Chapter 3 Sasha
SASHA
Inever imagined my father's funeral would look like this.
The procession of motorcycles stretches beyond what I can see, thundering engines replacing the somber silence I expected.
Dad's casket sits on a custom-built sidecar attached to a gleaming Harley—Havoc's bike, I've learned—draped in leather vests identical to the one Dad kept hidden for all those years.
I stand apart from the crowd, feeling like an imposter at my own father's funeral. My hands knot together at my waist as tension coils in my stomach. These people knew a version of my dad I never did, and the distance between us feels insurmountable.
"You okay, sweetheart?" Ruth appears beside me, her hand softly squeezing mine, though I've only known her for five days. She's barely left my side since Havoc brought me to the compound.
"I don't know these people," I whisper, scanning the sea of leather vests, all bearing the same emblem—Wicked Sinners MC. "They're strangers, but they're crying like they've known him forever."
"That's because they did," Ruth says gently. "Your daddy was family to everyone here. Before he left with you, he was their president."
President. The title clashes with the gentle man who knelt to bait my fishing hooks and braided my hair with callused, caring fingers every morning until I was twelve.
Carol appears on my other side, offering a tissue. I startle at her touch and realize, with a hot flush of embarrassment, that I hadn't noticed the tears streaming down my cheeks again.
"I remember some of it," I admit. "From before we left. There were barbecues and parties..." My voice trails off as a vague memory surfaces—sitting on someone's shoulders, squealing with delight as they pretend to be a motorcycle. "But it feels like a different lifetime."
"That's because it was, honey," Carol says. "Viking—your dad—he wanted to protect you from all this."
Viking. Everyone here calls him that. Not Erik, but Viking. A name that belonged to a man I never fully knew.
The minister finishes speaking, and Havoc steps forward. His silver hair catches the sunlight as he stands before the gathered crowd. His eyes find mine for a moment, and something in my chest tightens.
"Viking was my brother," he begins, his deep voice carrying across the cemetery. "Not by blood, but by something stronger."
I watch as dozens of grown men wipe tears from their faces, their leather-clad shoulders shaking with grief. They loved my father. And somehow, that makes me feel both less alone and more isolated than ever.
Havoc's voice cracks as he finishes speaking about my father—about Viking. His eyes scan the crowd, pausing momentarily on me.
"If anyone else would like to share memories of our brother, please step forward."
My heart pounds against my ribs. I clutch my skirt with damp palms, nerves prickling. Should I speak? I'm his daughter—his only family. Everyone's eyes shift toward me, expectant. The pressure of their gazes makes my skin prickle and my throat close up.
But what would I say? Tell them my father made pancakes shaped like motorcycles? That he taught me to throw a perfect punch when I was eight, but never explained why I needed to know? That every time I asked about our past, about the photos I found hidden in his dresser, he changed the subject?
I don't know this Viking they're eulogizing. I knew Dad—the man who checked under my bed for monsters, who never let me answer the door.
A tall, bearded man steps forward instead, saving me from the moment. Tank, they call him. Ruth’s husband. He talks about raids and brotherhood and loyalty that even twelve years couldn't break. Twelve years since my mother died.
Another man speaks, then another. Stories about bar fights and territory wars and something called patch-overs. Words that sound like they're from a movie, not my father's life.
Ruth squeezes my hand. "You don't have to speak, honey."
I nod gratefully. What could I possibly say to these people? While they are remembering Viking, their ex-president, I’m mourning Dad, who sang off-key to make me laugh. That the man they knew seems nothing like the quiet, cautious father who raised me?
The truth hits me anew: I'm standing at my father's funeral surrounded by people who knew parts of him I never did. Secret parts. Important parts. They're grieving a man I'm only now discovering existed.
I remain silent as Carol passes me another tissue. My tears aren't just for the father I lost, but for the father I never really knew.
The last handful of dirt hits Dad's casket, and the hollow sound echoes through me like I'm the one being buried. I can't watch anymore, but I can't move either. I'm frozen between the life I lost and whatever waits ahead.
"Come on," Havoc says quietly beside me. His hand settles at the small of my back, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my black dress.
I hate my body's immediate reaction—the way my skin heats under his palm, how my breath catches when his fingers guide me gently away from the grave. It feels wrong to feel anything but grief right now, especially this... whatever this is.
People part for us as Havoc steers me away from the graveyard and toward the clubhouse where they're holding the wake.
I'm acutely aware of how he towers over me, his broad shoulders blocking the wind, his silver hair catching sunlight.
He must be over twenty years older than me.
At least. Old enough to have been my father's best friend.
Old enough to know better than to make a nineteen-year-old girl feel this way.
Except he's not doing anything wrong. It's me. My pulse quickens and my cheeks burn when he looks at me. I find comfort in his deep voice, and when his leather cut stretches across his shoulders I can't help but stare. My heart skips each time his blue eyes soften when they meet mine.
"You don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to," he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "I'll keep them away."
His protectiveness makes something unfurl inside me. Five days ago, I didn't even know he existed. Now I'm clinging to him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's turned to quicksand.
"Thank you," I whisper, my voice trembling, fighting tears that sting my eyes, hating how—even at my father's funeral, with my heart shattered—I still feel this inexplicable pull toward a man who belongs to a world I don't understand.
