20. Vampire
Temper
I stare down the long row of beautiful, brooding bastards in front of me. Assholes. Every single one of them.
They had this coming for a long, long time.
Ria rummages through the duffel bag we brought with us, humming a tune like a happy little psychopath. I take my time, my gaze dragging over the lineup of guilty faces, the weight of the moment pressing into my ribs, thick and heavy. I didn't expect this many of them to show. I assumed Bones, Ghost, Tank, Reaper and Joker would stand here — the ones who should have known better.
But it's not just them.
It’s every high ranked member. Even the ones who barely spoke a word to me.
Reaper is missing, though. Interesting. And so is Inker, the tattoo artist who actually tattooed me. I suppose they remained in Driftwood. Small mercies.
I scan their faces, burning their expressions into my memory. I remember that night with sickening clarity.
The way they avoided my eyes.
The way they stood still. Silent.
Not a single one of them spoke up while I was dragged to that basement like I was nothing.
My gaze lands on Bones first. His face is unreadable, but his body is rigid. Ready. He knows this is important to me. Knows this is a piece of my healing, even if it comes in the form of retribution.
I shift, locking eyes with Ghost. He doesn't look away. He lets me see his truth. His regret. His understanding.
Tank is the same. Joker, too. I've never seen him this serious.
One by one, I take them in, their bodies still, their expressions grim, solemn, prepared.
Maybe they think this will be like what I did to Bones in my own basement. A few cuts and bruises.
They wouldn't be wrong.
But they wouldn't be right, either.
Because that awful night wasn't just about pain. Or betrayal.
It was also about humiliation. It was about losing every person I had ever trusted. The ones I thought were my family.
And now? They will feel loss, too. And humiliation. Because not one of them spoke up on my behalf, questioning what was being done to me.
They will feel it today. They will feel it through the next few days. So that it's drilled into their thick skulls and they never forget what loyalty truly means. And they will carry this lesson with them — a scar carved into their pride, a lesson seared into their bones.
I tilt my head, smiling slowly. "I'm going to need help."
A few of them shift, but they stay silent.
"It's only me and my little elf-on-the-shelf here," I say, jerking a thumb toward Ria, who grins like she's been waiting her whole life for this moment.
"And twenty of you."
I turn to Bones. "I want help from the women associated with this club. With the promise of no retaliation. Your promise, Bones, as President."
His jaw flexes, his eyes burning into mine.
"You got it. I promise."
Good.
I turn to the women lingering on the sidelines, watching with wide eyes, unsure if they should be horrified or excited. Mama is among them, her expression unreadable. Layla isn't here. Strange. I'll look for her later.
For now? It's time to settle the score.
I scan the club girls, raising a brow. "Any of you want to take a bite out of these men's asses? With absolutely no consequences? Now's your chance."
Their eyes widen, hesitation flickering across their faces.
I can see it — the war between doubt and temptation. And then, one of them steps forward.
A tall brunette, gorgeous whiskey-colored eyes filled with cautious curiosity. "I'd like to help."
Another steps forward. Then another. One by one, they move to my side.
By the time they stop, I have four willing participants.
The remaining two hesitate, lingering, watching. They don't step back, but they don't step forward either.
Mama sighs, shaking her head. "I don't think I'm prepared to see this."
I smile at her. "But you can't leave either, can you?"
She exhales, her arms tightening around herself. "No."
I get it. It must be fucking weird to see your grown ass son naked, waiting for his punishment. Along with his friends and coworkers, most of whom you've known since they were kids.
Right then, Pops steps out of the clubhouse.
And in his hands? Bones' special bat.
I grin like a fucking mad woman.
Shiny. Heavy. Perfect.
Pops strides toward me with a warm, knowing smile.
"Why, hello there, girlie! We finally meet in person!"
He opens his arms, waiting. I nod.
His hug is solid, grounding. When he pulls back, he taps my chin with a knuckle, his grin turning sharp.
