Traitor (Iron Vultures MC #1)

Prologue

Ely

T he moment they drag me into the tattoo chair, I know my life is over.

Bones stands in front of me, arms crossed, his face carved from ice as he watches the brothers restrain me. Tank, Joker, and Reaper, three men I once called friends, now hold me down like a rabid animal while the club's tattoo artist preps the machine.

The cold steel presses against my back, the weight of Tank's hands pinning my shoulders down. My body fights against him, but it's no use. Joker grips my wrist, slamming it onto the armrest, his fingers biting into my skin like a vice. My other hand is trapped beneath Reaper's knee, immobilized.

They are too strong. Too many.

This is happening.

Oh, God, this is happening.

I thrash. Scream. Beg.

"Bones, please," I cry, my voice shaking. "I didn't do anything! You know me. You know I'd never—"

"Shut her up," Bones orders.

Tank slaps a rough, calloused hand over my mouth, muffling my sobs. My legs kick helplessly against the brothers' grips. A sharp buzz fills the room, the unmistakable sound of the tattoo gun coming to life. The air thickens with the acrid scent of ink and antiseptic, but it's overpowered by the sweat on my skin, the sharp tang of fear in my breath.

"Do it," Bones says.

His voice is dead. Cold. Final.

The needle meets my skin, and the pain is instant. A searing burn rips through my forearm as the artist drags ink into my flesh, over and over, the vibrations rattling my bones. I arch against the chair, agony tearing through me, but no one stops.

My body jerks, my legs kicking, but Reaper's knee drives harder into my thigh, pinning me in place. Tank's grip tightens on my shoulder, his fingers digging into my flesh. I don't care. I don't fucking care. I can't let this happen.

The buzzing doesn't stop. The needle keeps dragging across my arm, digging, slicing.

I feel every stroke, every letter as it's seared into my skin.

T R A I T O R

Each letter burns into me, scorching deep into my soul.

A broken whimper escapes my lips as the tattoo gun keeps going. My body trembles violently, my arm throbbing beneath the weight of the fresh, bleeding ink.

The word brands me, marks me, and the truth of it hurts deeper than the ink itself.

They don't believe me.

Bones doesn't believe me.

A choked sob escapes my throat, muffled beneath Tank's hand. Tears blur my vision, but I keep looking at the man who once promised to protect me.

I find nothing in his eyes.

Not the man who pulled me into his bed eight months ago. Not the man who whispered in my ear that I was his, that he'd never let anything happen to me. Not the man who made me his Ol' Lady, who pressed his lips to my forehead in the dark, who kissed me with a hunger that once convinced me I was safe.

That man is dead.

Or maybe he was never real at all.

The buzzing stops, and I barely register it. My body is shaking, my pulse a ragged mess beneath my skin.

"Let her up," Bones says.

Tank rips his hand away from my mouth, and I gulp in air like I've been drowning. The moment my arms are freed, I yank away and stumble to my feet, my legs weak, my body betraying me.

I force myself to look at him.

The man who did this to me.

His expression is pure stone. His leather cut hangs from his shoulders like a second skin, patches glinting in the dim light. Iron Vultures MC – President.

He's everything I loved, everything I trusted.

And he just destroyed me.

I glance down at my arm. The skin around the tattoo is raw, inflamed, still weeping blood.

TRAITOR.

Scrawled in bold, black ink. A mark that will never fade.

A sob breaks free from my chest.

Bones turns away like he can't even stand to look at me.

"Be grateful I didn't have them put it on your forehead," he says, his voice dripping with disgust.

Grateful?

I laugh. A hollow, broken sound.

I spent the last eight months thinking Bones was my savior. That he was different. That the Iron Vultures were different.

But in the end, they were just like everyone else.

And I was a fucking idiot.

The clubhouse is silent as they haul me to the basement.

Not a single member speaks. No one defends me. No one tells Bones to stop.

They all just watch.

