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CHAPTER NINE

Margot

Grief doesn’t follow a dress code.

The house is packed. Men in leather cuts, dark denim, a few suits, a handful of women in revealing black-and-silver dresses, and a few in more regular funeral attire.

I have to squeeze through groups of loud, boisterous men clustered in the hallway. Their voices bounce off the old walls, lively and hearty despite the occasion. I stop and straighten a flower arrangement that doesn’t need fixing. It’s me. I need something to do to keep my mind off of Jigsaw.

I feel him.

Feel his presence in the house, even though I haven’t actually seen him yet. That low, electric hum my body only seems to recognize when he’s nearby.

I shouldn’t allow myself to get distracted.

There’s too much work to do.

But the days of silence from Jigsaw have me questioning everything. And also… angry . Something I thought I’d never be with him.

Job. Focus. Be present. These people are here to celebrate Mr. Hall’s life. They deserve my full attention.

My gaze lands on Abby, seated in a corner near her father’s customized casket. Shiny black lacquer with silver hardware that catches the light streaming in from the windows. The engraved Wolf Knights MC emblem we rush-ordered and added to the casket matches perfectly.

Abby’s curled into herself, hands clenched around a crumpled tissue, mascara smeared under her eyes. Alone, in a room full of men who called her father “brother.”

Why the hell is she sitting alone?

I grab a fresh box of tissues and thread through the crowd. Leather cuts brush against my arms. Heavy boots thud dully over carpet. Low murmurs. A cough. A stifled sob. And somewhere outside, the constant rumble of Harleys, coming and going.

“Hey,” I say softly.

Abby jerks upright like she’s just remembered where she is.

I crouch beside her, offer the tissues. She grabs a handful without meeting my eyes.

“Thanks,” she whispers, voice raw.

I drag a chair closer to her and sit. “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine.” She pauses, then reaches out and takes my hand. Her grip surprises me—tight, needy. “Thank you for everything. I must’ve driven you crazy with all my calls and texts this week.”

“Not at all,” I say. “It’s what I’m here for.”

She gives me a watery smile that slips almost as fast as it appears. Her gaze flicks up and scans the room. Every direction. Not at anyone in particular. Just...the crowd.

And then the smile dies altogether. “Never get involved with a biker, Margot.”

Pain squeezes my throat. “I’m sorry?”

She laughs, bitter and sharp. “The club always comes first. No matter what.”

Now we’re treading into awkward territory.

I have dozens of responses memorized for grieving loved ones.

For this, I have nothing. It hits too close to home.

Is that where Jigsaw’s been, doing something for his club?

Wrath didn’t say that when I spoke to him, but why would he?

I’m just the girlfriend of one of his brothers, not someone he’d share club matters with.

Unless they’re asking me to cremate someone for the club.

No. I push that thought away. The club’s business arrangement with my father and my relationship with Jigsaw have nothing to do with each other.

“I’m sorry it must’ve felt that way at times,” I finally say, then wince. That sounded patronizing.

“Oh, trust me.” Her eyes narrow, meeting mine. “It is.”

“It must be hard having so many people from the club here, then,” I whisper, feeling like a traitor since Ulfric paid all the bills but not wanting to ignore Abby’s feelings.

“Yes and no.” Her gaze darts around the room, and lands on Ulfric standing in a group of men—one I recognize as Rock, the president of the upstate Lost Kings, his son Teller, and a wiry, craggy-looking older man who looks like he rode through a tornado without stopping to be here.

“Ulfric was like an uncle to me when I was little. He was always nice. My father’s responsible for his own choices.

” A faint smile ghosts her lips. “He and my dad owned a drive-in theater when I was a kid. It was one of my favorite places to be in the summers. I have a lot of happy memories there.” The smile slides off her face.

“But when my mom had enough of his cheating and divorced him, she moved us across the country, and I never really saw him much after that. She didn’t want my brother joining the MC too, so she got us as far away as she could. ”

“Did your brother join them?” I don’t even think her brother showed up for the funeral.

“God, no.” She sighs and sits up straighter. “My dad could’ve had visitation with us in the summers, but he only bothered once. Having us around during ‘riding season’ was an inconvenience, you know?”

So much of Abby’s bitterness makes sense now.

“He moved to be closer to me, recently. He wanted to get to know my kids but never wanted to really discuss the past. Own up to it. Apologize. Nothing.” She lets out a strained laugh. “Like, how dare I harbor some resentment about him abandoning me for all those years.”

