Page 202 of Traitor

"Why? Why? Why?" His voice rises, a desperate, pathetic wail.

I suck on my teeth, watching him with quiet amusement. But the novelty is wearing off. I'm already getting bored. He became a full on junkie in prison, his mind is half-gone. I just want a couple of answers and his blood.

Time to cut to the chase.

"Elyna," I say, voice flat. "You targeted her when she was just a kid. Was it for the club?"

Lucas swallows hard, pupils blown wide. He knows there's only one way this ends.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

I tilt my head, letting the silence answer for me.

Then, finally, I whisper, "Yeah, Slick."

His tears fall in messy streams, his shoulders shaking under the weight of his own terror. I feel nothing. No flicker of pity.

"I...I'm sorry," he chokes out, his head bowing. "I had to. They sent me to find girls for them. Ely...she was a target. But then Jinx saw her that first night I brought her to the clubhouse, and he...he became obsessed. He wanted her for himself, so she wasn't sent through the ring. She stayed with the club."

His breath stutters between ragged sobs. This fucker. He's not crying for what he did. Not for Temper or the other girls whose lives he stole. He's crying for himself. For his own impending death.

"Ji...Jinx had this kink," he stammers. "He liked being the first. The first to fuck a girl after she turned eighteen. He said...he said it was about turning her into a woman." His voice wavers, his lips trembling as he looks up at me. His eyes plead, but I don't see regret in them. Just fear.

"How many?" My voice is cold steel.

His brows pull together in confusion. "What?"

"How many girls did you lure for the Riders, Slick?" I say his road name like a curse, dripping with venom.

He flinches. His eyes twitch, darting around the room like the walls might whisper the answer to him. As if he has to count. His lips move silently, no sound coming out. And then, in a voice so quiet I almost don't hear it—

"I don't remember."

What he means is he doesn't care. He never did. If he did, at least a little bit, he'd know the name and face of every girl he ever sent to hell.

I exhale slowly, rising from my chair, shaking my head in disappointment. "This has been so anticlimactic for me," I say, rubbing a hand down my face. "I had plans, Slick. I was looking forward to this. But you?" I sigh. "You're a real fucking downer. I once met a snake whisperer who was much more fun than you."

I glance at the table of tools, walk toward it, let my fingers hover over my bat. It doesn't call to me this time. This fucker spoiled my good mood.

Instead, my hand wraps around the hilt of a knife. A familiar one.

I lift it, studying the blade, and something dark twists inside me. Oh. I smirk. "Well, would you look at that."

It'stheknife. The one that severed Jinx's dick from his body.

I tilt my head, considering Lucas, who's still whimpering, his breath coming out in desperate little gasps. Poetic justice.

"Fitting," I murmur.

He doesn't even get the chance to beg.

Twenty minutes later, I step back, breathing steady, watching the slow trickle of blood pool beneath the chair. That first spill of his blood brought back some of my good mood so I still enjoyed myself a little. He's slumped forward, head tilted, lifeless eyes fixed on nothing.

I grab a rag, wiping his blood from my hands as I turn toward my waiting audience.

"Take him to the oven," I say, my voice even. Then, after a pause, my nose scrunches up in disgust. "And throw his ashes in the nastiest, shittiest fucking place you can find."

Fang lets out a long, theatrical sigh. "Man, I really wanted to use the wood chipper this time."

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