Page 152 of Traitor

I keep my arms wrapped around her the entire time. Seeing her like that — raw, shattered, emptied out — it was like a whip flaying my soul, carving into my ribs until nothing but agony remained.

Tank sent messages, saying Ria was losing her mind, demanding answers, threatening to set the whole clubhouse on fire if I didn't bring Temper to her. I told him to calm her down, that Temper was resting. That she'd be okay.

But I don't know.

I don't fucking know if she'll ever be okay.

When evening creeps in, she finally stirs.

Her eyes find mine, and there's nothing in them. No fury. No pain. No fucking life.

That look... It terrifies me. I've never felt like this before. I always just got ready to fight, no matter what. But this? I don't know how to fight this.

Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I'm thirsty."

My arms tighten around her for a second before I force myself to move. "I'll get you some water. And food."

"I'm not hungry." Her voice is so fucking small. "Just thirsty."

I get up, grab a bottle from my mini fridge, twist the cap off, and hand it to her.

She drinks greedily, a few drops slipping past her lips, down her throat. She doesn't stop until half the bottle is gone. I watch her, my own throat tightening, because I still don't know what the fuck to say. I have no words. Not for this.

She lowers the bottle, fingers curling around the plastic as she glances around the room.

"Your room is big," she murmurs, an observation more than anything, like she's talking about the weather.

"Yeah," I answer, my voice rough. My heart beats too fast. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of something dark and endless, and if I make the wrong move, I'll fucking fall.

She looks again, and then stops. I know exactly where her gaze lands.

One corner of her mouth tilts up, just barely. "Your guitar is here."

"Yeah. Still shit at playing it, though." I force a smile, but my stomach is fucking wrecked. This whole moment feels like the prelude to death.

Her gaze drags back to mine. "Will you play for me? That one song. The only one you know from start to finish?"

I swallow hard. My throat burns.

"Nothing Else Matters." My voice is barely there. A ghost of sound. "I'll play for you, Temper."

I grab the guitar, drop into the chair, and take a deep breath. My fingers shake as they settle on the strings. Fucking shake.

I've been playing this song for twenty goddamn years. Learned it when I insisted on taking music lessons with Ghost. But unlike him — the fucking prodigy — I was awful. I had no natural talent, no rhythm. But I was stubborn. And after two years, I finally got it. And then I gave up the lessons.

The moment the first note hums through the air, it hits me.

The memory of playing it for her for the first time, of watching her fall in love with the sound, of knowing it wasn't the song at all. It was us.

A meeting of souls that happens once in a million fucking years.

And I destroyed it.

Because of fear, panic, stupidity.

And now?

Now, I'm still as stubborn as that thirteen-year-old kid who wouldn't stop until his fingers bled on the frets.

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