21. Invasion
Bones
I stand at the massive table in the meeting room, trying, and failing, to focus on the fucking documents the Romanos sent over. My mind is a wreck. The pain is a lingering, dull ache, spreading through my body like a disease that refuses to let go. Every muscle screams, every joint protests, every bruise throbs like a heartbeat. This is gonna be a long-ass recovery period. No pun intended.
It's been a few hours since the shitshow in our backyard. The brothers are still recovering, licking their wounds. I ordered them to get tested as soon as possible. I don't give a fuck that the women wiped down the paddles. How well can you really clean between those spikes? We might have lost our favorite bikes, but most of us had spares. That doesn't matter, though. None of it does. Not when she's still looking at me like she wants to set me on fire.
There’s a knock at the door and Pops strolls in.
"Boy, I predict you're gonna be dead in a month. At most."
His face is serious. Not here to take the piss out of me.
I sigh. "She deserves her revenge. I deserve her revenge, too."
Pops exhales sharply, stepping closer. "I know she does. But Kane, what the hell are you doing? You wanna let her take a blade through your chest next? You die, then what? You think that's what she wants? You want her back, don't you?"
I clench my jaw. "Of course I do."
"Then stop being a fucking idiot."
I lift my eyes to him, but he doesn't waver.
"Getting bloody doesn't bring her back, son. Letting her rip you apart proves what? That you're sorry? Fine. But does that mean she can trust you again? Does that mean she knows you'll stand by her side next time, no matter what?" His voice lowers, sharp as a knife. "What the fuck are you doing, Kane? You've always been a fighter. Since the day you could walk, you took charge, you strategized, you planned ten moves ahead. You took action. And now? You just stand there and take it."
He leans forward, drilling the words into me. "Where the hell did your fight go?"
My voice is quiet when I answer. "I know you're right, Pops. But I can't stop putting myself in front of her and taking whatever she gives. Even if it's wounds. At least it's something. At least I get that."
My throat tightens, but I push through. "I listened to her FBI testimony. Every. Single. Word. And something inside of me broke so painfully, so completely, that I have no fucking clue how to fix it."
Pops sighs again, but this time, there's something different in it. Not just frustration. Something close to understanding.
"Get your mind straight, boy." His voice is firm, unwavering. "If you're broken, you're useless to her. You won't get her back. You'll just get dead."
I exhale slowly, letting the words settle. Letting them scrape against the raw edges of my thoughts.
"I'm already working on it, Pops. Made the decision today." I smile bitterly in his direction. It's not much. But it's a start.
He nods, satisfied. For now.
Then, he raises an eyebrow. "Now. What the fuck is up with Joker?"
I grunt. "Didn't you hear Layla? Apparently, he cheated. Bandaged himself up and took off after her." I shrug. "I'm staying the fuck out of it."
Pops narrows his eyes. "You sure? You don't know anything more?"
I scowl. "No, I'm not gossiping with you because Mama refused to. How the hell are you a seasoned biker and a teenage girl at the same time?"
He grins, slaps me on the back, which sends a fresh wave of pain through my body, and heads for the door.
"Figure your shit out, boy. Time's running out."
As if I don't already fucking know that.
I stand in the dark in the middle of my room, frozen in time, locked in a moment that refuses to fucking pass. Something is wrong with me. And if I can't fix my own goddamn mind, how the fuck do I expect to fix things with Temper?
I knew it before Pops even said a word. But hearing it from him? That hit different. Drove it deep, made it real, made it impossible to ignore. I can't keep letting this self-inflicted punishment dictate every move I make.
This is not who I am.
I used to be a man with a plan. With strategy. With the patience to wait and the ruthlessness to strike fast when needed. The man who built this club into something feared. Respected. Unshakable.
And now? I've been taking my beatings like a good dog, drowning in my own guilt, hoping pain would be enough to wash the sins from my fucking soul.
It's not. It never will be.
I need to show Temper that she can trust me again. Bleeding on her basement floor won't show her that. I need to remind her of how much I love her. Of our eight months together, not those four days. And I need to pay fucking attention to what she actually wants and says, not the way she wields a scalpel.
