18. Surrender
Day three
Bones
I feel like death warmed over.
My shoulder is barely hanging on, every joint screaming, every muscle stretched past its limit. If it's not dislocated by the end of this, it'll be a fucking miracle.
And the hunger. Fuck, the hunger is the worst.
It's like something is gnawing at my insides, eating me from the inside out, clawing at my ribs, chewing its way through my gut.
The pain of my wounds? Distant. Fading. I don't even feel it anymore. Not the open gashes, not the raw flesh, not the deep, searing cuts she carved into me with a goddamn scalpel.
Temper got creative today. She turned my skin into a map of open wounds and future scars. Every line, every gash, etched into me like a signature. I welcome it. Because I can't think about my pain. Not when the only thing filling my mind is her.
She went through this. Alone.
No one to hold her when her body gave out. No one to whisper in her ear that she was stronger than this. No one to tell her she was worth saving.
I grit my teeth, sucking in a ragged breath. I wish I could kiss every one of her scars. Tell her how fucking beautiful she is. How she isn't just survivor or victim. She's a goddamn warrior.
My fiery Temper.
I would hold her. Never let go.
If she'd only let me.
Temper
The knock comes out of nowhere. Short and determined.
I have a feeling I already know who it is before I even reach the door. And when I pull it open, I'm exactly right.
Ghost.
He stands there, shoulders broad, body coiled tight, a predator wrapped in quiet menace, waiting for the signal to strike. His voice, when he speaks, is soft — too soft for a man like him, too gentle for someone who carries death on his hands so easily.
"Hello, Ely."
The name grates against my skin, a wound ripped open anew.
I meet his eyes, see the shadow lurking beneath the calm, the tension rippling just beneath the surface, the restraint he's barely keeping leashed. Ready to pounce. Ready to kill.
I don't waste time with pleasantries.
"Fury."
One word. The only word that matters.
His expression shifts — a flicker of surprise, barely there, gone before it can settle. But he doesn't turn around, doesn't step away. Of course, he doesn't.
He nods once, slowly, his head dipping like he's just been given orders. "I understand," he murmurs. And then, as if the word wasn't already the end of the conversation, as if he has the right to demand more, he adds, "Can we talk, Ely?"
My fingers tighten on the edge of the door, nails digging into the wood. Irritation boils hot beneath my skin, simmering at the edge of my control.
"I'd rather not." My tone is flat, empty, laced with absolute indifference.
He doesn't flinch, doesn't move a step.
"I'm busy," I continue, flicking my gaze past his shoulder like I have better things to do. Because I do. I really fucking do. "And my name isn't Ely. Not anymore. It's Temperance."
I watch the shift in his stance, the way his fingers twitch, the way his mouth parts just slightly, like he's about to say something — something I don't want to hear.
I don't give him the chance.
I slam the door in his face.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the silence beyond the door, waiting to hear if he'll knock again, if he'll force the conversation I already ended. He doesn't.
Good. Because I don't have time for his shit.
Not now. Not ever.
One more day.
That's all that's left.
One more day of breaking Bones. One more day to make decisions about the grand finale. One more day to see this through.
And then? Then, I get to see what's left of me when the fire burns out.
The thought should terrify me. Should send me spiraling, should leave me gasping for air. But it doesn't.
For the first time in four goddamn years, I feel something close to peace. A quiet inside me that has never existed before.
And I think maybe, just maybe, I'm finally ready to let go.
Day four
Bones
She enters the cold, damp room like a vision ripped from a fever dream, sharp edges and unrelenting fire, the embodiment of vengeance in silk and steel. Arms crossed, head tilted, eyes burning into me.
I don't speak. This is her show.
"I like seeing you like this," she murmurs, stepping closer, amusement curling at the edges of her lips. "Helpless. At my mercy."
I smirk, or at least, I try.
"Baby, you can do anything to me. My body is yours. My soul is yours. My heart is yours. This merciless part of you seriously turns me on."
Her brow arches, mocking my words.
"I don't believe that for a second."
She stalks toward me, like a predator, the weight of her presence suffocating. My muscles scream, my limbs barely functional, every nerve shredded by days of torment. I don't know if I can take any more. There's only one thing left for her to do to me now and I honestly don't know if I'll survive it.
