27. Death
Temper
M y hands won't stop shaking.
My whole body trembles, locked in place, refusing to move. Bones stands beside me, watching me. Silent. Solid and unmoving. Like he's waiting for orders.
We're in the middle of the common room, caught between where I was and where I'm going. I stopped dead in my tracks. Right here. In the fucking middle. On the way to the wine cellar. No, the torture room.
Where Jinx is waiting.
I can't even blink.
This is it. The moment. I can finally get my justice. Real justice. I can finally kill my own personal monster. And I will. No matter what Dr. Monroe says. No matter what it does to me. No matter if it destroys my fucking soul, I will end him. He will die by my hand. Knowing that the girl he tormented, the one he kept covered in fear, blood and bruises for years, the one whose throat he cut — she is the one who owned his life in the end.
He will not get the mercy I gave Bones.
Because he was never anything to me. I never saw him as human. He's just a dark, slimy, crawly disease. And I'll heal the world of him.
I just need to fucking move.
"If you don't want to do this, that's okay." Bones' voice is soft but laced with steel, unwavering. "He'll die anyway. In agony. You can skip this, Temper."
I lift my eyes to his, those blue-gray eyes that have haunted my dreams and my nightmares alike. I see it — the pain that connects us. It stretches between our hearts like a rope, knotted and frayed.
And I realize something.
This man — this man who destroyed me — he would die for me. By my hand or any other.
The weight of that hits me hard. I should have known before, but it's only now, standing here on the precipice of my vengeance, that I truly see it.
When I had him tied in my basement, when I had my knife to his throat, why didn't I recognize it then? I look at the ink scarring his neck. A moment of relief passes through me. For the first time, I don't see it as a punishment. I see it as a mark of our shared pain. Worn on the outside, laced with his guilt.
Our demons have been dancing together for months now. A dangerous, wicked tango — my anger, his guilt. They've clawed at each other, tearing, scraping, wounding. Both of them whispering, demanding his blood. And yet, he persisted. Survived. Fought.
Even when death tried to kiss him so many times, he didn't flinch. He took every hit, every wound. Because that's what he knows how to do. Because I was his first love, and he'd rather let me kill him than let me go.
And he was mine. My first and only love.
The thought is too much. My eyes blur, my chest seizing up.
"I just needed a moment," I whisper. "Take me to him, Bones."
He doesn't say anything. Just presses a hand to the small of my back, a steady weight, guiding me forward. Holding me upright. Keeping me from collapsing under the weight of this moment.
And I know. I know that no matter what happens, he will be there.
He pushes open a heavy door, revealing a long, dimly lit hallway. And standing along it, every single one of his brothers.
Even Ghost. Even Joker.
I stop, staring at them. Their faces are hard, unreadable.
"They just wanted to show you their support," Bones murmurs. "That you're not alone. Ria is here, too."
I follow his gaze and see her. Her curly blonde hair shines like a beacon between the dark figures of Tank and Domino.
"You got this, Tempe," she says, voice like steel. "It's time to make him feel what you felt."
She's never looked more serious.
I nod. Strength pulses through me.
I can do this.
With one last breath, I step forward. Bones moves with me, leading the way as he opens the final door.
We step inside.
The heavy door clangs shut.
It's just the two of us now.
And the monster tied to a chair in front of me.
He's gagged. Naked. Bound so tightly with thick ropes around his chest and ankles that his skin bulges against them. His arms are wrenched behind the chair, his wrists knotted together.
His eyes blaze with fury, his muffled screams trying to push past the gag. But I don't want to hear his voice. I don't want his words to take root in my mind, festering, rotting. He doesn't deserve last words. I don't deserve to hear them.
I scan the room, my gaze locking onto the metal table near the wall. Tools. They line the surface, glinting under the dim light. Tools for pain. Tools for justice. More hang from the wall — blades, pliers, spikes. But one catches my eye.
A long, serrated knife.
I lift it, the weight solid in my palm. Run my thumb over the jagged edge, feeling the bite of the steel. A slow exhale escapes me.