This unhinged non-stop torture may be good revenge for her, but all it does is remind her of that hell.
I take a slow, deep breath, fingers flexing, mind clearing, heart steadying. I need to take a step back. I need to get my old self back.
But better. Sharper. Stronger.
I'm coming for you, Temper. And this time? I'm not walking into your fire just to burn.
No.
This time, I'm fighting and bringing the fucking storm.
And I'll break down every last one of those high walls you built around yourself, brick by goddamn brick.
Temper
It's been two weeks since the spectacle at the clubhouse. Two weeks since I branded those bastards in ways they won't forget. Bones still sends his stupid fucking thoughtful gifts, but at least he hasn't darkened my doorstep. Yet.
I haven't had time to really think about it. Not with a wailing woman occupying my guest room, mourning the death of her marriage. Layla has been shattered since Joker's betrayal, and I can't blame her. From the outside, they were solid, unshakable. Until he went and fucked it all up.
With her ex-high school best friend.
Joker kept trying to come over, kept pushing, until I finally told him that if he showed up again, I'd shoot him. And I was serious, too. Layla only spiraled worse every time he knocked on the door, so I took matters into my own hands. He made the saddest fucking puppy eyes, mumbled that he understood, and left.
It's been a few days since then. He hasn't come back.
Good.
Layla is slowly crawling back to life. Mama has been over plenty, helping in ways I can't. Layla has decisions to make, things to do, a future to piece back together. And my heart fucking aches for her.
I'm sipping my morning coffee on the back deck, enjoying the peaceful mountain view that stretches before me, cool air biting at my skin. I need this. This week was hell with client emergencies, late nights, one fire after another. I need a break, need to breathe, reset, try to shake this gnawing unease.
Thoughts about Bones keep plaguing my mind. His gifts don't let me forget. He's haunting me, one way or another.
Griffin is gone. Some trip he apparently planned a long time ago. Ria is buried in work, drowning in some last-minute cake order. Layla... Layla still refuses to leave the guest room. At least she's talking again, even if it's only clipped, empty sentences.
I hate the silence. I need a distraction.
So I did something impulsive. I agreed to go on a date with Michael, the town mechanic. He always asks me out when I bring my car in. I always say no. Not interested. Not ready. Not fucking willing to put myself through the mess of dating again.
But this week? This week, when he asked, I said yes.
Maybe it was the exhaustion, the weight of having to deal with my past strolling back into my life. Maybe it was something deeper, uglier, like the need to overwrite Bones with someone else once and for all, to prove to myself that what we had wasn't one of a kind.
Because it can't be. It won't be. I refuse that.
I need to force myself back into the world. Challenge myself. Maybe I'll finally find someone I can connect with on a deeper level.
Because it would be tragic if the only man I ever had that connection with was the one who ripped me apart.
Right now, I feel something shifting inside me.
That peace I felt after taking my vengeance? It's slipping. The satisfaction, the relief, all of that is starting to fade, peeling back layer by layer. And underneath?
Something hollow.
Something wicked.
It scratches at the surface, demanding more, whispering justice, justice, justice. Retribution. As if I still haven't taken enough.
But I can't keep drawing blood. That's not moving on.
I clench my jaw, my grip tightening around my mug. I need to book a session with Dr. Monroe. I really do.
Because if I don't, I might start listening to that voice again.
It's late when Michael walks me to my door. The night air is crisp, the kind that should clear my head, but all I feel is irritation creeping up my spine. The date was... awkward. He's cute enough, and he tried. I tried. But some things just don't fucking click, and this? This was dead on arrival.
I sigh as we stop at my door. Time to end this.
"Look, Mike, tonight was okay, but there just wasn't anything there, you know? Maybe—"
Before I can finish, he kisses me.
No warning. No hesitation. Just takes.
His front teeth slam into mine, and in my surprised gasp, his tongue shoves past my lips.
What. The. Fuck.
It takes me half a second to process the absolute audacity, and then? I don't shove. I don't slap.
I grip his fucking balls. Hard.
Hard enough that he might never have kids.