She turns her back to me, moves toward the metal table. My stomach drops.
A glint of steel.
A fucking knife. Every ounce of hope evaporates.
If she goes for my throat, there's no way she's cutting just deep enough to leave a scar but not deep enough to kill me. I'm not that fucking lucky.
She pivots, blade in hand, and walks back toward me.
I brace myself. Grit my teeth. Prepare for whatever comes next.
But instead of slicing, she starts unbinding my legs, then my arms. Relief is fleeting. Suspicion settles in its place.
"Temper..." My voice is hoarse, nothing more than a rough scrape of sound, but before I can get another word out, she yanks the last restraint free and steps back.
And I fall.
Face first.
Hard cement.
A sickening crunch. My nose explodes with pain. Blood gushes down my face, pooling at my lips, coating my tongue with the taste of iron and failure.
I groan. Fuck.
"I have a friend coming to help me take you to my car," she says, tone devoid of emotion, like I'm nothing more than a piece of trash she needs to dispose of. "We'll throw you by the side of the road. And don't even think about doing anything to her if you survive this."
Her voice drops, dangerous, sharp enough to slice through bone.
"I will kill you slowly if you harm even a single strand of hair on her head. Do you get me?"
I barely lift my head, vision swimming.
She's so fucking beautiful. Even now, standing above me, blood on her hands, vengeance woven into every inch of her being.
"I'd never harm your friends, Temper," I whisper, the only promise I can make.
The door creaks open. A small blonde with a glint of pure chaos in her eyes bounces inside, grinning like she just walked into a goddamn party.
"Oh, hello, asshole!" she chirps, all sunshine and knives.
She looks at Temper, all business. "Let's get him out of here."
Then she scrunches her nose.
"And maybe deep clean this room, Tempe. It smells like biker bitch in here."
I let out a raspy chuckle. Of course Temper would be friends with a complete lunatic.
The car stops somewhere off the road. Remote. Empty. I don't know where we are, don't care. Because I can't take my fucking eyes off her. She looks different. At peace. Serene. Like she's standing at the edge of a storm, finally seeing clear skies.
Maybe she's deciding if she should just end me right here.
God, I hope not. I need a life with this woman. I need a chance to fix what I destroyed.
I loved her before, mourned her like the loss of a limb, but now? Now it's obsession.
She was always incredible, but now? Now she's untouchable. A fallen angel with wings dipped in blood. Power incarnate. Nothing can stop her now. Not even me.
She turns toward me, glances at her friend, then back at me. Then, without a single word, they both get out and drag me from the car like a fucking sack of meat. My head slams against the ground. I can't even groan. I have nothing left.
Temper crouches over me, knife in hand. The blade presses to my throat. I hold my breath. Wait. If I die now, at least the last thing I see is her face.
She studies me, expression unreadable, something flickering in her eyes. Then, she sneers. Like she just tasted something rotten.
"You are fucking pathetic." Her voice is pure venom. "Stop looking at me like that. I'm about to cut your throat."
"It's yours to cut," I whisper. Truth.
Her shoulders tighten. And then she sighs. Retracts the blade.
"I can't actually cut your throat, Kane." She sounds frustrated, almost disgusted.
"I honestly might kill you, and I don't want that on my conscience. I like making you suffer, but I won't become a murderer because of you. You're not worth it."
Her voice wavers. Just slightly. She doesn't look at me as she speaks again. Quieter now.
"This was never about you. It was about healing myself."
"Awww... I was really hoping you were going to kill him," her friend pouts. "I can do it for you, Tempe!"
Temper glares. The psycho woman pouts harder, stomps back to the car.
Temper digs into her pocket, pulls out a phone — my phone. She presses my thumb to the screen, unlocking it, then dials a number. Waits. When the call connects, she speaks only four words:
"Find your boss, doggy."
Then she tosses the phone to the ground, turns, and gets in the car.
I watch the taillights disappear, lying on my back and then I stare up at the starless sky, the full moon too bright, too fucking empty. I can't move. Can't reach the phone. So I stay here, still, bleeding into the dirt, drowning in every single choice that led me here.
How the fuck do I make her love me again? It feels like I have a mountain to climb, and I'm still at the base.
Hours later, Tank finally finds me.
