Traitor (Iron Vultures MC #1)

2. Bones

Ely

Eight Months Ago

T he music hits like a hammer and the smell of whiskey, sweat and leather dance through the air as I step inside the Iron Vultures' clubhouse. The place is packed. Leather cuts and tight dresses, drunk banter and pool tables clinking, the kind of chaos that makes my skin prickle.

I shouldn't be here.

I should have found a safer way to do this. A smarter way.

But I don't have time for smart.

My hands tighten around the straps of my cheap purse, my stomach twisting as I weave through the crowd. I keep my head high, my expression calm, confident, even though every nerve in my body is screaming.

Get in. Find someone. Ask for a job. Make yourself useful before they throw you out.

It's a shit plan, but it's the only one I have.

I make it to the bar, my pulse hammering, my throat dry. A bearded guy with a patched vest is pouring drinks, his arms covered in tattoos. He looks busy, but approachable. I open my mouth to speak, moving toward him—

And then I hit a wall of muscle.

A hard, unyielding chest slams into mine, knocking the air from my lungs. A hand, big, rough, hot as fire, grabs my waist, steadying me. Holding me there.

I look up.

And my world tilts.

Wow.

He's huge. At least six-four, broad shoulders stretching a black t-shirt and leather cut, muscles shifting beneath inked skin. Black hair, slightly messy, a short beard covering his sharp jawline, and a mouth that looks like it was made to ruin women.

But it's his eyes that trap me.

Blue-grey. Cold. Piercing. Hypnotic.

His fingers tighten on my waist. "The fuck are you?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

The pull between us is instant, electric, like a wire has snapped and lit my entire body on fire.

I should be afraid. I should run.

But I can't move.

Because the way he's looking at me, like I already belong to him, makes my stomach tighten in a way I have never felt before.

His other hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head back. He breathes me in, his grip possessive, like he's trying to figure out if I'm real or a fucking dream.

"I asked you a question," he murmurs, his voice low, dangerously enticing.

I finally find my voice. "I—" I swallow. "I was looking for work."

His eyes narrow. "Bullshit."

I suck in a sharp breath.

"You don't belong here. Too beautiful for this place," he continues, studying my face like he's searching for a lie. He brings his face closer and whispers, as if to himself "But I really want to taste you."

My heart stutters.

I don't know what to say. I don't even understand what's happening.

But I know one thing—I don't want his hands to leave my body.

And by the looks of it, neither does he.

I don't even realize when I'm leaning further into him, raising on my toes.

That's all he needs.

It's like lightning. His lips crush against mine, hard, possessive, demanding me to open for him, and I do. I fucking do.

Because the pull is too strong.

Because for the first time in forever, I don't feel like I have to run.

And this was my first mistake. I should have run faster than ever before. But those eyes... Those eyes promised too much and I couldn't say no .

I wake up to warmth.

A heavy, steady weight behind me, an arm slung over my waist. A deep, even breath ghosting over my shoulder.

And then it hits me.

Shit. Oh, shit.

My eyes snap open.

The room is dim, sunlight barely seeping through the heavy curtains. The sheets are warm, tangled around my legs, and the scent of whiskey, leather, and something distinctly male clings to my skin.

Bones.

I slept with the fucking president of the Iron Vultures.

My stomach twists, panic creeping up my throat as the memories slam into me all at once.

His hands on me, rough but sure. His mouth, hot and claiming. The way he touched me like I belonged to him, the way I let him. I let him!

I squeeze my eyes shut.

What the fuck did I do?

This wasn't the plan. I was supposed to find a job. I was supposed to stay low, blend in, survive. And instead, I jumped into bed with the one man who could ruin everything.

I have to go.

I have to fix this.

I sit up carefully, Bones' arm sliding off my waist as I move. He's still asleep, face turned toward me, black hair mussed, mouth slightly parted.

Even in sleep, he looks like something untouchable, something dangerous and irresistible all at once.

I drag in a shaky breath.

I can't let myself be stupid about this.

I slip out of bed, moving quietly, grabbing my dress from the floor. My fingers are shaking as I pull it on, my heart hammering way too hard.

I ruined everything.

I just threw away my only chance at making a life here.

A hand clamps around my wrist.

I freeze.

Bones is awake.

His fingers are firm but gentle, his grip keeping me in place but not trapping me. His blue-grey eyes are clear, sharp with understanding as he studies me.

Shit.

"Going somewhere?" His voice is rough with sleep, but there's an edge to it—like he already knows why I'm running.

I force myself to meet his gaze. "I—I need to go. I shouldn't have—"

His grip tightens slightly, but not in a way that scares me. Just enough to anchor me. "You think you fucked up."

I swallow, nodding once. "I came here for a job. This was stupid. I—" I exhale, trying to steady myself. "I need a job. I need to survive. And now I just—"

"Complicated everything?" he finishes for me.

