Page 38 of Traitor

This is it.

This is how it ends.

Not with a gunshot, not in a blaze of fire, but here. Alone, discarded like trash on the side of the road.

It's almost funny. For years, I fought to survive. Fought to carve out a place for myself. And in the end, I was never more than something to be used, tossed aside when I wasn't convenient anymore.

The sound of tires crunching against gravel barely registers. It's distant, like a dream, like something happening to someone else. I hear the low rumble of an engine idling, the creak of a door opening. Boots hit the ground, heavy, purposeful.

Then, warmth. Hands, rough but careful, pressing against my face, my neck. The voice is familiar, deep and sharp, cutting through the fog in my mind.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ely."

Tank.

A breath shudders through me, relief warring with something darker. He shouldn't be here. No Iron Vultures should be here.

The warmth vanishes, replaced by rustling fabric, the scent of leather and motor oil wrapping around me as something heavy is draped over my body. His cut. He's covering me, shielding me from the cold.

"Stay with me," he mutters, his voice tight, controlled in a way that tells me he's barely holding it together. I feel him lift me, his arms slipping beneath my body, cradling me like I'm something fragile. I want to tell him not to. That I don't deserve to be saved. That I just want to finally rest. But the words won't come.

I let my eyes close. For the first time in days, I don't fight it.

Bones

The clubhouse is loud, but in here, it's silent.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the half-empty whiskey bottle on my desk, grinding my teeth into fucking oblivion. The burn in my throat from the last drink hasn't settled, but I don't reach for another. I just sit here, feeling the weight pressing against my chest, that dull, fucking relentless ache that won't leave since...

Since her.

The phone vibrates against the desk, slicing through the quiet. I ignore it at first, staring at the name on the screen. Tank. Late-night calls are never good. Late-night calls mean something is wrong, mean another problem I have to deal with, mean someone has done something stupid.

I let it ring twice before I pick up. "What?"

There's a pause on the other end. A hesitation. Bad sign. Then Tank's voice comes through, tight, controlled, like he's holding something back.

"I found Ely."

My whole body goes rigid.

I grip the phone tighter, my pulse kicking hard against my ribs. The name alone sends something sharp through my chest, something I don't want to name, something I don't want to fucking feel.

Tank doesn't wait for me to answer. "She was on the side of the road, half dead. Dumped like garbage."

Ice settles in my stomach.

I can picture it. Can see her lying there, bleeding, barely breathing, left in the dirt like she's nothing. My fingers grip the desk, the edge pressing into my palm, grounding me, reminding me that it doesn't matter. She is a fucking traitor. She made her choices. Just like Tisha. She chose to spy for Jinx and the Riders. She got caught and the Riders punished her. It shouldn't matter. She betrayed me! So why does my soul bleed for her?

"She's at the hospital now," Tank continues. "They stitched her up, stabilized her. But, Bones... she almost didn't make it."

I force my voice to stay even, to sound like I don't care. "She's a traitor."

There's a pause on the other end.

Then, Tank lets out a harsh breath. "That's all you got to say?"

I clench my jaw. My throat feels tight, something pressing against it, something I refuse to acknowledge.

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