The clubhouse is packed with leather-clad bodies. The air reeks of whiskey, a strange backdrop for mourning. Everyone seems to know exactly what to do except me.
Havoc guides me through the crowd, his hand never leaving the small of my back. People step aside, making a path for us. Some nod respectfully, others touch my shoulder or murmur condolences. I can barely look at them.
"You need a drink," Havoc says, not really asking as he steers me toward the bar.
"I'm not twenty-one yet," I say, then feel stupid. These people probably don't care about drinking ages. Dad never did—he'd let me have wine with dinner since I was sixteen.
Havoc's laugh is deep and genuine, the first I've heard from him. It transforms his face, softening the hard lines, making him look younger.
"Sweetheart, this is Wicked Sinners territory. The only law here is club law." He catches the bartender's eye. "Whiskey for me, and—" he looks at me questioningly.
"Vodka cranberry," I say.
He hands me the red drink, his fingers brushing mine, immediately sending sparks of electricity across my skin. "You sit with Ruth and Carol. I need to handle some business."
Before I can protest, he's gone, swallowed by a group of men with serious expressions. I clutch my drink and scan the room until I spot Ruth waving me over.
"There you are, honey," Ruth says, making space for me on the worn leather couch. "Come sit."
Carol immediately takes my hand. "You're freezing. Here." She wraps a soft shawl around my shoulders.
They've been like this since I arrived—bringing me tea, finding me clothes, making sure I eat. Ruth even brushed my hair last night when I sat staring at nothing, unable to move.
I take a long sip of my drink, letting the alcohol burn down my throat.
"You've both been so kind to me," I say, suddenly fighting tears again. "It's just—" My voice cracks. "The way you take care of me... it makes me realize how little I remember my mom."
Ruth's arm tightens around me. "Oh, sweetheart."
"I was only seven when she died. I remember her laugh, and that she smelled like vanilla, but her face..." I shake my head. "It gets blurrier every year."
"Savannah," Carol says softly. "Your mama was something else."
The name hangs in the air between us—a name I've known forever but rarely hear spoken aloud. Dad would say it sometimes, late at night when he thought I was sleeping.
"You knew her?" I ask, my voice small.
Ruth nods, her eyes misting. "Of course we did, honey. We were all family back then. Before... everything."
"She was the kindest woman," Carol says, patting my hand. "Always bringing food when someone was sick, remembering everyone's birthdays. Even with all the club madness going on, she made time for others."
"And beautiful," Ruth adds. "Lord, was she beautiful. You've got her eyes, you know. That exact shade of blue."
I touch my face instinctively. Dad had always said I looked like her, but hearing it from someone else feels different. More real.
"She wore her hair long like yours," Carol continues. "But hers was a bit darker, more honey than blonde. And she had this laugh—it filled up a room."
"I remember her laugh," I whisper. The sound bubbles up from some buried place in my memory—warm and throaty.
"Savannah was the kind of old lady every club wife wanted to be," Ruth says. "Strong, but gentle too. Never took any crap from anyone, but never had a mean word either."
"Old lady?" I ask, confused.
"Club wife," Carol explains. "Your mama was Viking's old lady. Queen of this clubhouse, really."
My mind spins with this new information. All these years, I'd pictured my mother as just... my mother. Not someone's old lady, not a queen of anything.
"She loved you something fierce," Ruth says, her voice cracking. "Used to carry you around this clubhouse, showing you off to everyone. My little angel, she called you."
I clutch my drink tighter, trying to hold onto these new pieces of my mother—Savannah, the kind, the beautiful, the queen.
The stories about my mother crash down on me like a physical weight. Each new detail—her laugh, her kindness, how she carried me around—they're gifts and daggers all at once. Precious fragments of someone I've lost twice: once when she died, and again as her memory faded.
"Excuse me," I manage, setting down my drink with shaking hands. "I just need a moment."
Ruth squeezes my arm as I stand. "Of course, honey."
I navigate through the crowded room, past leather vests and unfamiliar faces, feeling their eyes on me. Viking's daughter. Savannah's girl. A living reminder of what they've all lost.
The bathroom is mercifully empty. I lock the door behind me and sink to the floor, no longer able to hold back the tide. My shoulders shake as the first sob tears through me, then another, until I'm gasping for breath, tears streaming down my face.
I cry for Dad—for Viking—lying cold in the ground while strangers tell me who he really was.
I cry for the mother I barely remember, whose face I struggle to recall but whose laugh apparently filled rooms. I cry for the little girl who lost her mom and then spent twelve years watching her father flinch every time I asked about her.
"Why wouldn't you talk about her?" I whisper into my knees, curled tight against the bathroom wall. "Why, Dad?"
For twelve years, every question about Mom was met with the same response. A sad smile, maybe one small story, then a swift change of subject. "Some things are too painful to talk about, Sasha-girl," he'd say, and that was that.
Now I understand it wasn't just pain. It was protection. He was hiding her from me the same way he was hiding everything else—the club, his past, who we really were. If I knew about Savannah, the club queen, I might ask about Viking, the president.
My chest aches with the weight of so many secrets. All this time, I thought I was grieving a woman I barely knew. Turns out I never really knew her at all. Or him.