Page 199 of Traitor

Everything inside me goes still.

"Your VP's girl." His voice is even, but there's something sharp beneath it. "They left her alone before because she had a deal in place. Kept quiet. Didn't make waves. But now? Now she was spotted inside your club. And that, jefe, they see as betrayal. Betrayal that can't go unpunished." He raises his eyebrows. "Now how in the hell would they know she's with your MC?"

My jaw locks. I grit my teeth. "Rat."

Motherfucker.

"Dormant," he continues. "Been inside your club since before el Fantasma went to prison. It wasn't the girl who put those drugs in his saddlebag. She just made the accusation. Gave the testimony." He tilts his head slightly. "I don't know his name. But I can find out. If you help me bring down Sombra, that is."

I lower the gun, stretching out my hand. "Phone."

He doesn't hesitate, passing it over. I punch in my burner number, call it, and toss the phone back to him. "Keep in touch."

Then I ride off into the night, my mind a storm of violence and calculations.

A week later I'm sitting in a too-comfortable chair, arms crossed, watching Dr. Monroe with suspicion. The enemy.

Alright, maybe not the enemy, I'm definitely exaggerating with that one. She's Temper's therapist. Highly recommended by her. The infamous mind fixer that she's been seeing. The woman who probably knows more about my girl's thoughts than I ever will. Not sure how I feel about that.

The office is nice enough — warm tones, soft lighting, a couple of overstuffed chairs that look way too inviting for my comfort. There's a plant in the corner, some books on psychology stacked neatly on a coffee table, and a small dish of hard candy within arm's reach. It's a trap. The whole room is designed to make you let your fucking guard down.

I hate it already.

But Temper was right. I have to do this. And I will.

I'm staring with narrowed eyes at this woman who probably already has an entire psychoanalysis mapped out for me just from just the way I walked into the room.

She's calm. Seated across from me, pen in hand, eyes steady. No judgment. No impatience.

"So," she says finally, her voice smooth and even. "Why are you here, Bones?"

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "Hell if I know. Ask your other client. She'd probably have a list. A long one."

Dr. Monroe doesn't react, doesn't twitch a muscle. "This isn't about her. This is about you."

I snort. "Yeah? You sure about that?"

Her head tilts slightly, gaze unshaken. "That depends. Are you here for yourself? Or are you here for her?"

I open my mouth, ready to throw out some smartass response, but I stop. Why am I here?

"Okay, doc. Let's get this out of the way — I don'tlovebeing here," I admit, flashing her the kind of smirk that usually gets me out of trouble.

It doesn't work on her. Not even a hint of amusement. Fuck.

"But," I continue, "I promised Temper I'd try. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't break promises to that woman. She'll find a way to make your life hell."

Dr. Monroe offers a small, knowing smile. "It sounds like she holds you accountable."

"That's a polite way of saying she'd kick my ass if I didn't show up."

That gets a soft chuckle out of her, but she doesn't take the bait. She's waiting. Letting the silence stretch. She's good at this shit. I could sit here and throw jokes her way for an hour straight and she wouldn't budge.

I rub my palms together, sighing. "I fucked up. Bad. Five years ago, I did something I can't take back. You already know all the fucking details. I can't figure out how to live with what I did. The guilt isn't as bad as it used to be. Not every second of the day. There are good days now. Lots of them. But when a bad day comes, it fucking comes, if you know what I mean. It's like I'm drowning. And the only thing that gets me out of it is Temper. Just her being there, looking at me like I'm worth a damn. Touching me. Saying my name. It's like she throws me a lifeline, pulls me up before I go under."

Dr. Monroe nods, not writing anything down. Just watching. "I hear you. It makes sense that she helps ground you, that her presence gives you relief. But I need to ask you something — what happens if, one day, she isn't there when the guilt hits? What if she's out of town? Asleep? Busy with work?"

My jaw tightens. "Then I'd deal with it. Wait it out."

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