Page 10 of Traitor

And I fucking fell for it.

2. Bones

Ely

Eight Months Ago

The music hits like a hammer and the smell of whiskey, sweat and leather dance through the air as I step inside the Iron Vultures' clubhouse. The place is packed. Leather cuts and tight dresses, drunk banter and pool tables clinking, the kind of chaos that makes my skin prickle.

I shouldn't be here.

I should have found a safer way to do this. A smarter way.

But I don't have time for smart.

My hands tighten around the straps of my cheap purse, my stomach twisting as I weave through the crowd. I keep my head high, my expression calm, confident, even though every nerve in my body is screaming.

Get in. Find someone. Ask for a job. Make yourself useful before they throw you out.

It's a shit plan, but it's the only one I have.

I make it to the bar, my pulse hammering, my throat dry. A bearded guy with a patched vest is pouring drinks, his arms covered in tattoos. He looks busy, but approachable. I open my mouth to speak, moving toward him—

And then I hit a wall of muscle.

A hard, unyielding chest slams into mine, knocking the air from my lungs. A hand, big, rough, hot as fire, grabs my waist, steadying me. Holding me there.

I look up.

And my world tilts.

Wow.

He's huge. At least six-four, broad shoulders stretching a black t-shirt and leather cut, muscles shifting beneath inked skin. Black hair, slightly messy, a short beard covering his sharp jawline, and a mouth that looks like it was made to ruin women.

But it's his eyes that trap me.

Blue-grey. Cold. Piercing. Hypnotic.

His fingers tighten on my waist. "The fuck are you?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

The pull between us is instant, electric, like a wire has snapped and lit my entire body on fire.

I should be afraid. I should run.

But I can't move.

Because the way he's looking at me, like I already belong to him, makes my stomach tighten in a way I have never felt before.

His other hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head back. He breathes me in, his grip possessive, like he's trying to figure out if I'm real or a fucking dream.

"I asked you a question," he murmurs, his voice low, dangerously enticing.

I finally find my voice. "I—" I swallow. "I was looking for work."

His eyes narrow. "Bullshit."

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