It takes three goddamn days before I can even stand without feeling like my entire body is about to crumble in on itself. Three days of hell. Three days of muscles screaming, joints cracking, head pounding like a goddamn jackhammer. I'm wrapped in more bandages than a fucking mummy, every inch of me a testament to her rage, her pain, her vengeance carved into my flesh.
And if the physical agony wasn't enough, every brother in the club has taken it upon themselves to check in, each one poking their heads in to ask a million questions. Every damn one of them.
I take a slow, careful breath, pushing myself out of bed. My vision blurs, my knees threaten to buckle, but I push forward. No fucking choice. I can't afford to be weak, not now. I'm a man on a mission.
I leave my room, stepping into the eerily silent main room of the clubhouse. No music. No shouting. No pool games. No club girls draped over the couches. Nothing but an unsettling quiet.
Every brother is there, seated, drinking, staring blankly at their beer bottles like they hold the meaning of life.
Like a room full of men about to go off the wagon.
Fuck this.
"Church!" I bellow, and every single one of them jolts like I just fired a shotgun in the middle of the room. I don't wait for a response, don't even look at them, just turn and head straight for the meeting room. They'll follow. They always do.
Ghost is the first one through the door. Of course he is.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, voice even, but his eyes flick over me, taking in the damage, the exhaustion I know is written onto every inch of my skin. "Ely really did a number on you."
I hold his gaze. Unflinching. Cold. "She only did what was done to her. Take a seat. I have some shit to discuss."
The others file in one by one, tense, waiting, wary. When the last brother steps inside and the door clicks shut, I brace my hands on the table and look at them.
"First of all," I start, turning to Ghost, "Ely isn't Ely anymore. She's Temperance. She chose that name. Use it."
I let the words settle. No one objects.
"Second of all," I exhale slowly, pushing through the ache in my ribs, the weight of what I have to say pressing heavy. "Temper mentioned something while she was... occupied with me."
I look around the room, dragging my eyes over each one of them, making sure they're really fucking listening.
"She doesn't just blame me. She blames all of you."
The silence turns sharp.
"She feels betrayed," I continue, my voice flat, steady. "By every single one of you who stood by that night and did nothing. Who watched her get dragged to that chair, who watched her thrown into the basement, who watched me hand her over to the Riders and didn't say a goddamn word."
"Fuck, Bones, man," Joker mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. "When you screw up, you really go all in and drag us all down with you." He sighs, shaking his head. "But... I get it. I'd feel the same way."
He leans back, tapping his fingers against the table. "Not like it matters to her that club rules kept us from stepping in. Good thing you abolished those, huh?"
His attempt at humor falls flat.
"The rules mean shit to her," I say bluntly. "The old ones. The new ones. All of them."
I pause, let that sink in, let the weight of what I'm about to say settle deep in their heads.
"She wants revenge."
I see it — the way their backs straighten, the way their eyes flick toward me, gauging just how serious I am.
"She wants to make us bleed?" Ghost asks, his voice unreadable.
"I don't fucking know," I admit. And I don't. "I'm not forcing anyone to do anything. I fucked up. This is my burden to carry. But if you're willing to give her something..."
I exhale sharply. "Fuck. Honestly? You'd be helping me. Helping her get her revenge? That helps me."
I scan the room, watch them process, watch them weigh what they're willing to do.
"It's your choice," I say finally. "I won't hold it against you if you don't. But it would really fucking help me. Talk amongst yourselves. Let me know what you decide."
I push away from the table, shoving to my feet. "Now, is Sketch at his shop?"
"Yeah, he's working on decorating and shit," Tank answers, watching me like he's expecting me to drop any second.
"Good." I nod once. "Talk. Let me know."
And with that, I turn and leave, heading straight for Sketch.
I find him at the new tattoo shop, standing in the middle of what will be the reception area, his focus locked on the brand-new tattoo chair we ordered.
The irony isn't lost on me.
"Sketch," I call, voice rough, raw, wrecked from everything.
He turns, dark eyes gleaming, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"Boss." He drags the word out, eyes flicking to the bandages wrapped every-fucking-where around me. "You look like shit."
I smirk, or try to.
"Your gear ready?" I ask, nodding toward the setup. "You up for some work?"
His grin widens, something wicked curling at the edges.
"Always."