Chapter 30
Lucy
The funeral wasn’t in a church. It was in the scrapyard behind the clubhouse. They said Boxer would’ve preferred it that way. The brothers, fire, and the sound of engines growling low like the breath of something wild and grieving.
They burned his kutte on the pyre first, standard tradition. Folded, laid over the coffin like a flag. Riot set it alight with a torch and didn’t speak a word.
No one did.
Not at first.
I didn’t ask where they’d gotten the coffin so quickly because I didn’t want to know.
I stood at the edge of the gathering, between Jay and Link, watching the flames climb higher, catching on the black-and-white Reaper’s patch like it was paper. The heat licked at my face, but it was the cold in my chest I noticed more.
Boxer was dead.
Shot twice in the chest and neck, when the Fangs shot through the front window. I’d seen his body, but I wished I hadn’t.
Because of me. Because I hadn’t kept the truth quiet.
They didn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But I felt it, every time I caught a brother’s eyes and saw nothing but calculation behind it. They lost one of their own, and the only thing heavier than grief was suspicion.
Someone lit a cigarette while another passed around a bottle. Quiet murmurs started to fill the space like smoke coiling between patches and glances.
Then someone said it, not loud but loud enough.
“He wouldn’t be in that box if she hadn’t walked into our bar.”
The words hung there like a trigger cocked back.
Jay didn’t move, but his jaw locked tight, and I felt that version of him that lurked under the surface. The Reaper.
Riot turned slowly, scanning the crowd. “Who said that?”
No one answered, but we all knew.
It was Bishop, standing near the back with two prospects, a chip on his shoulder the size of Boxer’s coffin.
“You got something to say to me?” I asked. My voice wasn’t loud, but it travelled through the noise.
Bishop laughed once, bitter. “You think you’re part of this now because Reaper let you ride back from the fire like a damn war bride?”
Gabby, leaning against a rusty trailer at Bishop’s side, smirked. “War bride? Honey, try funeral crasher of the year.”
I shot her a look, sharp but silent. She shrugged, smirk still in place, clearly enjoying herself.
Jay stepped forward, but I stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“No,” I said. “Let him.”
Bishop didn’t flinch. “Boxer was solid, loyal. He wouldn’t have gone down if this club wasn’t at war with itself. We’re bleeding from the inside, and she’s the infection.”
Jay moved fast, grabbing Bishop by the collar and slamming him into the side of a rusted-out Chevy, his fist lashing out and catching Bishop on the mouth.
“You don’t talk about the dead like that. You don’t talk about her like that,” he growled. “You want to leave, leave. But don’t stand here pissing on a funeral and calling it rain.”
Riot finally stepped in, pulling Jay back.
Bishop straightened, spitting blood. “Keep siding with outsiders,” he said, looking at the crowd now. “See how long your kingdom holds.”
Jay didn’t respond.
Bishop walked away, but the line was drawn.
I wanted to run after him, to scream that he was right, that Boxer was dead because of me. That every bullet they’d taken since I came back had my name carved into the shell. But I didn’t. Because running would prove him right, and screaming would prove I was weak.
I stood there, shoulder to shoulder with the man who was once my brother’s closest friend. With men who had killed, bled, and buried their dead in this soil, and still I wasn’t one of them. Not really.
The fire crackled as Boxer burned.
And behind me, the club began to tear itself in half.