Page 83 of Traitor

And I need it, too.

Because it wasn't just her I destroyed four years ago.

I destroyed myself, too.

I close my eyes, breathe slow, steady. Let the pain settle deep in my marrow, let it burn through every last nerve in my body. I won't fight it. I won't stop her.

I'll give her this. Every second of it.

Because she deserves to carve her pain into me. And I deserve to wear it.

Day two

Temper

It's cathartic, really.

All this time, I hated Bones more than I ever hated Jinx. Because with Jinx, I knew what to expect. He was always evil. Predictable in his monstrosity.

But Bones?

He was the man I loved. The man I thought loved me. The man who should have protected me. Who should have heard me out. And instead?

He stomped on every expectation I ever had. Ground them into the dirt like they were nothing.

I can feel something deep inside me starting to close. Every mark I leave on his skin feels like it erases another one from mine.

I lean back in my chair, cigarette burning between my fingers, watching him.

Bones is holding up well for a man who hasn't had food or water in 24 hours. I'll have to give him a few sips of water, though, and soon. Three more days to go. He knows it.

He watches me, silent, intense. Blood dried and crusted over his arm where I carved into him, where my hands made him bleed.

I push up from my chair, taking a slow drag from my cigarette, the nicotine curling in my lungs, burning like vengeance.

"I haven't smoked in years," I muse, tilting my head. "Not since Jinx started leaving me packs of my favorite brand all over the Riders' clubhouse. Apparently, he liked a woman who smoked."

I smirk, exhaling the smoke into the dim light. "Someone should have told him I wasn't a woman back then. Just a girl."

Bones' jaw clenches. His fists twitch in the restraints.

"He had a fascination with cigarettes, you know," I continue, stepping back just enough so he can see all of me. "I found out why during those four days."

I lift the hem of my dress. Slowly.

His entire body goes rigid.

His eyes go murderous.

He sees them.

The small, puckered scars, lined in perfect symmetry on the inside of my thighs.

Twenty-four in total. Twelve on one side. Twelve on the other. Arranged in four perfect rows of six.

I watch his face, watch the way his breathing turns sharp, his muscles locking like he wants to tear through the restraints.

I take another slow drag of my cigarette and exhale. Unbothered. Detached. Because I lived it. And he? He only gets to see the aftermath.

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