I know what I want to do.
"Where's your bat?" My voice is calm.
Bones doesn't hesitate. He steps into the corner and retrieves it. The familiar metal gleams under the light, the wicked spikes along the barrel sharp as hell. He places it on the table beside me. Perfect.
I turn back to the monster, walking slowly, savoring the way his body tenses as I approach. His garbled attempts at speech are pointless. The ropes creak under his straining muscles, but he's going nowhere.
He's at my mercy.
There's silence inside me. No anger clawing at my mind. No pain cutting into my soul. No memories plaguing me. Just silence.
I tighten my grip on the knife, my hand moves—
"Temper." Bones' voice halts me, void of any hint of emotion. "If you start with that, you'll have about ten minutes left before he bleeds out. Unless you stop the bleeding."
I tilt my head, considering. Then I give him a small, curious smile. "You've done this before?"
His lips curve into something dark. Dangerous. "It's effective. Depending on the situation."
A slow shiver rolls down my spine. I like the way he says that. The darkness in his eyes. In his voice. Like violence is just another language he speaks fluently. If I were normal, I'd be horrified. But I'm not normal. I was forged in blood and pain.
"I don't need him to live for long," I murmur, turning my gaze back to my monster. "He doesn't deserve to take any more of my time."
Bones nods once, silent approval.
The monster in the chair is still thrashing, still trying to move, to fight. Pathetic.
I step in closer, bending until I'm inches from his face. I want him to hear me clearly.
"You deserve this," I whisper, my voice calm, measured. Deadly. "You spent years poisoning the world with your filth. You spread your disease over countless innocent women. You stole something from me I can never get back. You took a young, hopeful girl and buried her in hell. You stained my soul and now your blood will stain this room. And that's where this ends. You will disappear. Become nothing. Your remains will never be found. No one will ever cry for you. Miss you. Remember you. It will be like you never existed. Because after this, you will never occupy even one thought in my mind. I will turn the memories of you into ashes. I will live while your soul rots into oblivion. I will find peace. Happiness. And you will find only the darkness you created. Rot in hell."
His eyes widen, a frantic shake of his head. Now he feels true fear.
Good.
My grip tightens on the knife. My other hand — strong, steady — grips his dick.
And I start cutting.
The serrated blade tears through flesh, through muscle, through the disgusting thing he used as a weapon. His scream rips through the room, muffled by the gag, a raw, animalistic sound. His body jerks, but there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide from what he did, from the girl he tortured now becoming his executioner.
One final slice. I straighten. Breathe deep. Feel nothing.
I drop the knife. The blood-slicked handle slips from my fingers, hitting the ground with a sharp clink. I don't hear it.
I don't hear anything but the roar in my ears.
I rip the gag from his mouth before he can even register what's happening. His lips part, ready to spit out some pathetic plea, some last-ditch effort to slither his way out of this. Or to curse me. I don't care.
I don't give him the chance.
I shove his severed dick straight into his mouth.
He gags, body convulsing, muffled sounds of terror choking against the blood flooding his throat. His eyes are wide, bulging, panic-stricken, and I drink in the sight like it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
But I'm not done.
Not nearly fucking done.
I step back. Grab the bat. The one Bones handed me, the one that's marked with years of violence, of destruction, of punishment. I lift it in my hands, feel the weight of it. The spiked metal is hungry.
So am I.
The first hit slams down onto his thighs, the spikes sinking deep into his flesh. I have to yank it hard to pull it free.
He tries to scream, but he can't.
Not with his own filth clogging his throat.
I don't give him time to recover before I swing again.
Harder. Meaner.
His ankles next. The bat connects with sickening force, his body jerking violently against the restraints.
And then I lose myself in the rhythm of destruction.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
The spikes rip, tear, pierce. His bones shatter. His body collapses under the brutality of my wrath.
I don't stop.
I aim for his ribs. His chest. His arms. His back.
I don't know if he moves or screams anymore. I can't see. Can't hear. I just swing the bat.
The first hit to his head sends his neck snapping back violently.
