16. Served
Ely
F riday arrives too fast.
I've barely had time to breathe between setting everything up, making sure every little detail is in place, double-checking my supplies, and running through every step in my head. Good thing Ria was there to help because without her, I don't know if I would've been ready.
Buying the things I needed was one thing. Making the rest? A whole different beast. Hiding everything where it needed to be, ensuring there was no way out for him once he stepped inside? Exhausting. But worth it.
Dr. Monroe, my old therapist, would probably have a goddamn heart attack if she knew what I was about to do. She'd frown, tilt her head, ask me how I feel about all this.
Therapy never managed to dig the anger out of me. Neither did kickboxing. Or shooting. Or running until my lungs burned.
Maybe this will.
Maybe when I watch him suffer, when I see that look in his eyes — the one I wore the night he branded me, the night he sent me to my own personal hell — maybe then, I'll finally be able to breathe again.
Maybe then, I can finally move on. Not sure if I even want to.
Love is a dead thing in me. My last boyfriend lasted two months before he broke up with me, told me I was just using him for sex. He wasn't wrong. Whatever part of me was capable of deep, soul-binding love died that night. And it never came back.
I haven't heard from Bones since Tuesday. I know exactly why.
The coffee.
Ria made a batch of special coffee syrup for me because I had a feeling I'd get the chance to use it. And when he showed up at my door, I couldn't fucking resist.
Still, I wasn't expecting what came next. Thursday morning, and again today, little gifts appeared on my porch.
Belgian chocolate. An exquisite Salvador Dalí print.
Each with a stupid little note, saying how he can't wait to see me again, blah blah blah .
The bastard is playing dirty. He knows I don't waste food. He knows I have an obsession with Dalí. He picked exactly what I could never bring myself to throw away or destroy.
Joke's on him.
Ria ate the chocolate while we sat in her shop, discussing my plans for his demise. The print? I gave it to Amy, my assistant. She practically squealed with excitement.
Now, the lasagna has been in the oven for fifteen minutes already. The table is set. The stage is ready.
Then — the knock comes.
Heavy. Strong. Confident. Like the man on the other side is ready to break down my door if there's no answer.
I school my expression, smooth out my dress, and open it.
And there he is.
Bones.
A massive bouquet in one hand, an obnoxiously expensive bottle of wine in the other.
"Hello, Ely," he says, voice low, reverent, his eyes drinking me in like he's a man dying of thirst and I'm the only drop of water left in the world. "You look breathtaking."
Bleah.
"Thank you," I say, voice soft, sweet and innocent as I take the flowers. "These are beautiful. Come in."
I turn before he can respond, and he follows.
Like a moth to a flame.
Like a lamb to slaughter.
I move to the kitchen, placing the flowers in water with steady hands, feeling his presence behind me like a storm waiting to break.
"The lasagna will be ready in a few minutes," I say, casually arranging the stems. "We can try the wine while we wait."
He looks massive in my small kitchen. All muscle, all dominance, all control. His cut is stretched tight over his broad chest, his black T-shirt hugs his biceps, his dark hair is perfectly disheveled. And a steely, focused look glints in his eyes — like he's gearing up for battle. Too bad for him that I'm not a warlord. I'm a lady. And I fight just like one.
I smile. Because I play my role perfectly.
"That would be great," he says, nodding. "Do you have a wine opener?"
I laugh lightly, soft, sweet, like I don't want to rip him apart piece by piece.
"Of course. I'm a full-grown adult. I have all the openers I need."
I hand him the opener, pull out two glasses, and set them on the kitchen table. His throat bobs as he pours, his hands steady, but there's a weight in his shoulders, a tension in his jaw.
He hands me a glass. I take it elegantly, sip from it while watching him over the rim.
He doesn't even think to drink from his own. He's too busy looking at me like I'm his entire fucking world. Dumbass.
The wine is perfect. Just the way I like it. Too bad he won't get to enjoy it for long.
"So, what have you been up to these past four years?" I ask, light, casual, like we're just old friends catching up.
Keep the facade, Temperance. You're almost there.
His smile is bitter.
"Thinking about you," he says, voice low, raw. "Looking for you. Talking about you. These last four years were all about you, Ely."
Something dark and broken settles in his face.
I don't want to deal with that.
I sip my wine, keeping my mask in place. "Well, I'm here now, so you can stop moping. You found me."
His expression doesn't change.
"Yeah..." he exhales, his fingers tightening around his glass. "Can we talk about what happened, Ely?"
My stomach twists. Not yet. Not now.
