where he’s going with this, but he keeps talking, like the emotions of the day have cracked him open, and now the dam inside him is pouring out .

“Men like me don’t get much by the way of happiness during our shitty existence, Angel. We get fleeting moments, few and fucking far between, and most of us don’t ever find real love.”

My heart flips, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he looks at me like I’m the most precious thing on Earth.

“Instead, I found acceptance. Community. In the club. In my brothers. A found family, built not by blood, but by choice and loyalty. For a lot of the guys, it’s the only family they’ve ever had.

” His gaze shifts over my head to the crowd again, but his hold on my head never wavers.

Like he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll run.

He knows me too well, but I’m done running from him.

“Me… well, I’ve got my ma and sisters. I’ve got the club, and my fucking ride-or-dies in JD, Murf, Trunk, Stocky and Jols.” His whiskey eyes lock onto mine again. “And now I have you.”

I nod against his hands, and he releases my head, one arm sliding around my back to hold me close, all while his eyes stay locked on mine as I crane my head back to meet them.

“You do have me.”

“I don’t know that I deserve all the love I’m getting, Angel,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “But I’ll fucking take it. Because we both know too fucking well, how fast it can all be ripped away.”

My lip trembles as I give in to my own emotions.

I think he’s trying to make a declaration. Trying to say what he can’t quite explain. How torn he is between me and his club. Two polar opposites. Two worlds that were never meant to blend.

But here’s the thing… The violence that runs through the veins of the Southern Sadists is now coursing through mine, too. I’m not the same girl I was a week ago.

Now, when I close my eyes, I picture violence. Blood and gore. It’s always there now, lurking under the surface like it’s always been there waiting. I just couldn’t see it until now.

Hell, I dream about things I’ve only ever seen in horror movies.

Because I’m that angry.

At the world.

At the arseholes that raped me. Tormented me. Traumatised me.

At my parents and sister.

At everyone really, even if I shouldn’t be mad at them.