And that's when I finally hear them — my own screams. I finally feel my raw throat. The tears coming down my cheeks.
But I don't stop.
I keep hitting. With fury. With violence. With everything inside of me. I go at it like a feral animal. Relentless.
By the time my strength leaves me, his skull is caved in. He's a puddle of raw flesh and blood, tangled in ropes. He looks exactly like a monster now. Like he should have looked all along. And I realize that I'm finally looking at the real face of my tormentor. And that he's gone.
All energy seeps from my body. I drop the bat. My fingers uncurl, and it clatters to the ground, bouncing once, twice, landing in the pool of blood at my feet.
I drop to my knees, still looking at him, my soul hollow. But I never hit the floor.
Bones catches me. His strong arms lock around me before I crumble completely.
My screams stopped some time ago. Now, my body convulses with sobs so deep, so broken that they split me open from the inside.
Bones' grip tightens. His voice is quiet, rough. "Do you need Ria?"
He turns me away from the dead monster in the chair before I answer.
My fingers clench into his cut. My voice is small. "No. You. I just need you. Take me out of here. Anywhere."
I feel him shift, pulling his phone from his pocket.
"Everyone out," he says. "Yes, Ria too."
A beat of silence. A low click as the call ends.
He waits a minute and then he lifts me into his arms and carries me away.
I bury my face in his neck, hiding from the world. From what I've done. I don't want anyone to see me. I don't know if all of them left after he told them to. Ria would have put up a fight. I'm strong. But I need to fall apart right now. And I don't know why, but I can feel it in my soul that I need Bones right now.
A painful numbness spreads through me. I feel cold. So cold.
It's not better. He's dead but it's not better. He still took something from me. Still killed a piece of me. And no matter how much I pretend I'm ok, I'm not.
He cut into me for years. I was just a kid. The wounds are still there. Bleeding.
Bones was right. I never moved on. Never truly healed. I just pretended.
A fresh wave of sobs wracks through me and I grip his leather harder.
We enter a room. It smells like him.
"I need a shower," I whisper, my voice barely there, my head bowed.
He doesn't hesitate. He guides me to a door, silent, and hands me a shirt and a pair of sweatpants — his . I take them without a word and step inside, closing the door behind me.
The water is scalding, but I barely feel it. I scrub my skin raw, trying to wash away the blood, the weight of what I've done. But there's nothing left to scrub away except the numbness that has taken root inside me.
I dry off and pull on his clothes. The shirt is too big, swallowing me whole, the scent of him wrapping around me like a second skin. The sweatpants hang low on my hips, the fabric soft. And just like that, without warning, the tears come again. A fresh wave, silent and unrelenting.
I press my hand to my mouth, try to breathe through it, but it's useless. I feel empty and full at the same time. Hollow and drowning.
When I finally step out, my arms wrapped around myself like I can somehow hold all the broken pieces together, he's there, waiting for me.
I can see the tension buried deep in every muscle, in every sharp line of his body. Like he's carrying my pain, too.
I don't say anything when he guides me to a soft bed, makes me lay down and crouches in front of me. His eyes are worried. Haunted. Second-guessing everything. He's thinking that he shouldn't have let me do this.
I curl into myself and stretch my hand out, brushing my fingers against his face. His warmth steadies me.
"I'll be ok. You weren't wrong." My tears won't stop. "I just need you to hold me for a while. Ok, Bones? Just please hold me."
His nod is slow. Sure. Absolute.
"Whatever you need."
He climbs into the bed, pulling me into his arms, caging me against him. Like if he holds me tight enough, I won't slip away.
His breath warms my hair. His weight anchors me. Keeps me from drowning.
My tears keep falling. I think it's the first time I truly cry for the girl I used to be. I liked her. And she's dead. And now her monster is dead, too.
Sobs come out of me harder. Bones hugs me closer. Comforting. Grounding. He doesn't let me lose myself in the pain.
That's how I fall asleep when, finally, my tears run dry.
Bones
She sleeps through the day.
And I don't move.