I force a small smile. "Not right now, Bones. Let's get through dinner first." I pause. "How are your parents?"
His smile softens, just a little. "Still on their second honeymoon, if you can believe it. Eight years of world travel. They came back after what happened four years ago, but left again six months later." His jaw tenses. "Mama was... distraught. Rightfully handed me my ass. Pops too."
Mama.
The woman who taught me how to bake over video calls, who laughed with me, who welcomed me with open arms.
My grip tightens around the stem of my glass, nails pressing into my palm.
Bones watches me. Sees it.
"They'd love to talk to you again," he says softly. "If you're up for it."
I inhale slowly, push the emotion down, smooth my face into something neutral.
"I'd love to," I say sweetly. A fucking lie.
Because after this? His Mama won't ever want to hear my name again.
The air shifts. Heavy. Awkward. There was never awkwardness between us before. We were wildfire, consuming, burning too hot, too fast.
And now? Now, we're just ash.
Bones fiddles with his glass, takes a sip, then finally speaks.
"I know you don't want to talk about it, Ely. But we have to. You know I'm bullheaded and dive straight into problems. And I know this is painful for you. Looking at me again. I know I fucked up royally with you."
I lift a hand, already trying to shut this down, but he doesn't let me.
"Please, Ely. You don't have to say anything. Just hear me out. Please."
His voice is raw, wrecked, barely holding together. His eyes — haunted, pleading, desperate. I just nod. Let him talk. Let him pour out every ounce of regret.
It won't change a fucking thing.
He exhales sharply, like he's bracing himself for impact. Like this confession has been clawing its way out of him for a long time.
"I've looked back on that night and the way I reacted every single day for four years," he starts, voice hoarse, heavy. "Analyzed everything. And it all comes down to what happened to Ghost."
He drags a hand through his hair, his throat working as he swallows. "The MC life is brutal, Ely, you know that. But what happened to Ghost? It changed me in ways I didn't even realize."
He sighs, the sound hollow, drained. "He loved a girl. Thought she was everything. She seemed like such a sweet girl, too. And she betrayed him. Sold him out. Sent him away for five years to fight for his life behind bars." His jaw clenches, his grip tightening around his glass. "The man who went inside and the man who came out? Two different people."
I watch him. Expression blank. Unmoved.
Bones keeps going. He can't stop now.
"Ghost was twenty when he went in. Young. Smart. Full of life. He had a future. And prison fucking ruined him. It turned him into a hardened, brutal, cold-blooded machine." His voice lowers, eyes darkening. "I lost my best friend. Even when he came back, I still lost him."
I arch a brow. "So you thought I'd be like that girl?"
His face twists, like he wants to deny it. Like he wants to argue. But then — he doesn't.
"When I found out you had ties to the Riders..." he exhales harshly, shaking his head. "We had already stopped two infiltration attempts. We had three attacks on our own turf. I reacted like an animal." He pauses, jaw locking. "Like a man who refused to let the people he should protect be destroyed again, just like Ghost."
My fingers tap idly against my wine glass, like a countdown to his demise.
"The look in your eyes that night," he continues, voice thick and pained. "When you were strapped to that chair. And then — when I handed you over to that van." He swallows hard. Barely holds it together. "I see it every time I close my eyes, Ely. Every fucking time. Because I should have protected you, too."
Good.
I hope it eats him alive.
"I didn't think they'd do that to you," he breathes out. "I swear to you, I didn't think they'd go that far. I was so sure you were one of them, I didn't stop to fucking think."
He looks at me then, gaze unwavering, face carved from stone.
"What do you need me to do, Ely?" His voice is steady, lethal in its conviction. "Tell me. And I will do it. Anything. To take some of your pain away. To bring you peace."
I hold his stare. Silent. Unmoving.
"I'll think about it." The words slide from my lips, sharp and dismissive.
And then — the oven timer dings. Perfect timing.
I don't give him another second. Another inch. I walk toward the oven while throwing him a small smile. "Let's eat."
He nods, eyes still heavy, still carrying the weight of a man who believes he has something left to fix.
He doesn't. Not anymore.
The table is already set in the dining room. Plates. Cutlery.
"You go ahead and take the salad and garlic bread to the dining room, I'll be right over with the lasagna" I tell him, voice light and pleasant. He follows my order blindly, obediently. Trusting. Stupid.
I plate the lasagna, and bring it to the table, where he's waiting.
And then, we sit. Face to face. The hunter and the hunted.
There will be no dessert.
