Page 1 of Traitor

Prologue

Ely

The moment they drag me into the tattoo chair, I know my life is over.

Bones stands in front of me, arms crossed, his face carved from ice as he watches the brothers restrain me. Tank, Joker, and Reaper, three men I once called friends, now hold me down like a rabid animal while the club's tattoo artist preps the machine.

The cold steel presses against my back, the weight of Tank's hands pinning my shoulders down. My body fights against him, but it's no use. Joker grips my wrist, slamming it onto the armrest, his fingers biting into my skin like a vice. My other hand is trapped beneath Reaper's knee, immobilized.

They are too strong. Too many.

This is happening.

Oh, God, this is happening.

I thrash. Scream. Beg.

"Bones, please," I cry, my voice shaking. "I didn't do anything! You know me. You know I'd never—"

"Shut her up," Bones orders.

Tank slaps a rough, calloused hand over my mouth, muffling my sobs. My legs kick helplessly against the brothers' grips. A sharp buzz fills the room, the unmistakable sound of the tattoo gun coming to life. The air thickens with the acrid scent of ink and antiseptic, but it's overpowered by the sweat on my skin, the sharp tang of fear in my breath.

"Do it," Bones says.

His voice is dead. Cold. Final.

The needle meets my skin, and the pain is instant. A searing burn rips through my forearm as the artist drags ink into my flesh, over and over, the vibrations rattling my bones. I arch against the chair, agony tearing through me, but no one stops.

My body jerks, my legs kicking, but Reaper's knee drives harder into my thigh, pinning me in place. Tank's grip tightens on my shoulder, his fingers digging into my flesh. I don't care. I don't fucking care. I can't let this happen.

The buzzing doesn't stop. The needle keeps dragging across my arm, digging, slicing.

I feel every stroke, every letter as it's seared into my skin.

T

R

A

I

T

O

R

Each letter burns into me, scorching deep into my soul.

A broken whimper escapes my lips as the tattoo gun keeps going. My body trembles violently, my arm throbbing beneath the weight of the fresh, bleeding ink.

The word brands me, marks me, and the truth of it hurts deeper than the ink itself.

They don't believe me.

Bones doesn't believe me.

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