He freezes. Stiffens like I just turned him into a goddamn statue. His lips rip away from mine, a strangled noise spilling from his throat.
I lean in, my voice a razor's edge.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Did I give you permission to kiss me? Did I ask for it?"
"I...I...I was just shooting my shot," he stammers, voice wrecked with pain. Dumbass.
I twist. Just a little. Enough to make his knees buckle.
"There was no shot for you to shoot, jerkface. Don't ever contact me again. I'll find someone else to handle my car. Forget my name, my face, everything. Or else? You'll fucking regret it."
I let go.
He stumbles back, nodding frantically, face drained of color. Not a single word. Just turns, hurries to his truck like a kicked dog.
I roll my shoulders and exhale, shaking off the grime of the night. This. This right here is why an arrangement like I have with Griffin is the better option.
Dating sucks.
Bones
I've been standing in the shadows for a week now, lurking just down the road from her home, since the moment I could ride again. Not to see her. Not to approach. Just to breathe in the same air. Just to remind myself that she's here. That she still exists in my world.
I know she's not ready to see me.
And I'm not ready either.
I need to fully recover, at least physically, before I go to war again. I need my mind clearer. Sharper. But tonight? Tonight is different.
I know she went on a date.
I saw that fucker pick her up. Followed them to the only restaurant in town. And then I followed them back.
From the window, I watched her smile awkwardly, forced, at whatever dumb shit he was saying. She wasn't enjoying herself, which kind of appeased the beast inside me. It's shitty, I know. But it is what it is. I still know her every laugh, her every expression and I'm certain that fucker has no chance with her after tonight. He bombed it.
She looked so fucking beautiful when he picked her up. There's a black swirl of emotions in my chest. I know she has the right to date anyone she wants. Do anything she wants. I know I lost her that night and that I have no right to feel the way I feel. But I can't stop.
My thoughts are all over the place when I see him kiss her. That. Fucker. Kisses. Her. My heart breaks. My soul shatters. Anger takes over my mind. My vision goes black. The beast inside me snaps its chains and takes control. He fucking kissed her. My woman! I've known she's been seeing that Griffin fuck. I've swallowed that bitter pill. But seeing this asshole kiss her with my own two eyes? I snap. I fucking snap.
I don't even get the chance to move and do something stupid before she grips his balls like a vice. I wince. The fucker practically levitates, standing on his toes from sheer pain.
I get ready to step in, to rip him apart if he even breathes wrong. But he doesn't. He gets the message. Turns and flees like the weasel he is.
Good.
Not good enough.
I climb onto my bike and go after him.
The roads are empty this time of night. The kind of empty that ensures no one will see. No one will hear.
When I get close enough, I pull out my gun and take the shot. One of his back tires explodes, rubber shredding. His truck swerves, loses control, skids to a stop.
Perfect.
I'm already off my bike, a monster riding me, demanding blood.
I rip the driver's side door open.
Knife out. Seatbelt cut.
I drag him out, tossing him onto the pavement like the trash he is.
He barely scrambles, his face pale, eyes wide with fear.
I grin. Maniacal. Deadly.
"You put your filthy fucking lips on my woman."
He stammers, voice shaking. "Wha-what? Temperance? She's single! What are you doing, man?"
"She might be single, but she's still mine." I crouch over him, pressing my boot to his chest, keeping him exactly where I want him.
I twist the blade in my hand. "And she didn't want you touching her, did she?"
He tries to crawl back, but I press down harder. He's not going anywhere.
"No, no, she, she stopped me, man—"
My voice is a growl, guttural, laced with nothing but promise. "And I'll make sure you never try that shit again."
His body starts trembling. He tries to fight me off, but he's too weak. Too slow.
I trap him beneath me, pin his arms under my knees, wrap my hand around his throat. I squeeze hard, enough to make him wheeze.
The blade in my right hand sings. I cut his shirt right through the middle. And then I carve the word into his chest, slow and deep.
NO
By the time I'm done, he's sobbing.
Pathetic.
He whispers the same word over and over again. Please. Please. Please.
