Page 80 of Traitor

Ely.My Ely.My death. She deserves to see the last breath leave me.

She crouches, so close I can feel the heat of her body. One hand touches my chest like she's checking to see if I'm still alive.

"You always did think you could handle anything," she murmurs.

Her fingers trail up my neck, lightly, measured, until she brushes the pulse at my throat.

Slow.Too slow.

"Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

And then, darkness.

17. Fury

Day one

Bones

The first thing I notice is the weight of my own body.

My arms — spread wide, bound at the wrists. My legs — locked apart, ankles strapped down. My head — heavy as a goddamn anvil, neck stiff from hanging too long.

My clothes — gone. I'm only in my fucking boxers.

The next thing I notice is the stillness. The silence. Too goddamn quiet. No bike engines rumbling. No low voices from the clubhouse.

And then — the smell. Cement. Cold air. Something metallic.

And beneath it, a ghost of perfume. Something sweet and fresh, an exquisite smell that has no place here.

I lift my head — slow, heavy, everything off-balance. My vision is blurry.

Basement. Bare concrete walls. A single overhead light, sharp and sterile, cutting through the dark. A steel door, locked tight.

I recognize the position I'm in immediately. St. Andrew's Cross. Leather cuffs. Reinforced frame. Someone didn't just throw this together last minute.

I let out a slow breath. My mouth tastes like cotton and regret.

The last thing I remember is leaving the new clubhouse. Where was I going?

And then — it all comes at once.Ely.I look around fast and my vision clouds, everything spinning. It takes a moment for things to come into focus but I finally land my eyes on her. Sitting in a chair near a long metal table. Looking at me like she's about to take a bite out of my neck. It takes a second and then she suddenly smirks.

I'm definitely in for a really bad time.

Ely

"I told you, Kane. You shouldn't have come looking for me. But you wouldn't listen. Hard-headed as always. Too stubborn for your own good."

I smirk, arms crossed, watching him strapped to my beautiful contraption — helpless. Bound tight to polished steel, muscles flexing against the restraints, but he isn't going anywhere. Not this time.

It took longer than expected to get this little beauty delivered. And an embarrassingly long conversation with a sales advisor who thought I was building a BDSM sex dungeon. If only he knew the truth.

Ria had Devil's Breath ready in six days. The St. Andrew's Cross took twelve. I almost thought I'd have to postpone my plans.

But here we are.

I push up from my chair, circling him, taking my time, cataloging every inch.

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