Page 41 of Tarnished Embers

“Yes, well, it’s best to get these sorts of things out the way, don’t you think?” She looks at me with raised brows, her eyes saying that I’m making something out of nothing.

“O–of course,” I reply, my mind spinning with this new bombshell. “Where is the w–wake?”

“We’re having that here, honey, and the chef has his instructions. I’ve got everything sorted so you don’t need to worry about a thing.”

* * *

It’s fucking freezing when we leave for the funeral the next morning, and as I glance up at the sky, there’s something about it that feels like snow is coming, even though it is technically spring. English weather at its finest, I suppose. I quite like it, as I feel maybe it would be harder to bury him if it was bright and sunny outside.

The drive to the church is quiet, Odette having taken her own car and the guys coming with me in the Bentley. She frowned when they told her they weren’t leaving me, but said nothing.

All too soon the door is being opened, letting in a blast of cold air that has my skin breaking out into goosebumps underneath my black dress and coat.

“It’s time, Sugar,” Prince tells me quietly from his seat next to mine, and I blink, having lost the time it took to get here, stuck in thoughts of what I have to face today.

Cas is standing at the open door, holding his hand out, and I take it, grateful for the warm touch. I’m so cold, so numb, like this isn’t happening to me at all. Like today isn’t the day I bury my father.

“Just breathe, Cinders,” Cas whispers, his face filling my watery vision, and I take a huge, gasping inhale, the freezing air filling my lungs. “That’s it. We’re here, you are not alone.”

I can’t speak, can’t get my mouth to form words, so I nod, wrapping my arm around his firm bicep and letting him lead me into the old church. I’m not sure why we’re holding a service here. Dad wasn’t religious at all, but I guess Odette thought it was the right thing to do, and by the way the place is already three-quarters filled, it seems that it was a good call.

I avoid everyone’s eyes, recognising a few faces as my father’s business associates, but I soon stare straight ahead, at the gleaming wooden coffin with white lilies resting on the top. My nose wrinkles with the pungent scent of them. I’ve always hated lilies.

My breath catches when a large photograph of him catches my eye, his face creased in a smile, a beaming Odette on his arm. I wonder briefly why she chose that picture and not one of him alone, but then Cas leads me into the front pew, Prince at my back and the twins following us in.

Odette sits on the other side of Cas, looking every inch the glamorous widow. A fitted black jacket showcases her generous curves, with a calf-length skirt, her hair perfectly coiled with a small black hat perched on top, a piece of black net covering her face.

She knows how to put on a show.

The bitchy thought floats through my mind, especially when she dabs at the corner of her eye with a small white handkerchief, though not a tear is in sight.

The ceremony passes by in a blur, various people who seemed to know my father extolling his virtues, and soon we’re standing at the doorway, accepting people’s condolences and handshakes.

The woodland burial site is a short drive away, and it feels as though I’m blinking and then I’m standing in front of that same oak tree I stood under five years ago, the soil exposed in a tear in the earth that matches that of my heart. My mum’s headstone sits to the right of the gaping hole, looking weathered and with snowdrops growing at its base.

Others file in around us, the vicar saying more words that fly through my mind as I watch them lower his coffin into the ground.

At least he’s next to her.

Tears fill my eyes when we’re called to put a handful of soil on the coffin. Mine lands with a thud, sounding like a door slamming shut, leaving me out, lost in the wilderness.

Then I’m standing there with my guys, snowflakes drifting around us.

“We should get back, Sugar,” Prince murmurs in my ear as a warm coat is draped over my shoulders, engulfing me in his spiced rum and leather scent. “You’re freezing.”

I didn’t realise how cold I was until that moment, my body relaxing with the heat from his body lingering in the garment.

“Let’s go home, little sis,” Oct adds, placing a kiss on the top of my head before taking my frozen hand in his and rubbing it. Warmth emanates from his touch, breathing life back into my limbs.

My eyelids drift shut, the tears frozen on my cheeks.

Goodbye, Dad.

Then I open my eyes, curling my fingers around Oct’s and letting them lead me away, the snow continuing to drift around us before settling on the ground and covering my heartache in shades of white.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

“SACRED OF THE DARK” BY LI WAYNE, TY DOLLAR $IGN, XXXTENTACION

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