Page 4 of Marked By The Filthy-Mouthed Grizzly
You see, my brothers ran the Warhounds, a vicious pack of bikers full of growling, sneering, violent men. And my brothers were the worst of them.
I don’t know how Mace and Knox died, but they probably deserved it.
They were always up to no good. Always up to something violent.
Something tells me they had it coming.
I take a deep breath as I look at the dozens of chrome motorcycles parked by the entrance of the cemetery. I already saw one fist fight and two bloody noses before the first shovel even hit the ground.
I’ve been feeling uneasy all day. I get a little nauseous as I look around at all of the sketchy men hovering around the caskets like wolves circling a carcass, their eyes cold, arms crossed, stone cold expressions hiding what they really think.
My heart starts beating faster as I realize that my brothers aren’t here anymore to protect me. To keep these violent men at bay.
None of them would even think about getting out of line with me when Knox and Mace were around. But now that they’re gone?
I shiver at the thought.
We were never close. My mother made sure of that. She made sure I stayed far away from them growing up. I think she must have sensed the darkness lurking inside those boys and her motherly instincts kicked in.
She left my father when I was a toddler, moved us across the country to Louisville, raised me in the suburbs with my fellowhumans, and left my shifter heritage in the past where it couldn’t do me any harm. I didn’t even find out about shifters until I was a teenager and my dad insisted I come visit.
I was only thirteen, but the second I was reintroduced to my brothers, I knew something was off. They were the kind of men who made the air feel wrong when they walked into a room. The kind that has your warning bells ringing off the hook. The kind you stay away from at all costs.
I never brought friends around when I visited Dad. Never slept easy when my brothers were home.
They never harmed me, but I knew they weren’t good men.
And now they’re dead.
“Do you want to say something?” my aunt Jenny whispers beside me, her voice low and tight. She didn’t like them either, but family is family—or something like that. “It doesn’t look like anyone else will.”
I swallow hard and step forward.
They were my brothers. I owe them a goodbye at least.
The group quiets as I take a deep breath. A few heads turn. One of the men lights a cigarette, the smoke billowing around him ominously. I don’t smoke, but the nerves buzzing through me are craving one.
I clear my throat and look at the caskets in the ground. No one even bothered to bring flowers. Just two wooden boxes stuffed in the dirt. I don’t know why, but that brings tears to my eyes.
“My name is Erica Rourke,” I say with a lump in my throat. “I was Mace and Knox’s little sister.”
I smooth a hand down my coat, my heart thudding like it wants to run away without me.
“I didn’t grow up with them the way some of you did,” I continue to the cold blank faces staring at me. “We had the samefather, god rest his soul, but different mothers. But they were my family, and that always meant something.”
I suck in a slow breath as I glance at the caskets, wondering which one is Knox and which one is Mace. I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I knew who they were in life, why should it be any different in death?
“They were larger than life, my brothers. And filled with a restlessness that I never quite understood.”
Tears fill my eyes, but I power through.
“I hope that restlessness is gone now,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “I hope they’re finally at peace. And I hope they know their little sister came to say goodbye.”
I pick up a handful of dirt as my throat tightens and throw some onto each casket.
“Bye, Knox,” I whisper as a few tears roll down my cheeks. “Goodbye, Mace.”
My aunt crouches beside me and throws some dirt in as well. We walk away, hand in hand, as the men line up to do the same.