I lean in close, my voice soft, almost comforting. "If you ever think about approaching Temper again, just look at your chest. That’s your answer. Don't even think about reporting this. You're only breathing because I don't want to create problems for Temper, since she was the last one to see you tonight."
I smile. A promise.
"Say a word. Just one."
I press the blade to his jaw, feeling him shudder beneath me. "And I will find you. And before I kill you, I'll make you taste hell."
I let go. I stand. I walk away.
I mount my bike and disappear into the night.
Temper
My fiery Temper, I see it in your eyes every time: you don't believe I truly loved you. But I did. I still do. And I'll remind you why, every single day. I love you because you made a home in places that were never meant to hold warmth. You walked into my world, built on blood and violence, and you carved out a space for yourself like you belonged. And you did belong. You always did. You always will.
I stare at the message on my phone like it's a coiled snake, ready to sink its fangs into my flesh. The air leaves my lungs in a slow, burning exhale. This is the last fucking thing I needed.
It’s new. It’s devious. It might be desperate.
He’s been coming at me constantly for the past four months. Thoughtful gifts, expensive gifts, following me around, trying to talk to me, sending lunch at my office. I always manage to avoid him. Slam the door in his face, or else I might just grab a knife and start slashing.
And I’m trying. I’m really trying not to walk the blood path again. I know it’s not a long term solution. I don’t want to lose myself completely in that darkness.
But at one point, I just said fuck it and answered the door with a gun in my hand. Ready to shoot him point blank. He disarmed me so fast I didn’t even realize what was happening. Smirked and left, taking my gun with him. Said he’ll make sure it’s clean and working properly and then he’ll return it. And he did. He did return it. Asshole!
Now it seems he’s trying a new way to make himself heard.
My fingers tighten around the phone, my pulse hammering. Fury rises fast, like a tornado, uncontainable. My thumbs move before I can stop them, before I can think.
I didn't fucking make a home with you! And you never loved me! If I had a home with you, if you loved me, it wouldn't have been so easy to discard me! You weren't protecting yourself or anyone else that night. You were protecting your precious Romano deal. Lies. Lies are all that come out of your mouth!
Send.
I don't wait. I don't let myself process it.
I block the number, slamming my phone onto the counter. Like it will erase the words. Like it will erase him.
But it won't.
Fucking Bones.
He'll find a way to keep sending this shit. I know it. I feel it.
Bones looms over me, his body a cage, his hands braced on either side of my head. The dim light casts shadows across his sharp features, and that lazy smirk, the one that tells me he knows something I don't, sends a slow, anticipatory shiver down my spine.
His thumb traces my lower lip, just a whisper of touch, a promise wrapped in patience.
"Baby, I'm a starving man." His voice is low, unhurried, laced with something dangerously possessive. "Three days on the road without you? Too much."
Before I can respond, his lips claim mine, a slow, intoxicating kiss that is neither gentle nor rough. It's controlled, like he's savoring every second before he ruins me. Like he's making a promise.
I know this promise.
My fingers slide beneath his shirt, meeting hard muscle beneath fevered skin. His body coils, tight with restraint, before a shudder rolls through him.
And then, he moves.
One leg nudges between mine, his knee pressing against my center, forcing my thighs to part for him. His mouth doesn't leave my skin, traveling to my ear, teeth grazing the lobe before trailing downward, lower, lower, never kissing, only brushing his lips over my throat.
Teasing. Marking. Owning.
I don't even realize he's bunched my shirt over my breasts until I feel the heat of his breath ghosting over sensitive skin. My nipples tighten in anticipation, and when his lips close around one, biting, licking, tormenting, my entire body tenses, drawn to the edge without relief.
His hand rolls the other, tugging, twisting, too soft, then too sharp, never enough. The second I arch into him, chasing more, I suddenly find myself flipped onto my stomach.
A gasp barely escapes before fabric is stripped from my body, my shirt abandoned somewhere on the floor.
I'm trapped beneath him, his powerful frame pinning me in place, yet he barely touches me. His legs bracket mine, an unspoken command to stay still.
I am at his mercy.
A rough chuckle. He knows what I'm thinking.
