“The body of Christ,” the Priest says when I reach the front of the line, pressing a wafer onto my tongue. I close my mouth and savour the thin piece of cracker as it dissolves on my tastebuds. We make our way back to our seats, me in the back and Jase sitting with a row of his surviving brothers. Dornan is in front with his current wife—the mother of his fifth and sixth sons—on one side, Chad’s mother on the other. He holds both of their hands with the desperate resignation reserved only for parents who are grieving the loss of their child.
I wonder, briefly, how my mother grieved for me.
Or, if she grieved for me at all.
Everyone stands for a final prayer before the casket is closed. I watch with a sense of satisfaction as Dornan disentangles himself from his current wife and stands, helping Chad’s mother to her feet. The woman is bawling, and inside I feel nothing but cold and bitter intent. Maybe if she had tried harder, her son wouldn’t have grown up to be such a fucking asshole. I feel no regret. The world is a better place without him.
The burial in the cemetery attached to the church is much shorter than the service. A large crowd gathers around, the Priest says a few words, everyone clutches at their rosary beads and at each other, and the coffin is lowered into the perfect rectangular hole that reaches six feet into the ground.
One by one, the immediate family take turns scooping a small shovelful of dirt from next to the hold and emptying it down there. I watch, my eyes alight behind my dark sunglasses, as Chad’s wife, Dornan, and Chad’s mother all drop dirt into his grave before stepping back. Dornan’s bulky arms are around Chad’s wife now, as she weeps for her husband.
My hand itches to take a turn, to press that shovel into fresh earth, scoop it up and fling it down the black hole where Chad will rest forever. Only, in my fantasy, the coffin is open and he is still alive, screaming, open-mouthed, as I shove dirt down his throat, choking him to death all over again.
It is a sickening, yet oddly comforting thought.
As the undertaker takes over filling in the hole, the crowd disperses. Across the crowd, I see Maxi, the third brother, walking away from everyone else and toward an older section of the cemetery.
Someone catches my elbow and I turn to see Jase with a look of thunder on his face. “Come on,” he says, walking abruptly in Maxi’s direction, with me tripping on my heels trying to keep up.
“Where are we going?” I hiss, struggling as he walks faster.
“My car,” he says, pulling me along. We are walking away from most of the crowd, who are offering condolences to Dornan and Chad’s wife at the cemetery gates.
As we pass older gravestones, I see Maxi, the third brother, clearly drunk and pissing on a grave. I continue walking behind Jase, mildly disgusted, until I see the name printed on the headstone.
Juliette Portland.
I look at Maxi’s face, and realise in an instant that he is not so drunk, and that he knows exactly what he is doing. He is laughing as his stream of urine hits the dry stone slab covering my grave, the noise of the liquid against the stone buzzing angrily in my ears.
My knees buckle, and Jase turns to catch me. “Are you okay?” he asks. I tear my gaze away from Maxi and smile weakly at Jase. “Yeah,” I say. “These heels are a bitch to walk in.”
“They look fuckin’ hot, though,” a cloying voice sounds from behind me. I turn to see Jazz, the fifth brother ogling me, his hands on his hips. I raise my eyebrows at him.
“I know,” I reply, looking him up and down before steadying my gaze on his. “That’s why I wear them.”
“It’d be better if they were all you were wearing,” he leers, undressing me with his eyes. He doesn’t scare me. I grew up with my father the president of this motorcycle club. I’ve been dealing with shit like him all of my life.
“That’s the way your daddy likes it,” I say, with a wicked smile and a wink.
Jase suddenly notices Maxi doing up his fly. He looks from the wet patch on my grave to his brother, his hands balling into fists.
“Max,” he says, his voice barely controlled, “did you just take a whizz on that grave?”
Maxi laughs, rearranging his pants. “Bitch deserves it.”
Jase snaps, leaping at his brother so quickly, I barely catch the action with my eyes. He easily pins his bigger, but clumsier and inebriated brother to the ground, laying into him with a series of well-placed punches. I watch at first, fascinated and oddly moved, until it becomes clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. I jump with a start as Jazz appears beside me, close enough for our arms to brush together.
I fight the urge to step away, instead standing my ground.
“That’s the first time little Jason’s left your side all day,” Jazz says. “You might be Pop’s girl, but it looks like there’s more than one Ross ready to stick his dick inside you.”
I fight to keep my face neutral. “What the fuck do you want?” I blurt out, my nerves fraying.
“Sweetie,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m just calling it how I see it. My baby brother’s been following you around like a lost puppy ever since you showed up. And I meant what I said about those fucking shoes. The minute Dornan’s done with you, you’re wearing them while I bend you over a bike and show you a real good time.”
I laugh. “Over my dead body, buddy.”
He shrugs casually. “That can be arranged, darlin’.”
I just shake my head, looking at Jase as he steps in front of us. His hands are covered in blood, and his white shirt is splattered with red, as well. I cast a dirty look at Jazz before I push off on my heels.
I seethe as we walk back to the car, Jazz’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.
Maximilian Ernesto Ross has just earned himself a spot at the top of my hit list. And Jazz, if he isn’t careful, might just find himself next.
