Page 90 of Traitor

"She wants to make us bleed?" Ghost asks, his voice unreadable.

"I don't fucking know," I admit. And I don't. "I'm not forcing anyone to do anything. I fucked up. This is my burden to carry. But if you're willing to give her something..."

I exhale sharply. "Fuck. Honestly? You'd be helping me. Helping her get her revenge? That helps me."

I scan the room, watch them process, watch them weigh what they're willing to do.

"It's your choice," I say finally. "I won't hold it against you if you don't. But it would really fucking help me. Talk amongst yourselves. Let me know what you decide."

I push away from the table, shoving to my feet. "Now, is Sketch at his shop?"

"Yeah, he's working on decorating and shit," Tank answers, watching me like he's expecting me to drop any second.

"Good." I nod once. "Talk. Let me know."

And with that, I turn and leave, heading straight for Sketch.

I find him at the new tattoo shop, standing in the middle of what will be the reception area, his focus locked on the brand-new tattoo chair we ordered.

The irony isn't lost on me.

"Sketch," I call, voice rough, raw, wrecked from everything.

He turns, dark eyes gleaming, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"Boss." He drags the word out, eyes flicking to the bandages wrapped every-fucking-where around me. "You look like shit."

I smirk, or try to.

"Your gear ready?" I ask, nodding toward the setup. "You up for some work?"

His grin widens, something wicked curling at the edges.

"Always."

19. Marked

Temper

Isip my coffee, the steam curling in the crisp morning air, my gaze fixed on the mountains stretching endlessly before me. For the first time in years, I feel something close to peace.

It won't last. Nothing good ever does.

Bones has been out of my basement for a few days now, but his presence lingers like smoke, choking the fresh air I fought so hard to reclaim. His little gifts kept arriving all week, even while he was chained to my wall, broken and bleeding. The bastard had pre-arranged them.

I should've known.

He must've expected something. Maybe not the full extent of what I did to him, but he knew I'd make him pay.

Never mind that now. He'll be bothering me again soon enough.

But I don't care. I feel like celebrating and tonight, I'm going to dance. Real dancing. The kind that involves sweat and bass pounding through my veins, a cocktail in my hand, and a warm, unfamiliar body pressed against mine.

The kind of night that ends in sin and satisfaction.

I should call Griffin. Kidnap Ria from her precious greenhouse. We should hit the club one town over. The only place within a hundred miles that isn't filled with dust, bad beer and wannabe outlaws. I need to lose myself tonight.

The thought settles in, a small, wicked thrill curling low in my stomach.

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