Page 26 of Beautifully Shattered
“We can add him to the list of my rapists now,” she says, voice trembling, yet her glare is pure ice. “He told me he wanted to know what all the fuss was about… then tag-teamed his nephew in to have at me next.”
My blood turns to fucking ice.
“No.”
“Yes,” she snarls. “They all wanted one last piece of me before I was married off to Daniel.” She shivers, full-bodied, like the memory is crawling across her skin.
A roar rips from me as I lurch to my feet.
Abbey gasps, whimpering, and scurrying back on the bed as I spin and slam my fist into the wall, the plaster crumbling from the force of my punch with a sickening crack.
I spin, storming across the room to the chair I’ve sat in every fucking night, trying to keep myself from crawling into bed with her, to give her the space she needs, and I heft the fucking thing up, and hurl it across the room.
It shatters to pieces, slamming into the far wall, splintering wood and tearing through the plaster like paper.
The bedroom door bursts open, and JD hurries in just in time for me to take a swing at him.
He ducks my fist, but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
I need to hurt someone, and I need to fucking hurt themnow.
7
Standing by the windows in the living room, I stare out across the deck of the lake house to the twin rustic bathtubs, both of them occupied, a man in each soaking in steamy sudsy water like it’s perfectly normal to take a bath outside in full view. Their backs are to me, and I can hear the deep baritone of their voices as they talk and laugh.
One of them is Brody, and to be honest, I’m relieved to see him. I had no idea what happened after Ian Allen drugged me in Ringo’s bedroom. For all I knew, they’d killed everyone before taking off with me.
But here he is. JD’s little brother, laughing and joking like the world isn’t shattering around us.
I guess it isn’t shattering around him.
Only me.
There’s nothing right about any of this. That’s the only thing I know for sure.
The other guy, I’m pretty sure, is the one who tattooed our names on our fingers on our wedding day. Vender, I think his name is.
There’s another guy I don’t recognise, sitting out on the deck, handing Brody a beer from a cooler, and the rest of the men are sprawled out, talking shit and acting like this is just another typical Tuesday.
Stocky, Murf and Trunk are among them, and seeing their familiar faces is the slightest comfort.
Mule isn’t here, though. The man that watched over me when Ringo left me behind at his family home. My silent shadow. I wonder where he is. Did he get out unscathed, or is he… one of the dead?
The thought makes me feel sick. No one deserved to die, but some did.
I just don’t know who. I haven’t made the effort to ask, and I don’t know if it’s because I just can’t bear any more suffering, or if I just don’t care.
I guess I’ll find out tomorrow when we go to the compound. When the club will gather to farewell their dead in joint funerals.
I don’t really want to go, but I probably should. They died because of me. The least I can do is honour their sacrifice.
Ringo hasn’t noticed me standing here, watching them like they’re characters on a TV screen.
He’s over by the railing, his knuckles still torn up, dried blood crusted over the scabs forming after he lost his shit yesterday.
I don’t blame him. I’m not angry at him for losing control like that. I’m kind of jealous I couldn’t do the same.