SIX
The wake is held, not at the clubhouse like I assumed it would be, but at Dornan’s actual house. The one where his current wife lives; the mother of his fifth and sixth sons. It’s nothing special; a single-storey bungalow-style affair, as drab as they come, to match the drab expression on his wife’s face when she sees me.
As I walk in the door with Jase, she gives me the most withering stare.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say, reaching out to grasp her hand.
She rips her hand away as if my touch has burned her. I’m not offended. I’ve been fucking her husband for a good month, and everybody here knows it.
“Celia,” Jase says sharply. She turns to him, her body language dismissing me as if I don’t exist, and pulls him into a hug.
When Jase finally breaks free, I already have a glass of wine in my hand, plucked from a tray. I won’t drink too much—I don’t like not being in control of myself around this family—but one drink to celebrate the collective misery won’t hurt. I am surprised when Jase takes the wine from me and downs it in two gulps, handing me the empty glass.
He didn’t say one word to me on the way to the wake, making the fifteen-minute car ride pretty uncomfortable. I know he’s hurting. And I don’t think it has much to do with his brother dying.
I’m pretty sure it’s about me. About Juliette Portland’s grave.
“I guess you should go find my father,” Jase says derisively. “You know, he’s probably expecting you by now.”
I glance at Jase. “I don’t think his wife would appreciate that. I’ll just hang around in the background and stay out of the way.”
I grab a fresh glass of wine and wander down the hallway, passing Dornan, who is speaking with a group of guys bearing the club insignia and patches from around the country. I make eye contact with him and offer a small smile, getting a wink and a resigned look in return.
A little girl, no older than four comes running in, giggling as an older boy chases her with a plastic toy gun.
She collides with my knees and I steady her with my hands so she doesn’t fall. She is a tiny thing, gorgeous, with blonde
ringlets and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
She looks up at me, her eyes the size of dinner plates. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice delicate and I look around, wondering whom she belongs to.
“That’s okay,” I say, crouching down to her level. “Where’s your mama?”
She points to Chad’s wife, whose own big blue eyes are spouting tears like an uncontrolled fire hydrant. Something dies inside of me as I reach out and tuck a loose ringlet behind the girls ear.
“She’s sad,” the little girl says. “My daddy went to heaven.”
I don’t think that’s where he went.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Dornan says, scooping up his granddaughter. “You been speaking to my friend Sammi?”
I swallow back a lump in my throat and pat her head, smiling at her.
I want to save her. I want to save all of the children who are going to grow up in this life, take them away somewhere they can be safe and loved without the stigma of being a Ross, without the infliction of being Dornan’s blood.
But I can’t. I’m selfish and broken. I can only save myself.
I only hope that once Dornan and his sons are dead, these children may have some kind of a chance in this world.
Dornan carries his granddaughter off and I continue down the hallway, sipping my wine. I find an empty bedroom that has French doors leading out to a small deck area that wraps around the side of the house. It has been a long day, and the sun is starting to sink already.
I’m leaning against the railing, staring out into nowhere, when I feel him behind me.
“Mind if I hide with you?” Jase asks, gripping the railing beside me.
I smile and shrug. “Fine by me. Are you okay?”
He lowers himself so his elbows are resting on the railing and looks out into the yard, thick with trees and bushes, obscuring the view. “Not really,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. It smells strong, like bourbon or whiskey, and it looks like it’s mixed with a few ice cubes and not much else.
“It’s your brother’s funeral,” I say. “Of course you’re not okay. I’m sorry.”
He laughs bitterly and glances at me, before turning back to the trees and the approaching night. “I could give two shits about that asshole dying. The world’s a much better place without him, believe me.”
I turn so my back is against the railing, catching his eye. “Sounds like you killed him,” I say quietly, a small smile to let him know I’m just teasing. He straightens and towers over me, so close I can feel our arms brushing. I tilt my head to look up at him. He looks angry. And horny. And drunk.
“It’s that girl, isn’t it?” I ask, emboldened by the way he’s standing. “That grave? That’s what’s got you all messed up.” I can’t help myself; I reach up and brush a stray hair from his forehead, letting my hand linger on his skin a little longer than I should. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, squeezing it tightly.
“What do you know about her?” he asks, anything gentle in his demeanour now gone.
“Nothing,” I say, not struggling. I hold his gaze as his eyes burn into mine, searching for any trace of a lie. “Who was she?” I ask, as he lets go of my wrist and lets his hand fall to his side.
Jase breaks our stare-off and looks away, rubbing his temple. “She was my girl,” he says, and I can feel myself breaking apart inside under the weight of his words. “She was my everything.”
Oh, God. My breath hitches as the word everything leaves his mouth and curls around me. I want to cry, but I can’t. I can’t let him see me react, can’t give him any reason to suspect me. Despite this, my eyes still fill with tears. My mouth might lie but my eyes weep real tears, for him, for me, for everyone Dornan has ever wronged.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, gripping his head with my palms. I stand on tiptoes and pull his head down gently, grazing his forehead with my quivering lips. As I pull away, his hands mimic mine, grasping my chin. We are so close our noses are almost touching. I can feel my heart hammering in my chest like a hummingbird trapped in a jar, wings beating desperately against the glass. Only, the hummingbird wants to get out, and I don’t want to move an inch from where I am right now.
