The guys are still locked away in Church, so I scan the room for someone bearable to hover near until the real entertainment starts.
Birdie lounges against the wall, her smile glowing as she watches her twins. They weave through the room, laughing and chatting, slipping seamlessly into the wild rhythm of club family life.
Nearby, Valkyrie stands rooted in place, eyes fixed. Manic’s son, Deveruex, is across the room, and the longing etched on Valkyrie’s face lands like a silent, unexpected blow to my chest.
My hand lifts instinctively, pressing lightly against my sternum. Because that look, that ache, yeah. I know that feeling.
So sad.
The thought settles like a stone in my chest as I watch Valkyrie. She loves him. Anyone can see it. But every time she looks at that little boy, her face cracks, something delicate and haunted flickering through. I’m pretty sure it’s because Manic had a child with someone else.
That kind of thing carves deep scars in a woman’s heart. Knowing someone else gave the man you love something you never could.
I don’t know every twist in their story. Club drama is like a soap opera penned by emotionally stunted outlaws. But I know enough. Valkyrie was infatuated with Manic. Then, in true spectacular idiot fashion, the entire club managed to break both her and Birdie in one epic emotional disaster. Pope sort of cheated, but also didn’t. Manic was with someone else, but apparently that doesn’t count because of technicalities and whatever brand of male logic excuses their chaos.
I don’t know. It’s a knotted mess, and if I dwell on what Birdie and Valkyrie have endured, my chest tightens with that heavy, suffocating ache. All I know is, regret runs deep in this club.
It’s wild when you really think about it. Anyone who’s seen Pope with Birdie would never guess he could hurt her like that. He looks at her like she’s air, like she’s the force holding him together, like she’s the axis his world spins on. I’ve never witnessed anything like it.
My dad loved my mom a ridiculous amount. Likeridiculousamount. But it was them and it was beautiful. That kind of love used to live in my head like a soft, glowing future I assumed I’d have someday.
Then Damon…stupid, abusive Damon…came along and smashed that fantasy into tiny, emotionally scarring pieces.
Now, I’m perfectly content loving someone the way Pope loves Birdie. The way Dad loved Mom. But letting someone love me like that? Oh, boy. That’s terrifying.
Scarier than walking through a pitch-black cornfield and hearing someone whisper your name even though you’re absolutely alone. So you start running, because obviously you start running, and then you trip over your own feet like a tragic horror movie extra. And youswearyou hear something chasing you. Branches are snapping, footsteps are pounding. Your lungs burn, your heart tries to escape your ribcage. But you can’t get up fast enough, and they’re getting closer. So, you tell yourself that this is it. This is how you die. In a corn field, all alone, hearing things that aren’t there, and you can’t even remember if you’ve changed into clean underwear that morning or not.
Yeah, it’s scarier than that.
Probably. I mean, I’ve never actually been stalked by cornfield demons, but it sounds utterly petrifying.
Hard pass, thank you.
Birdie turns to smile at me when I slide against the wall beside her. “Hey.”
“Hi. Figured you could use a hand holding up this extremely important wall.”
She laughs, and the sound is a rare treat these days. People say she used to laugh all the time, before Pope shattered her heart, and life turned into an emotional wasteland. Then came the no-good-son-of-a-bitch husband situation. Tomcat’s description, not mine, but from what I’ve gathered, the man absolutely deserved whatever creative hell karma served him.
“I appreciate the company,” she says.
Her eyes wander back to her twins, a gentle warmth lighting her face before a hush of vulnerability slips in.
“Sometimes it’s still a struggle to find my place again.” Her hand drops, instinctively cradling the swell of her belly. “I’d never admit that to Pope.” She lets out a shaky laugh. “He’d either try to wrestle my thoughts into submission or haul us all out of town at the first sign of trouble.”
I snort softly. Sounds accurate.
Birdie lets the silence linger, then continues, her voice softer. “Things are good. We got married. He finally claimed me his ol’ lady. I made peace with an old friend.” She hesitates, almost as if testing the next words. “But some days, I still feel… adrift, maybe? Like I’m just holding my breath, waiting for the next storm.”
“If there’s anything I’ve learned,” I say quietly, my voice slipping into rare, unfamiliar seriousness, “It’s that you can’t live bracing for disaster.”
Hypocrite, Marigold.
I brush the thought away.
“If you do,” I continue, “you miss everything happening right in front of you.”
Birdie studies me, thoughtful.
