Brittany
The day of Bethany’s funeral, the sky hangs low and gray like it ain’t sure whose side it’s on.
Hell, Kentucky doesn’t close for death. It just tightens around it. Like the town wants to press you into smaller shapes until you fit whatever story they wrote about you.
The church parking lot is already full when Lottie pulls in. Trucks with club decals. Sedans with polished chrome. Two Pearly Gates vans parked near the back like they’re trying to look humble.
They ain’t.
My palms are damp in my lap.
“You don’t have to go,” Lottie says gently, killing the engine.
“I know.”
But I open the door, anyway. If I hide, they win. If I don’t show up, I become the girl who stabbed a woman and couldn’t even face the grave.
So I smooth my black dress down my thighs and step out.
The whispers start before I hit the steps.
“She’s here.”
“That’s her.”
“Lord have mercy.”
I keep my chin up.
The church doors stand open like a mouth waiting to swallow us whole. The air inside smells like lilies and furniture polish and judgment. Bethany’s casket sits at the front, white and glossy and too clean for the mess she left behind.
She looks small in it.
Perfect.
They did her makeup softer than she ever wore it. No sharp lipstick. No blade-smile. Just a pale, polished version of the woman who tried to cut my eyes out.
My stomach twists.
Pearly Gates fills the left side of the pews. The Reverend sits in the front row, back stiff, Bible positioned on his knee as if it were ammunition. His eyes lift when I enter and they linger, assessing, calculating.
I slide into a pew near the back with Lottie. Holler sits on her other side. Royal is three rows ahead, still as a shadow. Legend and Sophie sit up front with the officers, the weight of leadership pressed into their shoulders.
And then there’s Oaks.
He’s standing near the aisle, not seated, not settled. His suit is black, cut sharp, but it doesn’t make him softer. It makes him look like a storm wearing restraint.
He sees me.
His gaze doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t claim.
It just lands.
And stays.
The murmuring starts up again behind us.
“She stabbed her twice.”
“I heard three.”
“She smiled at the lake when they couldn’t find the body.”
“That girl’s cursed.”
My spine locks. I stare at the back of the pew in front of me and make my breathing slow even though my lungs want to bolt.
The organ starts. The pastor clears his throat. Words about forgiveness and loss and complicated love fill the room like smoke. They don’t stick to me. They slide off.
What sticks are the whispers.
“She’ll kill him too.”
It ain’t loud. It doesn’t have to be.
The sentence hits like a slap.
Before I can even process it, Oaks moves.
He doesn’t look around. He doesn’t search for who said it. He steps backward, one slow, deliberate step, until he’s standing directly in front of my pew.
Between me and them.
Between me and the noise.
His shoulders square.
His voice doesn’t rise.
It doesn’t need to.
“She stands behind me.”
Four words.
Controlled. Final.
The church goes quiet in a way that feels heavier than shouting. Nobody breathes right. Nobody shifts.
He doesn’t look back at me. He doesn’t reach for me.
He just stands there.
And everyone understands what it means.
Legend sees it. Sophie’s hand tightens on Legend’s knee. Royal’s eyes flick once toward Oaks, then toward the Reverend.
The message has been delivered. Not romantic. Not explosive.
Clear.
After the burial, dirt hitting the casket like dull thunder, people cluster in small, sharp groups. Pearly Gates members linger too long. They watch too closely. They whisper like they’re praying.
The Reverend approaches with a smile that never touches his eyes.
“Tragic,” he says softly. “Such young lives tangled in violence.”
“I defended myself,” I reply evenly.
“Of course,” he says. “The law will decide what that means.”
Oaks appears at my shoulder before I can answer. The Reverend’s smile tightens.
“Vice President,” he greets smoothly.
Oaks doesn’t extend his hand. “Reverend.”
Nothing more. Nothing less.
The Reverend’s gaze slides between us, measuring.
“I pray for clarity,” he says.
“I don’t,” Oaks replies. “I look for truth.”
The Reverend leaves first.
The town doesn’t.
They stare. They speculate. They decide.
Two weeks later, I can’t breathe in Hell anymore.
It ain’t just the stares. It ain’t even the whispers. It’s the weight of being the story. I’m at Lottie’s basement desk, folding a sweater I don’t even like, when I realize I’ve been holding my breath for days.
I’ve become the girl who killed a club officer’s wife.
The girl who caused a fracture.
The girl people look at and lower their voices around, like I’m going to bite.
I pack a bag. Not much. Just enough to leave without drama.
Lottie finds me halfway through.
“You running?” she asks quietly.
“I need air.”
“This is air.”
“It feels like a coffin.”
She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“That could’ve been your funeral, Brit,” she says.
I shake my head not wanting to listen.
“If Bethany got her way and cut out your eyes and your tongue, how long do you think you’d live? Bethany planned to kill you, Brit. You didn’t start it. You finished it.”
I say nothing.
“Where you gonna go?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Lexington. Louisville. Somewhere I’m not a headline.”
“You think you won’t be?” she asks gently. “Small towns gossip. Big cities archive.”
I zip the bag anyway. “I can’t stay here and be the reason every time someone looks at him sideways.”
Her expression softens. “You ain’t the reason.”
“I am,” I whisper. “Whether it’s fair or not.”
The knock on the front door comes before I can finish.
My heart stutters. I know who it is before Lottie opens it.
Oaks doesn’t storm in. He doesn’t slam anything.
He steps down the basement stairs slow, controlled, eyes taking in the open bag on the bed.
“You leaving?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Why.”
Because I love you too much to ruin you. Because I see the way officers hesitate now.
Instead I say, “I can’t live somewhere people think I’m a monster.”
“I’ve buried bodies for this club,” he says quietly. “I’ve taken hits. I’ve made choices I can’t undo. You think I give a fuck about whispers?”
“This ain’t about whispers,” I say. “It’s about what this does to you.”
He steps closer. Not towering. Not claiming.
Just close.
“You were the first thing that felt like something I didn’t have to survive,” he says.
My throat closes.
“You don’t get to decide what that’s worth.”
I blink hard. “I killed your wife.”
“You defended yourself.”
“She was still yours.”
He exhales slowly. “She hasn’t been mine in a long damn time.” He keeps saving that like it matters.
“But the title was.”
Silence hums between us, thick and dangerous.
Then, softer, he says, “Stay.”
Not a command. Not a demand.
A request.
“I don’t want you here because you got nowhere else to go,” he adds. “I want you here because you choose me.”
The words undo me because that’s the difference. He ain’t trying to claim me. He’s asking.
My eyes burn. “You won’t resent me?” I whisper.
“Not for surviving.”
“You won’t look at me one day and see her?”
He steps forward then and cups my face with hands that have done terrible things and somehow feel gentle.
“I see you,” he says. “And I ain’t going nowhere.”
I search his face for doubt. For hesitation. For the crack I was so sure would come.
It ain’t there.
There’s only him. Raw. Tired. Certain.
I unzip the bag slowly. The sound feels louder than the funeral.
“I’m not staying because I have to,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m staying because I want you.”
His breath leaves him like he’s been holding it for weeks.
“That’s all I ever needed,” he says.
Upstairs, the town keeps whispering. Pearly Gates keeps watching. The club keeps adjusting.
But in that basement room, for the first time since the lake, since the blood, since the funeral, it doesn’t feel like survival.
It feels like a choice.
And this time, it’s mine.