Page 46 of Traitor

My face is swollen, bruises blooming dark across my cheekbones, my lips split and dry. My skin looks wrong, sallow and thin, stretched too tight over bones that have seen too much.

Then, my eyes drop lower.

The bandages around my neck are thick, stark against my pale skin. My fingers twitch at my sides, hesitating.

I don't want to see.

But I have to.

Slowly, carefully, I reach up and peel a corner of the bandage back.

The breath leaves my lungs.

A jagged, angry scar slashes across my throat, raw and red, the skin held in place by stitches. A reminder. A brand. A fucking collar.

My stomach twists, and I slap a hand over my mouth, swallowing down the sob that threatens to claw its way free. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can't unsee it. Can't undo it.

And then I see the other scar.

The one on my arm.

TRAITOR.

The word glares back at me, bold, permanent. Undeniable.

My chest caves in on itself. A choked sound rips from my throat, and this time, I can't stop it.

Bones did this.

He sent me back.

He put me in Jinx's hands.

And I was too stupid to see it coming. Too pathetically in love to believe he would ever turn on me like that. I thought he was my savior. I thought he was different. I thought he was the one man who would never hurt me like they did.

But he was just like them.

My knees buckle, and I sink to the floor, pressing my forehead against the cold tile. The tears come hard and fast, my breath hitching painfully in my chest, my ribs aching with every sob. It hurts. Everything fucking hurts. My throat. My body. My soul.

They took everything from me.

Every single person I ever loved betrayed me.

I am done.

A knock on the door startles me, my body jerking violently. I drag a hand across my face, trying to shove the pain and panic back down, trying to force the pieces of myself back together before I completely shatter.

"Miss Holloway?"

I stiffen. The voice is unfamiliar. Not a doctor. Not a nurse.

I push myself up, gripping the sink to keep myself steady. When I open the bathroom door, two men in suits stand by my hospital bed, their expressions carefully neutral, their eyes sharp.

FBI. What the fuck?

I recognize the look. The posture. The way they scan the room, taking in every detail, assessing every movement. Plus, they flash me their badges.

"Miss Holloway," the taller one repeats. "I'm Agent Miller, and this is Agent Vasquez. We need to ask you a few questions."

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