Page 66 of Traitor

I don't cry.

But right now? I can't fucking stop.

I need to move. I need to go. If I stay, I'll do something stupid. Like get on my knees and beg her to take a knife to my throat just to even the fucking score.

I hastily take a t-shirt out of my saddlebag, rip it and tightly wrap it around my shoulder.

The bike roars to life, the vibrations rattling through my bones as I rip out of Silverpine like the devil himself is chasing me down. I don't even know where I'm going.

Fast. Faster. I don't see the road, don't care if I skid out and smash into a tree. Maybe I should. Maybe I fucking deserve it.

By the time I slam to a stop, I'm in the middle of nowhere.

Thick woods. No light. No noise. Just the roar of my own goddamn agony inside my head.

I throw the bike down without thinking, without caring, the sound of metal scraping against gravel distant, meaningless. Nothing fucking matters. Not anymore.

I run.

Straight into the trees, into the damp earth, into the dark like I can outrun the wreckage inside me.

And then, I collapse.

On my knees, surrounded by nothing but towering trees and my own fucking destruction.

The scream rips out of me, a raw, guttural sound. Deep and broken and beyond saving. It's not human. It's the sound of something that's been ripped apart, something bleeding out, something that knows it's already fucking dead.

I dig my fists into the damp earth, needing to feel something, anything.

I pound my knuckles into the ground, again and again and again, dirt embedding itself under my nails, my skin splitting, my blood mixing with the soil. It's not enough. It won’t ever be enough.

I scream until my throat burns, until the sound turns ragged and hoarse, until my voice gives the fuck out.

And then it all turns into muffled, gut-wrenching sobs.

I wasthis close.This close to losing her forever. This close to never seeing her again, to never hearing her voice, to never getting the chance to tell her how goddamn sorry I am.

I knew about her neck wound.I knew.I'd been told. I'd heard her testimony. But knowing it existed and seeing it for myself?

Two different fucking things.

I didn't see it in the hospital because she was wrapped in bandages, because she was barely holding on, because I was too much of a fucking coward to face what I had done.

But now? Now it's real.

Now, every time I close my eyes, all I see is her throat, that scar, that fucking mark of what she suffered. What I let happen. What I caused.

I dig my fingers into my scalp, pressing against my skull like I can squeeze the thoughts out, like I can bury this weight before it buries me.

I can't leave her alone. I should. I know I should. But I won't. Because she's all I think about.

Because my body calls for her, my mind is consumed by her, my heart is a fucking ruin that only she could ever put back together.

I won't hurt her again. I would rather rip my own throat out than let her suffer even a paper cut.

And I don't care what it takes.

I will earn her forgiveness, even if I have to bleed out to do it.

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