Page 2 of Traitor

A choked sob escapes my throat, muffled beneath Tank's hand. Tears blur my vision, but I keep looking at the man who once promised to protect me.

I find nothing in his eyes.

Not the man who pulled me into his bed eight months ago. Not the man who whispered in my ear that I was his, that he'd never let anything happen to me. Not the man who made me his Ol' Lady, who pressed his lips to my forehead in the dark, who kissed me with a hunger that once convinced me I was safe.

That man is dead.

Or maybe he was never real at all.

The buzzing stops, and I barely register it. My body is shaking, my pulse a ragged mess beneath my skin.

"Let her up," Bones says.

Tank rips his hand away from my mouth, and I gulp in air like I've been drowning. The moment my arms are freed, I yank away and stumble to my feet, my legs weak, my body betraying me.

I force myself to look at him.

The man who did this to me.

His expression is pure stone. His leather cut hangs from his shoulders like a second skin, patches glinting in the dim light. Iron Vultures MC – President.

He's everything I loved, everything I trusted.

And he just destroyed me.

I glance down at my arm. The skin around the tattoo is raw, inflamed, still weeping blood.

TRAITOR.

Scrawled in bold, black ink. A mark that will never fade.

A sob breaks free from my chest.

Bones turns away like he can't even stand to look at me.

"Be grateful I didn't have them put it on your forehead," he says, his voice dripping with disgust.

Grateful?

I laugh. A hollow, broken sound.

I spent the last eight months thinking Bones was my savior. That he was different. That the Iron Vultures were different.

But in the end, they were just like everyone else.

And I was a fucking idiot.

The clubhouse is silent as they haul me to the basement.

Not a single member speaks. No one defends me. No one tells Bones to stop.

They all just watch.

The men I cooked for, laughed with, drank beside... the ones who swore I was family...

I see Ghost, the club's Vice President, standing near the bar, gripping a whiskey glass so tight his knuckles are white. He won't look at me.

I see Mindfuck, one of the enforcers, shifting uneasily in his seat, jaw clenched. But he doesn't speak.

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