"Show no mercy, girlie." He winks and steps back toward Mama, folding his arms, watching.
It's time.
I turn to the club girls. Ria has already armed them. They hold the items in their hands with quiet awe, like they just realized shit’s about to get real.
Ria skips toward me, a twinkle in her eye as she hands me my own "weapon". I drop Bones' bat at my feet. It's not time for that. Not yet.
She winks. "Who do you want to start with first?"
I smirk, lifting my weapon, pointing it at my chosen targets.
"Bones. Tank. Ghost. Joker. They're mine. The rest, have fun!"
Ria pouts dramatically, eyeing Tank. "Awww, I really wanted to have Tank's ass today. But I guess there's still time for that." She grins. "It's your show now, Tempe."
She rejoins the girls, lining them up in a straight row.
I take my place in front of them. A battlefield forms.
We stand facing each other — the men who have always been in charge, and the women they never truly saw.
I smile slowly, my grip tightening.
"You know, men rule the world. They have written the laws, carved their names into history, and declared themselves kings, conquerors, and gods — while women were told to kneel."
"For centuries — no, millennia — women were chained to the will of men. They have lived in soft slavery, stripped of their voices, their choices, their very futures. By the same men who claimed to be their saviors."
"And when women rose, when they dared to speak, to dream, to demand more, they were branded whores, witches, heretics... traitors! "
"All because they feared us. They feared the day we would wake up, see through the lies, and take back what was stolen from us."
"But women endured. They resisted. They survived."
"And the day to take back what's ours is here. And we are done asking."
I pause, take a deep breath and continue.
"From the very start, I didn't stand a chance." My voice is even, steady, but the weight of my past settles thick over the space.
"An orphan. Abandoned. Shuffled from foster home to foster home, always searching for a family that didn't exist. I thought I found one in the Crimson Riders because I was young, naive and didn't know any better. Didn't know that grown adult men should never leer at a sixteen year old like she was a piece of juicy meat. I was too blind to recognize the sickness hiding behind every stare, every filthy glance cast my way like I was ripe fruit waiting to be plucked."
"And then my own personal monster came. Robbed me of my choices, my body, my future. But I escaped. And for the first time, I thought I was free."
I let the silence stretch, dragging my gaze across the men in front of me. Bones. Ghost. Tank. Joker.
"I found a man who made me believe he was good. I built a new family. Felt accepted, wanted, safe."
My breath shudders out, but my voice never wavers.
"Poor, little, naive me."
"All it took was a few whispered words from a conniving snake, and suddenly, reality snapped back into place. The truth I had been too blind to see, too hopeful to recognize, crashed over me like a tidal wave." I exhale sharply. "Men are brutal. Men are unforgiving. And the man a woman loves? He is the cruelest of them all."
"Because if he doesn't trust her — if he doesn't love her enough — he can destroy her like no one else ever could. And when he does? The people she once called family will stand there and let it happen."
I let my words settle over them like a curse, my gaze flicking to Tank and Joker. They drop their heads.
"I hope I wasn't too cryptic," I murmur, my tone deceptively light, edged with venom. "I believe my little speech was simple enough to be understood — even by Joker."
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he says nothing. They all know what's coming.
"But in case you somehow missed the point — you fuckers stood there and watched. Some of you even held me down in that goddamn tattoo chair while Bones ripped my soul apart."
I raise the object in my hand and slowly shake it, watching their eyes widen. Is that delicious fear I see?
"Do any of you know what this is?" I tilt the paddle, letting the light catch the thick hardwood and the sharp, protruding spikes.
No one answers. They don't need to.
"This is a Vampire Spanking Paddle," I say sweetly. "Used by hardcore BDSM practitioners in..." I pause, letting the moment stretch, "blood play."
The tension in the air crackles like a live wire.