At least, not for him.
"Bon appétit." I raise my glass, flashing a small, innocent smile.
Bones takes a bite, and I watch. Close. Careful. He doesn't know it yet, but I just sealed his fucking fate.
His eyes go wide. Pure appreciation.
"This is amazing, Ely." He groans, savoring the taste, completely unaware of what's about to happen. "The best damn lasagna I've ever eaten."
"Thank you." My smile stays perfectly in place. I can barely contain the excitement thrumming in my veins.
"I wish I had more time for cooking, but clients keep me too busy."
"You work as a brand designer now," he says, pride evident in his voice.
"Yeah," I say. "It's something I enjoy a lot."
"I'm happy for you." He smiles. "That you found something you're not only good at, but you enjoy."
I nod, sipping my wine, watching him over the rim.
Then he smirks. A little lighter. A little teasing.
"So... Temperance Brennan, huh?"
I pout playfully. "Spur of the moment. Always loved that show."
"I know." His smirk deepens. "You'd stay up all night binge-watching. One more episode. Then another. Then another."
I smile. And then, I see it.
The tremor in his hand.
My heart slams in my chest. Excitement bubbles in my veins. It's starting. It's fucking starting.
I can't even eat. Too much energy. Too much anticipation.
Of course, he doesn't know. Doesn't realize that I made two lasagnas. That his béchamel sauce is a little more special than mine.
Bon appétit, Bones.
Bones
The wine is good. Smooth. Strong. And the lasagna is delicious.
I tip the glass back, letting the burn slide down my throat, watching Ely over the rim. She looks so fucking beautiful.
She lifts her own glass and then I see it. The smallest evil smile hidden behind her glass.
Not the first thing that registered as off tonight. But the most obvious.
I lean back in the chair and decide to go for it. I know she has some kind of plan for tonight.
"What do you need, Ely?" My voice is steady, but something off-kilter twists inside me. Not nerves. Not alcohol. Something else.
She looks at me, surprised. "What do you mean?"
"From tonight. What do you need? You clearly have a plan, want to do something to me, to take some kind of revenge. You can do anything to me, Ely. My brothers won't stop you. They're instructed not to. I won't stop you. I'll take everything you want to give me in order to take your revenge. Any type of coffee. "
She smiles like I just said something funny. "I guess I was too obvious, huh?"
I don't answer this time. Something hits me hard, all of a sudden. I focus on my breathing, on the weight of the fork in my hand, on the feel of my own body. Something's changing.
Too slow. Too sluggish.
I blink.
The table wavers. Just a little.
I grip the edge, exhale slowly through my nose. Focus.
Ely tilts her head, watching me carefully.
"Are you killing me, Ely?" I say, the words slightly delayed, like my mouth is catching up to my thoughts. I clench my jaw, trying to force sharpness back into my voice.
She sips her wine slowly. Not much — just enough to hide the smirk behind the glass.
"Am I?"
Fuck. I really hope she's not killing me. But if she is, then so be it. Maybe it will finally bring her closure.
I push my chair back, muscles tensing to stand, but — I can't.
Fuck.
The room tilts, and I have to brace my hands on my thighs to stop myself from listing to the side.
Whatever she gave me, this shit is strong.
It hits all at once — the heaviness in my arms, the delay in my movements, the way my heartbeat feels too slow but too loud at the same time. My head feels like it's sinking, as if gravity itself has thickened, pressing me down.
I can barely keep my eyes sharp enough to hold her gaze.
She leans forward, placing her chin in her palm, fingers tapping against the side of her cheek.
"How do you feel, Kane?"
I lift my hand, reaching — for what? Her? The knife beside my plate so I can finish this faster?
It doesn't matter. My fingers barely respond. The motion is sluggish, weak.
I blink again. I swear the room gets darker for half a second.
Ely watches me, studying. Not gloating. Just waiting.
She wants to see how long I last.
I force out a breath, push against the dead weight of my body, but the chair scrapes back, my knee buckles, and suddenly, I'm not standing — I'm falling.
I brace for impact, but I barely feel it. The floor is cold, but my body is too numb to care.
A shadow moves beside me.
Ely. My Ely. My death. She deserves to see the last breath leave me.
She crouches, so close I can feel the heat of her body. One hand touches my chest like she's checking to see if I'm still alive.
"You always did think you could handle anything," she murmurs.
Her fingers trail up my neck, lightly, measured, until she brushes the pulse at my throat.
Slow. Too slow.
"Guess we'll find out, won't we?"
And then, darkness.