Page 15 of Beautifully Shattered (Secrets & Scars #3)

I was expecting glares and even harsh words from the club brothers and the Doxies today.

After all, eight of their own are dead because of me.

But not one person has been cruel. Instead, I’ve been met with quiet sympathy, gentle hugs from Doxies, and more whispered condolences than I know what to do with.

I should feel anything but this rage that is waiting to explode from me, yet its claws are in deep, not letting me go. It doesn’t matter how many people offer their respects. It won’t bring my Bobbi back, and it won’t sate this violent beast unfurling inside me.

The sun is setting now, the club gathered around a furious bonfire, music of the eight dead still playing over the speakers.

The motorcycles of the fallen are parked off to the side, their leather vests draped back over the handlebars, like each man is still sitting there, watching on from the afterlife.

No matter how many times I try to look away, my gaze keeps falling to Stoner’s and Mule’s bikes. Tucker’s too.

They died at Ringo’s house trying to protect me.

No matter how many times I try to tell myself it wasn’t my fault, my brain comes to the same conclusion.

I was the reason they were there.

I was the reason Ian Allen and his men stormed the property.

I was the reason Ian arranged for the rival club to ambush the compound.

All of it… falls back to me.

A gunshot suddenly cracks through the air, making me jump. Ringo’s arms give me a reassuring squeeze as Smitty’s voice booms over the chatter, my eyes darting to him to see his hand raised, and in it, the gun pointing towards the sky.

“They rode hard. They died harder.” He lowers his gun, pointing it at the grass by his feet. “Now they ride free. In Valhalla. In the wind. In us.”

Someone hurls fuel into the fire, and the flames explode higher as heat licks our skin, even at the distance we are standing.

Some in the crowd cheer. Others weep. A few shoot bullets skyward, while others mount their bikes and rev their engines before tearing around the bonfire in donuts that kick up dust.

“You doing okay, Angel?” Ringo’s low rasp brushes my ear as he leans down, and I pull back from his chest to nod up at him.

“I’m okay…” I bite my lip, my eyes scanning over the chaos unravelling around us. “I guess this is kind of like a wake? ”

His lips kick up slightly as he brushes some of my hair back behind my ear.

“Yeah. This is the part where we celebrate them. The life they shared with us.”

I nod, even though the word celebrate feels wrong. I know this is a normal process of farewelling someone who has died, but it’s hard to understand how anyone can smile, let alone laugh, at a time like this.

“What’s going through that head of yours?” Ringo asks, eyes locked on me, always observant.

“I guess… I just don’t get how they can laugh right now.”

He watches me for a beat, the fire casting shadows across his face, one side lit in gold, the other cloaked in black. His thumb grazes my cheek, warm from the flames that feel closer than they are.

“Well, Angel. It’s a form of honouring our dead.

They aren’t here anymore, so we have to live for them.

” He glances up, eyes skimming the groups around us, each one wrapped in their own conversations.

Their own grief. “They’re telling stories.

Laughing at the stupid shit they did. Remembering who they were.

Keeping them alive by speaking their names, because today is about them.

Our dead.” His eyes flick back to mine. “Grief is a fucking bastard. It’s messy and loud and confusing as hell.

But if you let it run through you. If you stop fighting it…

that’s when you start to get stronger. That’s how the healing begins. ”

“I still stand by what I said on our wedding day.” I grin up at him. “You guys are poets. Nothing you say can change my mind about that.”

His lips stretch wider, a real smile tugging at the corners this time, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. Then, his smile fades, and his eyes turn more haunted than I’ve ever seen them.

“Thank you for coming today. I know it’s been hard.”

Reaching up, I cup his jaw, loving the feel of his beard against my palm.

“I thought I was just coming for you,” I say softly, “but I quickly realised I was here for me, too.”

He nods, probably thinking I mean saying goodbye to his club brothers. And yeah, that’s part of it, but it’s not the whole truth.

I came here today to seek justice. That’s all I had on my mind when we left this morning. All I thought about as we rode up the long driveway of the compound.

But witnessing the funerals here today… I realised I wasn’t just here to seek justice for Bobbi… but now I want it for the eight men now nothing but ash in a box, too.

“Are you two ever gonna let go of each other?” JD snickers, deliberately shouldering into us, and I step back as he slings an arm around Ringo’s shoulders.

