Page 89 of Traitor

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.

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