Page 96 of Beautiful Ruins
She yanked my hair again—sharp and possessive. “Shower. Now. And wear black.”
Her comment was about as useful as tits on a bull. I always wore black. But I drew the line at dress shirts and ties. I’d wear my leathers, or I wasn’t fucking stepping foot inside that church.
I could have pushed my luck, but I didn’t. Instead, Ireleased Sadie’s hips with a soft groan. She stepped away from me and spun around, inspecting herself in the cracked mirror above my dresser.
I moved, because not moving might’ve actually killed me. Sitting still gave me too much time to think about what came next. Whether Marcus’s ghost would haunt me the same way Logan’s had, crawling into my bed at night and whispering reminders of every fucked-up thing I’d ever done.
Sadie caught my gaze in the mirror, and her expression softened. She always saw too much. Even when I smiled, she looked straight through it.
She turned, walked over again, and ran her fingers over the stubble on my jaw as she leaned down and planted her lips to mine. The kiss was soft, lingering, as if she knew I needed something to hold on to when the rest of the day turned to shit. She sucked my lower lip into her mouth and bit down.
I groaned and reached for her again, but she was too quick to step back, and my hands fell to my sides.
“Don’t make me come back up here and drag you out of the shower,” she said, but there was no threat behind it. Just a tired kind of love.
She disappeared out the door, taking half the air in the room with her. Her boots echoed down the stairway, steady and final. For a minute, I just sat there, trying to piece myself back together. I stared at the wall, the ceiling, the fan that still did fuck all to cool my burning skin.
I couldn’t shake the sick feeling in my stomach, the premonition that nothing good ever came from funerals and that I was probably next.
I scrubbed a hand through my hair. Fuck. Funerals were the fucking worst.
Chapter Thirty-One
SADIE
Jasmine tightened her grip on my hand, her fingers intertwined with mine in a reassuring tangle. We both dabbed at the tears that had traced paths down our cheeks.
I’d barely held it together, the reminders of Logan’s funeral barrelling to the forefront of my mind. But I had Rowan and Jasmine there, and just the warmth of their bodies beside mine was enough to keep me from falling.
The church was too still, too close, the air thick with incense and regret. The funeral service was nearing its end, a heavy silence settling over the gathered mourners.
Father Malachi’s voice echoed softly through the space, calling for the pallbearers to approach the caskets of Nash’s mum, stepfather, brother, and sister, Zara.
As the close family members and friends stepped forward to accompany the first three coffins, a noticeable stillness lingered in the air for Zara—no-one moved to stand by her side.
I glanced over at Nash, who sat in the front pew, his headbowed as he brushed his fingertips over his cheeks, his grief palpable.
The creak of timber startled the silence as Rowan rose, all shadows and purpose, and the quiet around him bent like it always did—like it knew who he was, and so did I.
Bear, Scout, and Eddie followed right behind him. The knot in my chest loosened just slightly as he stepped forward. Pride and grief tangled into one, but I held my head high as Rowan’s eyes met mine for the briefest second.
“We’ve got this, boys,” he said, his voice steady as they made their way down the aisle.
They positioned themselves on either side of Zara’s coffin, Rowan taking a moment to gently place his hand on the polished wood, almost as if he were whispering a silent goodbye to Zara, just as he had done for Logan.
He lifted his focus to Nash, offering him a slight nod—his way of offering words unspoken.
After Rowan’s frustration this morning about even attending, I hadn’t expected him to show up at all, let alone lead the way. He was the one standing by Nash in more ways than anyone else had managed, despite the murmurs circulating about Nash’s sister, Zara.
My heart ached for Nash as I imagined the burden he bore in defending his sister against the judgment of the entire town. It reminded me of how I would have fought for Logan years ago—if only I hadn’t fled like the coward I was.
As the pallbearers wheeled the coffins forward, everyone rose to their feet. Some dabbed at flushed cheeks with soggy tissues. Others stood motionless, eyes cast down, as the procession moved slowly down the aisle. Each step echoed in the quiet until the pallbearers gently placed the caskets in the waiting hearses outside.
Black-clad mourners drifted out of the church like a slow-moving shadow, their scuffed shoes kicking up red dirt outside.
Sweat beaded at the nape of my neck as the scent of lilies mingled with the petrol from the idling cars up and down the street.
Jasmine slipped in beside me, her fingers cool against my forearm. “Let’s get it over with,” she murmured, her voice barely rising above the distant drone of crickets and whatever other insects infected Barrenridge.