The men I cooked for, laughed with, drank beside... the ones who swore I was family...

I see Ghost, the club's Vice President, standing near the bar, gripping a whiskey glass so tight his knuckles are white. He won't look at me.

I see Mindfuck, one of the enforcers, shifting uneasily in his seat, jaw clenched. But he doesn't speak.

They must know this is wrong.

And none of them do a goddamn thing.

Tank and Joker shove me forward. My feet drag against the worn wooden floorboards.

Each step toward the basement feels like a death march.

Bones doesn't follow.

He doesn't have to.

He's already sentenced me.

The heavy metal door of my cell clangs shut behind me, the lock snapping into place.

I stumble forward, falling to my knees, my palms scraping against the rough concrete.

It smells like sweat, mold, and blood down here. Like suffering.

I press my back against the wall, my breath ragged, my chest heaving. My arm burns, but it's nothing compared to the ache in my soul.

I slide down to the floor, curling my knees to my chest.

Eight months. Eight months in this club. Eight months of falling for a man who threw me to the fucking wolves.

He's going to send me back to the Crimson Riders.

I just know it. I can feel it.

My stomach churns. Jinx is waiting for me.

Bones doesn't know what that means. Because he wouldn't fucking listen to me.

But even if he did, he wouldn't care.

Hours pass. It could be days for all I know. The cell has no windows, no clocks, no sense of time. I slip in and out of exhausted, hollow silence, my mind replaying every moment leading up to this.

I never told them about the Crimson Riders. About Jinx.

Never told them how I ran from him. How he destroyed me for years, piece by piece.

I thought I was safe.

I was so fucking wrong.

The door creaks open and I flinch, heart hammering against my ribs.

Bones steps inside. Alone.

For a single second, hope flares in my chest. Maybe he's here to apologize. Maybe he believes me now.

Then I see his face.

Cold. Empty. Merciless.

He crouches in front of me, grabbing my jaw in his hand, forcing me to look at him.

"You're done here, Ely," he says. "I never want to see your face again."

I suck in a breath, my fingers curling into shaking fists.

"Bones, I—"

"No." His fingers dig into my jaw. "I don't give a fuck what you have to say. You were a mistake. One I'm fixing today."

I freeze.

Fixing.

I know what that means. "Are you going to kill me?" I ask him softly.

"Why would I waste the tattoo? Others need to see what you truly are," he says.

Fuck! He really is handing me over. Death would’ve been better.

"No," I whisper, my body trembling. "No, Bones, please don't send me back!"

"You should've thought about that before you fucking lied to me. Let's see how the Riders deal with a failed spy."

I break.

Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and humiliating, but I don't care. I grab his cut, pulling at the leather, trying to anchor myself to the man I loved.

He shoves me off him, sending me crashing to the ground.

The cold, concrete floor knocks the air from my lungs. I land hard on the side of my face. I feel my cheek splitting and a bloody crack in my hairline. Pain shoots through my hip. It’s definitely scratched.

I gasp, choking, curling in on myself. I bite my lip so hard it bleeds.

"I should've fucked you and left you in the clubhouse with the rest of the whores," Bones says, his voice void of emotion. "Would've saved us all a lot of trouble."

A knife twists in my chest.

Not just from the physical pain, but from the way he looks at me.

Like I am nothing to him.

Like I never meant a fucking thing.

The door swings open again.

Tank and Joker enter, grabbing me by my arms and dragging me to my feet.

My body screams in pain, my vision blurring, but I fight. I still fight.

It doesn't matter.

I lose.

I always lose.

Outside, the air is suffocating.

A van waits by the curb. Crimson Riders.

Jinx is inside. I know he is.

Waiting to take me.

Bones grips my chin one last time, forcing my bleeding, broken face to look up at him.

"Be happy I didn't kill you. That is the true fate of traitors," he murmurs.

And then he turns his eyes away.

Like I disgust him.

Like he never loved me at all.