Page 45 of Traitor

"Whether you can or not, it looks more probable than Ely being a spy," he says, pushing off the desk. "Enjoy the demons you created for yourself."

I speak before he reaches the door.

"That prospect better not turn up. Ever."

Ghost glances back, his smirk returning. "You know me better than that."

And then he's gone.

And I'm alone with the mess I made.

10. Scarred

Ely

Iwake up to silence.

The room is too bright, the fluorescent light overhead buzzing faintly, casting everything in a sterile glow. The air smells like sickness and bleach, the sheets beneath my fingers are stiff, the blanket pulled up to my chest. But there's no warmth here. Just emptiness.

It takes me a moment to remember. To piece together the fragments of pain, the suffocating darkness, the feeling of gravel scraping against my skin, the weight of hands pinning me down. My throat clenches, and instinctively, I try to swallow. A sharp, ripping pain shoots through me, burning so violently that my body seizes.

I reach up, fingers trembling as they brush against my neck.

The bandages are thick.

My breath stutters.

Jinx.

My pulse pounds as memories crash into me all at once. The smell of sweat and blood. The gleam of a knife. His voice whispering in my ear, telling me I belonged to him, that I would never leave him again. The searing, unbearable agony as the blade sliced through my skin.

I clamp my eyes shut, forcing down the wave of nausea rising in my throat.

I'm alive.

Somehow, I survived.

But I'm alone.

I shift, wincing as I push myself upright. My limbs feel weak, drained, like every ounce of strength has been stripped from me. The IV in my arm tugs as I move, the machine beside my bed beeping softly in protest.

No one is here.

Tank is gone.

Bones never came.

I don't know why I expected him to. Maybe some pathetic, broken part of me thought that, after everything, he'd come storming in here, demanding answers. Demanding to know if I was okay, if I was still breathing.

But he didn't.

Because I'm not his anymore.

My fingers shake as I slowly peel the blanket back and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My body protests the movement, muscles aching, bruises stretching, but I ignore it. I need to see. I need to know.

I stand on unsteady legs, gripping the IV pole as I shuffle toward the small bathroom. The mirror above the sink is cracked along the edge, the glass warped, but it doesn't distort the truth staring back at me.

I barely recognize myself.

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