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, withmy 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.