His fingers skim up and down my spine, in a slow, torturous glide. I shudder beneath him, my body betraying my need, my surrender.
He hasn't even taken off his damn shirt.
The bastard laughs, low and dark. Because this is his game.
I am just here to play. And I love it.
Then, his grip tightens at the back of my neck, pressing me deeper into the sheets as he spreads my legs apart.
A slow drag of fingers, hooking the edge of my panties, pulling them aside, exposing me. I can feel the warmth of his touch, the way his index finger traces featherlight paths over my slick folds.
"So wet for me. Soaking."
The tip of his finger flicks over my clit, a cruel tease, fleeting and devastating.
A sharp inhale. My body clenches, aching, waiting.
His grip leaves my neck, but not my control. His fingers spread wide, traveling lower, over the curve of my back, lower, lower, until a rough hand grips the flesh of my ass, squeezing, claiming.
"Bones," I breathe, almost a whimper, almost a plea.
His smirk lingers in the air between us, a ghost of amusement. "You want me, baby? Always so impatient."
The sudden press of his thumb against my other entrance makes me tense, instinct warring with want.
"Relax," he murmurs. "You know I'll make it good for you. Real fucking good."
I know.
I know too well.
His thumb circles, teasing, pressing, pushing, even as two of his fingers dip inside my core in a wicked rhythm, curling, dragging me closer, dragging me under.
A sharp sensation, wet, unexpected, between my cheeks. Did he just...?
Fucker.
But I can't even think about it, not when my body is flooded with sensation. His thumb enters me slowly. Every touch, every movement is too much, too little, never enough.
Heat spirals outward, embers igniting into an uncontrollable blaze. I burn. I shake. I can barely breathe.
His fingers keep moving. In. Out. Curl. His other hand keeps stroking my clit. His thumb applies just enough pressure inside me to keep me on edge, to hold me there, body straining for more, for release.
He's so fucking good. How is he able to make so many different movements at the same time? Ambidextrous fucker. He plays my body like a violin.
The moment I'm about to go over, he stops.
Everything vanishes.
A gasp rips from my throat, desperate, frantic. I'm moved fast, repositioned.
Knees. Hands. A sharp, fluid shift.
A pause.
And then, I feel his thick cock impaling me with a brutal, devastating thrust.
I barely have time to process before he moves again, his hand anchoring me at my hip, keeping me exactly where he wants me, where I have no choice but to take everything he gives.
His thumb enters me again. So fucking good. So full. I feel his length moving inside of me, my inner muscles clamping down, spasming around him. He uses my body like he's been doing this his entire life. Like we didn't just meet three months ago.
A groan, deep and guttural. His body tightens, his pace sharpens. His control is slipping.
I fucking love it.
His grip shifts, fingers trailing upward, over my ribs, my waist, my breast. A pinch, sharp and unrelenting, sending electricity down to where we're joined.
And then his hand is suddenly in my hair, yanking me upright, flush against his chest.
"Look at me," he growls, breath hot against my skin. "Keep your eyes on me when you break." I keep my eyes on him.
His fingers slide lower, dragging through my slick folds. He feels it, feels how close I am.
"Come for me, baby. I can feel you’re almost there."
A sharp tug at my hair, a bite to my neck. His fingers pinch my clit hard.
And then I shatter.
Pleasure detonates through me, unbearable, consuming, pulling me into the abyss.
I scream his name. I tremble. I have no control left.
Somewhere in the haze, I feel him follow, his grip tightening, his body shuddering against mine as he spills inside me, groaning low, deep, satisfied.
The only sound left between us is our ragged breaths.
"That," he murmurs against my ear, "was just a warm-up."
I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, heart slamming against my ribs like it's trying to break free. My sheets feel suffocating, twisted around my legs like chains holding me down. What. The. Fuck.
I shove my hands into my hair, gripping tight, trying to force the remnants of that dream, no, nightmare, out of my mind. No, no, no, no. This is not happening. This is not fucking happening. I haven't had a dream like that in more than four years. Years of sweet silence. And now?
Now my own subconscious betrays me.
