Page 106 of Traitor

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.

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