This isn’t our first client or even the hundredth whose grief rubs against their unprocessed abandonment issues. It’s still hard to think of an appropriate response.

“It’s hard for some people to own up to their mistakes.” That seems like the safest thing to say. “They’d rather pretend it didn’t happen and move on. That doesn’t mean you’re required to do the same.”

She frowns as if she’s working through my words. I hope I didn’t offend her.

“Wow,” she breathes out. “Thank you for saying that, Margot.”

Her voice is softer now. Less bitter.

I squeeze her hand gently, then stand.

“You sure you don’t need anything?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. I’m okay. He really wanted this,” she says, gesturing toward the casket and the room full of men in leather. “Thank you for working so hard to make it all come together.”

“Of course.” There’s still so much left to do but at least we got this part right.

I step away from Abby and circulate through the room.

Different leather vests with various states stitched into the bottom of the back patches— Montana, Idaho, Nomad .

Huh, that’s different. The scent of leather, oil, cologne, smoke, and flowers fills the air—a little grittier than the normal funeral scents.

In the hallway, I bump into my father. “Everything’s going well,” he says in a low voice, his gaze flicking around. “All the permits are in the glove box.”

“Got it.” I flick my pen over the checklist on my small clipboard. “We have our escorts and the route ready.” I lower my voice. “Ulfric says his men will take care of the few road closures we need but Slater PD said they want to handle Main Street.”

He nods once. “I’ll speak to Ulfric about that one.”

“Thanks.”

“Wrath says they’ll assist with a perimeter at the cemetery. It seems like overkill but,” he shrugs, “I’m not about to argue with him.”

My lips quirk. “No, I suppose not.” Does that mean Jigsaw will be there too?

Nope. Not now. I wrap up things with my dad and move on to the refreshment table, dispose of empty paper plates and wadded up napkins.

Someone gently bumps my shoulder, a light, warm presence. “Dear God,” April whispers in my ear. “That tall, intense one with the murdery vibe, wearing the dark blue plaid flannel under his leather vest, hasn’t taken his eyes off you all morning.”

“What are you talking about?” I laugh then quickly smooth my expression into something respectful.

I turn and scan the room. More than half the men in attendance today qualify as “tall, intense, and murdery.”

But I don’t have to ask who she’s referring to. The weight of Jigsaw’s gaze weighs heavy on my skin even before our eyes meet.

There he is.

My breath catches.

April’s right. Even though he’s in a loose circle with three other bikers, his eyes are on me.

Waving like an infatuated teenager would be more than inappropriate. Besides, what I really want to do is throw my clipboard in his face. Ask him where he’s been. What the hell’s going on.

“Yup. Tall and scary,” April murmurs. “My goodness.”

“He’s not scary,” I mutter.

He’s a dangerous heartbreak waiting to happen.

“Ohhh,” she says under her breath, somehow managing to keep a placid, professional expression in place while subtly teasing me. “He’s the guy you’re kind of seeing?”

I lift one shoulder, afraid to admit all the things I feel for him.

“A biker, huh?” She raises her eyebrows but not her voice. “Did your dad shit a brick?”

“No, he likes him.”

“Go, Mr. Cedarwood.” She chuckles softly. “Learning how to unclench at his age isn’t easy.”

“April!” I scold in a harsh whisper.

“I’m teasing. Introduce me to him after the service.”

“Not if you’re going to call him scary and murdery.”

“Ooo.” She raises her eyebrows. “I’ll try.”

“Go refill the guestbook pens before you say something even worse.” I give her a light shove.

“On it, boss.” She grins and hurries away.

Shaking my head, I finish clearing debris off the table.

A shadow falls over me. My skin prickles from scalp to toes.

“Can I talk to you for second?” Jigsaw’s warm breath caresses my cheek. Warm shivers slide down my spine.

“I’m working,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Margot.”

Just my name. But from his mouth, it’s a trigger.

Damn it.

Why can’t I resist his raspy, pleading tone?

I turn, slow and deliberate, and stare up at his contrite expression. No. Something more than contrite. Haunted.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“I’ll explain.” He glances around. “Later. I promise.”

Why, why, why does he have to sound like that—like gravel and regret. All while he stands there looking like sex and apologies wrapped in flannel and leather.