I turn the paddle slowly, letting them see every brutal inch of it. "Your asses will be remembering this lesson for days. Weeks even. I will spank it into your goddamn skulls so deep that it will never leave."
I point the paddle at Bones.
"Women are to be protected. Cherished. Respected, you stupid fuckers!
"Especially the women you claim to love. And especially the women you claim as family."
I drag my gaze over the wide-eyed bikers, jaws clenched, bodies tensed, waiting for the hammer to fall. Well, paddle. They know they're truly fucked now. And it's too late to back out.
I turn to the girls — my girls , for today.
"It's time, babes." My voice drops into a dark threat. A command.
"Make them bleed for every moment you felt disrespected. For every time you felt unseen."
The club girls glance at the paddles in their hands, hesitant, uncertain. I grin.
"Twenty hits each. Make sure to alternate the cheeks." I say it cheerfully.
And then I turn. Time for the grand prize.
I start with Tank. By the twelfth hit, he's on his knees, groaning, whispering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." But I don't stop. He didn't stop that night, either.
Then Joker. He lasts sixteen before he crumbles. By the end, all he can manage is a hoarse, broken whisper — "I'm so fucking sorry, T."
Next comes Ghost.
By the time I get to him, the girls have turned into vengeful wraiths, and more than half the brothers are groaning on the ground.
Ghost holds out the longest. He takes it, silent, controlled, his body locked tight.
But when the last hit lands, he falls to one knee.
And then I hear it. Quiet. Rough.
"I'm sorry, Ely. I'm sorry, Temperance."
I say nothing. I don't stop.
Finally, I turn to Bones.
I drag my gaze over him, with narrowed eyes, letting every inch of his ruined body sink into my mind.
Gunshot wound at the shoulder. Cigarette burns branding his skin in angry, blistered patches. Dozens of cuts — some shallow, others slicing deep, a testament to my hands, my vengeance. His wrists and ankles still bear the raw, chafed marks of where I kept him bound.
His broken nose is still healing.
And then — my eyes land on his throat.
On the mark he carved into himself.
Something stirs inside me.
Even with his body a battlefield, a map of suffering and penance, he looks magnificent. Brutal. Unbreakable.
His muscles twitch under my stare, coiled tight, his body reacting to me without permission.
He watches me with burning eyes, his expression unreadable.
Then — he smiles.
Knows. Accepts. Waits for me to make my move.
"Take your pound of flesh, fiery Temper," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "It's yours."
I twirl the paddle in my hand, feeling its weight, its promise.
I narrow my eyes. His ass is mine.
Bones
The first hit lands like a fucking million tiny knives, the sting sharp and immediate, the spiked wood punching through the air with a crack. Pain rips across my skin, setting every nerve on fire.
I grit my teeth and take it.
Some of my brothers are still lined up beside me, bare-ass naked, taking the same punishment from Ria and the other four club girls Temper convinced to play executioner. But most of them are laying on the ground, groaning, trying to piece their dignity back together.
The second hit lands on the other cheek, just as vicious, just as fucking brutal.
Fuck.
The muscles in my thighs twitch from the sting, but I hold still. No shifting. No reacting. I breathe through the heat crawling across my skin.
My beautiful, vengeful goddess adjusts her stance, rolling her shoulders like she's getting comfortable. I don't need to look at her to know she's smirking. I can feel it.
Then she swings again. Full force.
The wood and metal spikes bite deep, tiny punctures opening across my already burning skin. I let the breath out slow, nostrils flaring. That one was so fucking personal I felt it straight in my balls.
And I deserve every goddamn second of this.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Every strike lands harder than the last, the rhythm of pain steady, relentless. The spikes don't just sting — they dig, tiny knives biting in, tearing open raw, fresh wounds.
Five down. Fifteen to go.
A grunt breaks the silence — not mine. Mindfuck, maybe. Fang. Doesn't matter. We all bleed the same today.