Jase’s eyes dip to my lips and I know what he’s about to do. My brain screams in protest, that we might get caught, that I can’t kiss him and keep lying to him, that I have to stop this, but my body has its own ideas. Our lips meet, a small sigh coming from the back of my throat as his tongue finds mine.
Six years, I have been dreaming about this moment. And now that it is here, I can’t let it happen.
“We can’t do this,” I say as his lips devour mine. I break away from him, pressing my hands against his hard chest and pushing back. He releases me immediately, his eyes filled with—shame? Regret? As soon as our eyes meet, I know that I’ve blown it between us.
“Wait,” I say, grabbing his arm. He pulls it away, his eyebrows pinched, his entire body coiled tight like a spring about to burst loose.
He wrenches his arm out of my grip and turns, stalking away into the night.
I don’t follow him. Instead, I stand there mutely, a growing sense of helplessness and alarm enveloping me.
Because next time he kisses me, I won’t be able to push him away.
SEVEN
The wake goes on for hours before Dornan finds me. He is drunk out of his mind, so I drive us back to the clubhouse in his wife’s car.
The place is deserted as I lead him to his room, the aura of death surrounding the place obviously too much for most. I drop the set of car keys onto the nightstand and watch as Dornan takes a seat on the black vinyl occasional chair in the corner of the room, the moonlight from the window creating long slashes of light across his face. Like scars, I think as I walk over to him.
“You can go,” he says, staring into space.
Part of me wants to go. To get back into the car, find Jase, and tell him everything. But the other part of me, the vengeful bitch—she wants to stay and soak up every last bit of pain and hurt coming from this grieving devil.
“Let me try and take your mind off things,” I whisper, putting my hands on his shoulders.
I swing my leg over the chair, straddling him. His eyes are glassy and threaten to spill over.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper, trailing hot, wet kisses down his neck. He is drunk, and obeys me, much to my disbelief.
I smirk as his action has the desired effect. By closing his eyes, two teardrops are squeezed from his eyes, falling onto his stubbled cheeks.
I lean down, touching my lips to his right cheek. My tastebuds spring to life, assuaged by the sudden taste of salt water.
The taste of victory.
He took my father, my life, and now I have taken his oldest son from him. The taste of his sorrow beckons me, and I repeat my actions on his left cheek, this time darting my tongue out to catch his despair and drink it up, every last drop.
I rock on his lap, his erection already growing just from me straddling him. With my black funeral dress hitched up around my thighs, there is only a thin scrap of black lace and Dornan’s black pants separating us. He opens his eyes, and I sense he is surprised at the tender way I am touching him. In a way, so am I. But his sorrow, his devastation…it’s better than if I had tied him up and made him bleed for me.
Bleeding tears instead of blood, but it is all the same in the end. I will take every tear he has, every son, and then I will start letting blood.
“Sammi…” he breathes, digging his fingers into the soft flesh at my hips. I break out in goose bumps, wary once more. He never calls me Sammi.
Only baby girl.
“So hard for you it fucking hurts,” he says, staring me down with blazing intensity.
I suppress a smile as I fumble with his zipper, the material stretched to breaking point. As I tug the zipper carefully, his erection springs forth, a bead of pre-cum glistening on the tip. I grip him firmly with one hand, swiping my finger over the tip of his cock with my free h
and. I don’t break our gaze as I bring my finger to my mouth and suck the salty fluid from it.
Sorrow. Devastation. Loss.
He digs his fingers deeper, the pain intensifying but still pleasant. It’s as if he is holding onto me for dear life, and slipping away.
I smile, and his gaze snaps, just like that, from sorrow and submission, to hunger and domination.
“You’re teasing me,” he says, lifting my hips forcefully. He leaves one hand on my hip and used the other to wrench my panties aside and guide his cock to my entrance.
I’m so turned on. A sorrow fuck. Never is someone more vulnerable than when they’re underneath you, naked, exposed, and on the brink of coming.
I see it all. I see through his facade, his control, into the blackness of his very soul. I see the scars I have left on his cold, dead heart, on the tiny part that has the capacity to care for his own offspring. A primal, human instinct that lives inside him despite his hatred, despite his abject twistedness. He pulls me down over him, filling me completely and to the point of pain, and I can’t help but moan.
I cry out as he pumps harder, his fingernails threatening to draw blood, he’s holding onto my hips that hard. There is no longer any tenderness from either of us. We are like two animals in heat, bucking wildly, alive with our elation and despair. With every rough stroke he pulls out of me completely, then slams me down so hard I see stars. I ache inside, and it’s a good ache and a painful ache all at once. Every piece of exposed skin is alive with goose bumps, Dornan’s breath on my neck firing little nerve endings, his hungry lips on my mouth seeking comfort and release.
His expression becomes open, naked, and inside me he goes rock-hard. “Gonna…come,” he manages, his eyes growing heavy.
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