“Come join us. I was trying to tell Brody about that time Stoner picked up that chick in Adelaide, and you ran into her in the pisser, nearly fucking choking on your saliva when she whipped out a dick and started pissing in the urinal next to you.” JD cackles, smacking Ringo’s back.

“Come on. You tell the story so much better.”

A genuine smile breaks out across Ringo’s face, and wow, I love seeing it. Just for a second, the weight seems to lift off his shoulders.

“Fine,” he laughs, as JD pulls him towards the others. “You coming, Angel?”

This is it. My chance. It’s now or never .

“I’ll join you in a few minutes.” I flash him a small, fake smile. “I need to pee, and…” I point to my engorged boobs, and his brows shoot up.

“Oh, shit. Yeah. Of course.”

He looks a little nervous, which is odd to see, but this whole milk in boob situation is new for the both of us.

Andrea sent me some links to watch instructions on expressing some of the milk by hand to give a bit of relief. Maybe I should have shown Ringo too. It could help him understand better.

That will have to wait though. I have other matters that need tending to first.

“I’ll be back soon.” I wave him off, and for a moment, he hesitates.

His feet stop moving, and I worry he can see straight through my lie, but I shoo him with a flick of my hand, and he smirks, shooting me a wink before jogging to catch up with JD.

Not wanting to draw attention, I head to the barn, slipping inside where I know there’s a toilet the Doxies have been using.

The barn is empty and quiet, so I linger in the doorway, peeking back out at the crowd, noticing everyone is busy talking, drinking… grieving.

My gaze flicks over to the shipping container that sits alone. It’s on a patch of dirt, bald of grass, and the door is slightly ajar with a spray-painted warning on it.

Southern Sadists Only!

I know what’s under it.

The dungeon .

It used to be part of the old Vixen’s Lodge before it burnt down. The dungeon is the only thing that survived, hidden under the rubble, its metal walls cased in concrete protecting it from the inferno.

Jols gave up the details about it easily this morning, probably not realising I had a plan. Not realising I wanted to know where they were keeping their dog while the funerals were taking place.

Sucking in a breath to steady myself, mostly because I’m desperate not to get caught, I slip out of the barn and into the shadows, darting from tree to tree until I get close enough to the shipping container and slip inside.

There’s a hatch in the floor, and I flip it open, surprised it’s lighter than it looks.

Hovering over the opening, I stare down into the black void, and regret still not having a phone… again.

It’d be great if people would stop kidnapping me so I can keep a phone longer than five bloody minutes.

Glancing around the dim container, my eyes catch on a tangle of wires snaking up the wall to a switch. Rushing forward, I flick it on, and the space floods with harsh light, but so does the opening in the floor, illuminating a steep staircase that travels down to a metal door.

The dungeon.

Just knowing this place exists creeps me out.

I remember reading about it in the newspaper last year, back when the investigation blew open a trafficking ring and the illegal sex club operating out of the house. The dungeon was put in by the owner, who called himself Master, and the evidence they found in there was damning .

That gives me the ick, but the fact it’s currently holding someone I want dead is enough for me to step down under the earth. Because it’s time for some justice. Or vengeance. However you want to look at it.

The metal door is bolted shut, but I quickly slide it across and shove it open.

The room is already lit up, probably controlled by the switch I flicked on upstairs, so I quickly scan the space.

This end holds a table, some tools, and a couple of chairs. At the other end… a naked woman with dark short hair, sticking up in wild clumps, is curled in on herself.

Closing the door, I watch her flinch, but she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t know it’s me.

Chains rattle at her wrists as she shifts, stretching out to the wall and bolted in place.

She’s not going anywhere.

In the corner is a bucket, and I cringe as I realise the pungent stench that nearly has me gagging is coming from it.

Urine. Faeces. Vomit.

A vile shiver ripples through me.

“Because of you, my baby is dead.”

My words come out loud, echoing off the walls, and in an instant, Wendy’s head jerks up, her dark eyes locking with mine, wide with shock. She stares at me before glancing behind me like she’s expecting Ringo to walk in.

Tough luck, bitch.

“My husband said he kept you alive for me.” I step forward, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.

I should feel nervous right now… right?

Shouldn’t I be freaking out? Shaking? Crying?

I’m not, though.

What I feel is colder than that. A cocktail of numbness, and something that tastes almost like anticipation.