I roll my shoulders, letting my cut settle heavy against my back, the only piece of clothing I've got on. Not that it does shit for the fire spreading across my ass.
Six. Seven. Eight.
No hesitation. No mercy.
By the tenth hit, my legs are tight as iron, locked in place to keep from shifting.
By eleven, my breathing is slower, measured.
By twelve, I can feel thin rivulets of blood sliding down the back of my thighs, nothing major, just enough to sting like hell.
Thirteen.
The deep ache sets in, pain building on pain, layering hot and sharp over muscle and bone.
Fourteen.
Every strike lands with the same brutal precision. She fucking practiced for this. There's no other way.
Fifteen.
My vision blurs at the edges, just a little. I breathe through it.
She doesn't slow. Doesn't hesitate.
Sixteen.
The spike-covered wood lands high, right where the curve of my ass meets my lower back, and I have to grit my fucking teeth to keep the growl down.
Seventeen.
Eighteen.
The burning is everywhere now, radiating up my spine, into my ribs, down my legs. Into my balls.
Nineteen.
She throws her weight into that one. I feel it deep, the sting riding high, forcing a sharp exhale through my nose.
Then comes the last one.
Twenty.
The second the final hit lands, everything goes dead fucking silent.
And then I fall. On my knees, for my queen.
Pain pulses in slow, deep waves, my skin raw, shredded, nerves screaming. My cut sticks to my back, slick with sweat, with blood, with the heat of it all.
Temper tosses the paddle onto the ground. Wood smacks against dirt.
"You got stubborn again, huh? Standing until the last one." Her voice is smug, full of challenge.
I breathe out slow, drag my eyes up to hers. A smirk pulls at my lips, sharp, lazy, cocky as ever. What else do I have left? Certainly not pride.
"My ass has always been yours, baby. I wanted you to have full access to it."
Her eyes flash. She considers picking the damn thing back up. I see it in the way her fingers twitch, the way she leans in, just a little.
She doesn't. Thank fuck she doesn't.
Instead, she steps forward, grabs my face in one rough grip, and forces me to look at her.
"Learn your lesson well, Bones. Or I might have to teach it to you again." She grits her teeth.
I breathe through the pain, the heat spreading deep into my marrow.
"'I'll never forget it." And that's a fucking promise.
But the physical pain is nothing. It seems that no matter how much I bleed, how many wounds she carves into me, Temper won't fucking budge. Won't give me even a sliver of hope, a single inch of ground. I feel desperation starting to claw inside of me.
I need a new fucking strategy.
Because at this rate? I'll die long before I ever get to have even one taste of her again.
From somewhere nearby, Tank groans, voice hoarse with agony. "So much pain. So many assholes. There's no therapist in the world who can put me back together after this shit."
He's not fucking wrong.
But I know Temper's not done. Not even close.
She tilts her head, looking at him like he's an insect under her boot. "Take it like the man you are, Tank. And say goodbye to your bike."
The chorus of groans that follows her words is louder than any scream.
Fuck.
She turns slowly and starts walking toward my bat.
This is gonna suck.
I look at my bike, my beautiful, loyal beast, and say a silent fucking prayer. A necessary sacrifice. A hero's death. She will be fondly remembered.
"Girls, grab whatever you need. It's time to do some recycling," Temper announces, her voice practically purring.
"Oh, yes!" Ria claps like it's Christmas morning and she’s just about to unwrap the biggest gift box. "Can I get Tank's bike?" She bats her lashes at Temper, feigning innocence.
"Go for it." Temper grins, eyes flashing with a wicked kind of pleasure.
Ria turns to Tank with predatory glee. "Which one is yours, chrome dome?"
Tank lifts his head, looking at her like a wounded animal. "What did I ever do to you?" he croaks.
Ria narrows her eyes. "You hurt my best friend, Baldy McShine! Now point."
Tank stares at her like she's the devil incarnate, but slowly, painfully, lifts a shaking finger toward his bike. His whole body slumps in defeat.