It's that fucking text, I just know it. It pushed everything over the edge. No. Fuck that. Bones is not sneaking into my head. Not now. Not ever again.
Am I too horny? Has it just been too long? Maybe it's just my body screaming at me that I need to get laid. Maybe this has nothing to do with Bones.
I need to call Griffin.
Or maybe I should finally call Dr. Monroe. I keep delaying it. I haven't been to therapy in almost two years. Maybe this is a sign that I need to start again, dig into whatever unresolved bullshit is still rattling around inside me. Because these kinds of dreams about Bones? They're not normal.
They can't be.
I force myself to breathe, slow and deep, forcing air into my lungs like it will exorcise the memories still clawing at the edges of my mind. Inhale, hold, exhale. Over and over again, until the panic stops bubbling under my skin, until I can finally unclench my fists, until the ache in my chest settles into something manageable. It takes forever.
But finally, finally, I force my mind to stillness.
I will not let this happen.
Bones has no place in my life.
Least of all my fucking mind.
My fiery Temper, the Romano deal was never more important than you. Consider it dead.
I love you because you used to put a drop of my cologne on your wrist just to sniff it when you were working and I wasn't near you. And you thought I never noticed. I noticed, Temper. I noticed every damn time.
I don't care! BLOCK!
My fiery Temper, I love you because you never let the world break you. Not them. Not me. You burned down every cage that tried to hold you.
BLOCK!
I changed my number. Twice. It’s been a month of these daily texts. How the hell does he keep sending them?
My fiery Temper, I love you because you don't need me. And that scares the shit out of me. Because I need you, Temper. I always have.
Why do I keep reading his shit? It's like I have a morbid fascination for what he might say. I can’t stop myself. There’s a dark need inside me that’s demanding to read his despair.
Still.
BLOCK!
I sit in my office chair, my eyes blurring from four straight hours of reviewing logo proposals. My mind is numb with exhaustion. I need a break.
So, I do what's become a routine since I ripped two dangerous MCs apart and handed them to the FBI: I scroll the news.
I skim headlines, looking for anything to distract me, when my world collapses.
Big. Bold. Brutal.
Gideon Williams, also known as Jinx of the Crimson Riders MC, who was sentenced to death in the case of the Roadside Butcher, was granted his appeal today for a new trial due to ineffective counsel.
"No."
The word barely leaves my lips before everything caves in. My pulse races, a violent pounding inside my chest. Memories swarm. Blood. Darkness. A blade against my throat.
Tears spill before I even realize I'm crying. I can't breathe. My grip on the desk tightens, wood biting into my palms, grounding me. Or trying to.
I stay frozen. Completely. Utterly. Frozen.
Distantly, I hear Amy's voice. Concerned. Muffled. Then something deeper. Rough. Dangerous. An angry growl.
The door slams open.
My head turns slowly, like I'm moving underwater.
He stands there. Breathing hard. Eyes dark as war. Every muscle in his body coiled, lethal. Ready to strike.
Bones.
He shuts the door right in Amy's face. Then he moves. Slow, deliberate. Like he's approaching a wounded animal.
I don't move. Can't move.
He reaches me, turns my chair toward him, crouching in front of me. His hands find my face, warm, firm, commanding. He forces me to meet his gaze, his thumbs brushing my damp cheeks. Anchoring me.
"It's going to be okay," he whispers. "I promise, Temper. I'll make sure of it. He will never have even one chance to get near you again. Never."
His arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest.
"Never," he repeats, voice thick, solid.
I don't fight him. I should. I don't.
I stay curled into his embrace, still frozen, still breaking. His hand moves up and down my back, a slow, soothing motion, his body a wall against the storm in my head. He feels like a shield.
And for a moment, just one fleeting moment, I let myself believe in it.
Pretend.
Pretend that he never betrayed me. Pretend that I can still trust his words. Pretend that he will protect me this time.
The door opens again.
Bones lifts his head, voice a command. "She's in shock. You need to take her home. She'll respond better to you than me. I'll take care of the other problem. Just make her rest."
Ria.
Her voice is small. Worried. "Yeah, I'll take care of her."