I keep my arms wrapped around her the entire time. Seeing her like that — raw, shattered, emptied out — it was like a whip flaying my soul, carving into my ribs until nothing but agony remained.
Tank sent messages, saying Ria was losing her mind, demanding answers, threatening to set the whole clubhouse on fire if I didn't bring Temper to her. I told him to calm her down, that Temper was resting. That she'd be okay.
But I don't know.
I don't fucking know if she'll ever be okay.
When evening creeps in, she finally stirs.
Her eyes find mine, and there's nothing in them. No fury. No pain. No fucking life.
That look... It terrifies me. I've never felt like this before. I always just got ready to fight, no matter what. But this? I don't know how to fight this.
Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I'm thirsty."
My arms tighten around her for a second before I force myself to move. "I'll get you some water. And food."
"I'm not hungry." Her voice is so fucking small. "Just thirsty."
I get up, grab a bottle from my mini fridge, twist the cap off, and hand it to her.
She drinks greedily, a few drops slipping past her lips, down her throat. She doesn't stop until half the bottle is gone. I watch her, my own throat tightening, because I still don't know what the fuck to say. I have no words. Not for this.
She lowers the bottle, fingers curling around the plastic as she glances around the room.
"Your room is big," she murmurs, an observation more than anything, like she's talking about the weather.
"Yeah," I answer, my voice rough. My heart beats too fast. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of something dark and endless, and if I make the wrong move, I'll fucking fall.
She looks again, and then stops. I know exactly where her gaze lands.
One corner of her mouth tilts up, just barely. "Your guitar is here."
"Yeah. Still shit at playing it, though." I force a smile, but my stomach is fucking wrecked. This whole moment feels like the prelude to death.
Her gaze drags back to mine. "Will you play for me? That one song. The only one you know from start to finish?"
I swallow hard. My throat burns.
"Nothing Else Matters." My voice is barely there. A ghost of sound. "I'll play for you, Temper."
I grab the guitar, drop into the chair, and take a deep breath. My fingers shake as they settle on the strings. Fucking shake.
I've been playing this song for twenty goddamn years. Learned it when I insisted on taking music lessons with Ghost. But unlike him — the fucking prodigy — I was awful. I had no natural talent, no rhythm. But I was stubborn. And after two years, I finally got it. And then I gave up the lessons.
The moment the first note hums through the air, it hits me.
The memory of playing it for her for the first time, of watching her fall in love with the sound, of knowing it wasn't the song at all. It was us.
A meeting of souls that happens once in a million fucking years.
And I destroyed it.
Because of fear, panic, stupidity.
And now?
Now, I'm still as stubborn as that thirteen-year-old kid who wouldn't stop until his fingers bled on the frets.
And I'm still destroying.
Still stupid.
Because I need to face the truth. Just like Jinx, I'm also one of her monsters. I keep sticking to her, clawing at the past, hoping to drag some sliver of the good we had back into the light. But I'm only bringing back bad memories and pain. I hoped the good memories were stronger than the bad. But I'm not so sure anymore. Not after today. Not after watching her break.
She doesn't deserve to keep being reminded. She deserves to move on. To heal. I thought I could do that for her. But once again, I was too stubborn to see how stupid that thought really was.
The sound travels in the air between us, soft, sad. Like it's mourning the death of us.
I glance up at her, and fuck, she's crying. Silent tears. Slow, aching drops sliding down her cheeks.
The last note leaves the chords and dies in the air.
Her eyes stay locked on my hands, watching the way they still rest on the guitar, how my fingers tremble.
My voice breaks the quiet.
"I've really lost you forever, haven't I?" Something lodges in my throat.
She doesn't answer. Doesn't even look at me.
Then, after what feels like a lifetime, she turns in bed, her back to me.
I hear her whisper, "Come and hold me, Bones."
For one second, I can't move. It feels like the end.
Then I put the guitar down, cross the room, slide into the bed, and wrap myself around her like she's the only thing keeping me breathing.
I fall asleep with her in my arms.
And when I wake up in the morning, she's gone.
Taking my heart with her.