"Don't you dare close your eyes, Baldilocks! You watch everything I'm about to do to your precious bike. Learn your fucking lesson, once and for all!" Ria commands, pointing a manicured finger right at him.
Tank barely opens his eyes, whispering like a man on his deathbed. "You are so fucking mean for such a tiny lady."
Ria's smile turns feral. "I'll show you tiny lady."
She saunters toward his bike, her own bat in hand, shoulders loose, lethal, ready to swing.
And then it starts.
A massacre.
It takes an hour before they stop. An hour of metal crunching, of paint chipping, of glass shattering, of engines dying loud, pitiful deaths.
By the end of it, our bikes are unrecognizable.
Totaled. Wrecked.
Just like our pride. Just like our fucking asses.
None of us will be able to look each other in the eyes for months. Maybe years.
Temper
I'm finishing off the last brutal swing on Bones' bike when I see her. Chestnut hair whipping behind her, eyes burning, her fury a living, breathing thing. She moves fast, like a storm barreling straight for me.
"Give me the bat, Temperance," Layla hisses the moment she reaches me, voice low, tight, dangerous.
I blink, caught off guard. "Layla? What's going on?"
"Give me the bat, Elyna—" She corrects herself immediately, fake as fuck smile twitching at her lips. "Sorry. Temperance. Please."
Her eyes tell me not to argue.
I hand her the bat. Because only a fool fights a woman this close to unhinged.
She snatches it, turns without another word, and heads straight for one of the few bikes still standing.
Joker's.
Oh, fuck.
And then? She descends.
Like a vengeful god, an avenging angel, an executioner swinging the blade of divine retribution.
The first blow lands with a sickening crunch. Metal warps. Glass shatters. Leather splits.
"YOU FUCKING STUPID, JERKFACE, CHEATING ASSHOLE!" she screams, bringing down the full force of her wrath.
Joker, who's barely managing to sit up, lifts his head at the sound of his bike being murdered. "Lei-Lei?" he croaks, voice weak, eyes hazy with pain.
She doesn't hear him. Not yet.
She just keeps tearing through the bike like it personally wronged her.
“I gave you everything! Sixteen years! Since high school! My one and only! Best years of my life! Best. Fucking. Years.”
“And you go and fuck a fucking whore?! And get her pregnant?!”
Ah, fuck. She's gonna kill him.
Joker, who clearly has no self-preservation instincts whatsoever, doesn't flee. No, the idiot keeps talking.
"Lei-Lei, no! Please, just calm down. What the hell are you saying — pregnant?"
Everyone is absolutely frozen.
Except Layla. She still swings.
Joker, as clueless as ever, keeps going. "No one is pregnant, Lei-Lei. It was a fucking mistake. Please." His voice breaks.
Layla finally stops. Chest heaving, eyes like fire, bat clutched so tight I swear she's going to break it in half.
A dead silence settles over the lot. Eyes shift from Layla to Joker. From Joker to Layla.
She finally turns to him. Still breathing heavy, voice like razor wire.
"You. Piece. Of. Human. Trash." Every word is spat with disgust.
Joker's eyes widen. He knows. We all know. This isn't just an explosion.
This is the end.
"Your whore came to me," Layla seethes. "Showed me a fucking picture. Naked. Beside you. The night you fucked her.”
“She's pregnant now, you fucking imbecile. You fucking waste of breath."
The world tilts. I swear Joker stops breathing.
She points the bat at him, a final judgment.
"I am done. So. Fucking. Done. Erase my name from your mind. I don't ever want to hear it from your cheating lips again. You make me sick."
Joker opens his mouth—
The bat flies.
He barely dodges it, stumbling out of its path like a man running from his executioner’s blade.
Layla spits on the ground in front of him.
Turns. Walks away. Gone, just like that.
Fuck.
I take off after her.