When the flames gutter low, we start shoveling dirt in. The sound is heavy and wet. Clumps of mud hit the tarp with dull thuds until the fire snuffs out under it. My arms burn, every motion pulling at my ribs, but I don’t stop. None of us do. Scarlet Rose works beside me in silence, her jaw set hard. Rogue spits once into the pit before covering the last corner.
We pack the earth down with the heels of our boots until it’s flat, only the churned mud betraying what lies beneath. No marker. No stone. Just another secret swallowed by the soil.
Quinn doesn’t say a word when we’re done. She turns for her bike, and we follow.
I swing a leg over my bike, breath hissing when my side protests, and lock my jaw until the spike of pain dulls. Devyn hovers for a second, her hands shake when she reaches for the helmet, but she slides it on and climbs up behind me. Engines roll to life in a rising snarl. The lot shudders under us. LC pulls ahead, flanking Quinn. Orchid and Rogue bring up the sides. The rest fall into formation around us, headlights flare into a living wall that cuts through the dark.
We ride back to the clubhouse slow, not because we fear cops but because Devyn rides pillion with me. Her arms band my waist, her breath catching in hiccups that kill me by inches.
The night slaps damp and briny against my face. My ribs ache with every vibration, but the pain is background now. Riot’s face, Devyn’s terror, that’s what sticks. That’s what rides with me.
The city doesn’t bother to look up as we growl through. It collects its sins and stacks them like chips. Tonight, we just cashed one in.
Devyn tightens her grip around me when we take the last turn.
“Almost there,” I tell her, my voice barely louder than the engine. “You’re okay.”
“Thanks to you,” she whispers into my back.
I don’t answer that. Because tonight, it took all of us.
By the time the clubhouse looms ahead, the rumble of pipes has settled into my bones like a second heartbeat. We slow as one, formation breaking only when we clear the gate. Engines die out in a staggered hush until only the tick of cooling metal and the rasp of our own breathing remains. I ease the kickstand down, Devyn sliding off behind me. Nobody speaks. Nobody needs to.
I guide Devyn through the door, her steps unsteady against mine. Mama Ru is waiting. She doesn’t waste a second, she takesDevyn from me, steering her toward the kitchen with a hand firm on her back. “I’ve got the girl. You handle your business.”
Mama Ru doesn’t let anyone else hover. This part belongs to her, and we all know better than to get in the way.
The rest of us file into Church, the room feeling smaller than it ever has. Quinn sits at the head of the table, her cut squared on her shoulders, both hands braced against the scarred wood. One by one, we drop into our seats. No one touches the empty chair where Riot used to sit. The ache in my ribs settles into a steady, familiar throb, pulsing with the silence that hangs heavy around us.
Quinn doesn’t bang a gavel on the table tonight. She just stands, and the room goes still in that way it only does when she’s about to set us straight.
“Tonight, we put down one of our own,” she says with no apology. “Not because we wanted to. Because she left us no choice.”
Quinn’s gaze cuts across each of us in turn.
“Riot forgot who we are,” Quinn continues. “She forgot what this patch means. She let fear make her small. She let it make her dangerous.”
We take her words in.
“What we did tonight will stay with us,” she says, and something tight in my chest loosens because she doesn’t soften it. “It should. Let it be a scar. Let it be a reminder that there’s no secret worth more than your sisters. No fear worth more than your family. Let it remind you to reach for each other before you reach for the worst parts of yourself. There is no threat bigger than ourselves when we don’t lean on our sisters. We’re only strong when we stand together. We lean on each other, or we break.”
A heavy silence follows, binding us.
Quinn finally exhales, softer, “It’s two in the damn morning. Get some sleep if you can. Have a drink if you need to. You’ve got twenty-eight hours to pull it together any way you need to. I want everyone back here by six a.m. sharp. Then we move on.”
Chairs scrape back in unison, the sound harsh in the silence Quinn leaves behind. No one lingers. No one dares. Scarlet Rose heads straight for the bar, her hand already reaching for a bottle. Silk and Rogue peel off toward the doors, the click of a lighter following them outside. Meadow and Vex drift toward the hall, their voices low. One by one, the rest scatter, each carrying the weight in their own way.
I push back slower, the throb in my ribs sharpening as I rise. My body wants whiskey, wants a smoke, wants anything but silence, but I don’t follow the others. My feet carry me down the hall instead, toward my room. My boots drag against the floor, each step weighted with a day that should never have existed. I push into my room, shut the door, and lean back against it, letting the quiet press in, while my mind screams.
The cut comes off first. My fingers fumble with the leather, and it slips from my shoulders heavier than it should, hitting the chair with a soft thud. Jeans follow, boots kicked free, shirt peeled away until I’m down to nothing but bruises and stitches. I catch my reflection in the mirror, the outline of the bruises rising mottled purple-black along my ribs and jaw. The stitches are still closed. My side aches mean, but it’s not the knife-edge from days ago. Just sore.
The shower hisses when I twist the knob. Steam fills the space quickly, clinging to the mirror, to my skin, until I step under and let it scald me clean. The heat sears my bruises, burns my skin, but I take it. I want it. Pain is the only thing that tells me I’m still here.
My palms flatten against the tile. My head bows forward. Water drums down, steady and merciless, but it doesn’t washaway the images burned into me. Even behind my closed eyes I see Riot’s face under my fists, Devyn bound and terrified, the way Quinn’s hand didn’t shake when she pulled the trigger.
Grief cuts jagged. Riot was my sister once. My friend. And we put her in the ground. Anger roils up quick, snapping at the edges of grief like fire catching dry wood. She made me her enemy. She made me carry this weight.
But under all of it, a different ache claws at me. Dante. The ghost of his hands on my hips, his mouth against mine, the taste of heat that lingers no matter how I try to spit it out. The way he touched me like I wasn’t fractured. The way his eyes cut past the patch and the armor, straight to the part of me I never show anyone, the mess of a woman underneath, and still wanted me.