My throat closes up.

"Yeah."

Bones watches me, his gaze unreadable, but not cold. Then he does something that throws me completely off guard.

He cups my cheek, his thumb dragging gently over my skin, soft, reassuring. I stare at him, my chest tightening. He shouldn't be like this. I expected him to be rough, demanding, detached, like most of the men in my past. Like Jinx.

But instead, he's calm. Steady.

I don’t understand.

"I want to keep seeing you," he says simply.

My stomach clenches. He... what? I blink, searching his face, looking for the lie, the manipulation, the hidden meaning. But there's none.

"You don't have to," he continues, reading me too easily. "If you don't want this, I won't push. It won't affect your job, I promise. But I'd be lying if I said I don't want more."

I don't know how to process that. No man has ever given me a choice. No one has ever told me, "You get to decide."

"You really mean that?" I whisper.

He nods. "You need a job? You got one. Bartending. If you can handle it, it's yours. You just need to talk to Grizz at the bar."

I inhale sharply, hope mixing with disbelief. I came here to beg for a job. Instead, I woke up in the president's bed. And now he's offering me both, without conditions. Can I be this lucky?

I bite my lip. "And if I say no? If I don't want to... keep seeing you?"

A flicker of something dark passes through his gaze, but he nods. "Then I walk away. I won't bother you again."

My heart stutters.

Bones leans in slightly, his voice lower now. "But if you ever change your mind... I'd love to take you for a ride. A real one. Dinner, a night out. Whatever you want."

I exhale slowly, my heart pounding too hard. I need time to think. I need to get my head on straight. But God help me, I want to say yes.

I pull in a slow breath, steadying my hands as I approach the bar. The air is thick with stale whiskey, cigarette smoke, and leather, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the cracked blinds. The Iron Vultures clubhouse is quieter now, most of the members either out on club business or passed out from the previous night's bender.

Behind the counter, the man I saw last night is wiping down a glass, his tattooed arms corded with muscle, a leather cut hanging loosely over a black t-shirt. He looks about forty, rough around the edges, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a face that's seen one too many bar fights.

He flicks a glance up at me. Dark brown eyes, sharp, assessing.

"Help you with something?"

I clear my throat. "I, uh—" My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. Stay calm. Act like you belong. "I wanted to ask about a job. Bartending."

The man sets the glass down, one brow lifting. "That so?"

I nod. "Yeah. I've bartended before. I know what I'm doing."

He studies me for a long moment, then jerks his chin toward the rag sitting on the counter. "You wanna work here, you start by cleaning. We'll see how you handle a shift tonight."

I don't hesitate. I grab the rag and get to work.

Because this isn't just about a job. This is about survival.

The clubhouse is packed by the time I step behind the bar that night. The crowd is loud, the scent of alcohol and sweat thick in the air, bodies pressed together in a haze of leather and flashing neon lights.

I don't let myself think about how this feels eerily familiar. How the energy seems to be the same as the Crimson Riders' clubhouse, yet somehow, it’s not nearly as suffocating.

I just focus on the drinks. The customers. The work.

The man who let me clean the bar earlier, his name is Grizz, the club's designated bartender. He watches me carefully from the end of the counter as I start pouring drinks.

Within the first ten minutes, I know I've got this.

By the first hour, the brothers are grinning and nodding their approval.

By the second hour, I'm joking with them, moving like I've always belonged here.

And that's when I meet them. Tank and Joker.

Tank is a mountain of muscle, all broad shoulders and an unreadable expression, his bald head gleaming under the lights. He watches me like he's measuring me, but there's no malice in his gaze.

Joker, on the other hand, is all sharp smirks and trouble, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. They came through the clubhouse doors together about five minutes ago and made a beeline for the bar.

"You new?" Joker asks, leaning an elbow on the counter.

I slide a whiskey glass toward him. "Depends. Am I getting hazed for it?"

Tank chuckles under his breath. Joker grins, tilting the glass in a silent toast. "I like her."

"I'd like you too, if you tipped," I shoot back.

Tank laughs, low and deep. "You're trouble, aren't you?"

And just like that, I feel it. Easy acceptance.

Something warm, unfamiliar. Terrifying.

Because I never had this before.

Not with the Crimson Riders. Not even with Lucas. There was always something nagging me in the back of my mind with them.

But not here. This feels different.

I'm busy refilling a round of tequila shots when a soft voice cuts through the noise.

"You handle yourself well."

I glance up to see a woman standing on the other side of the bar, her chestnut hair cascading over one shoulder, her amber eyes sharp yet kind.

She's beautiful in a way that isn't just physical. There's something effortless about her, the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who she is.

"You must be Layla," I say, recognizing her from the way Joker's arm rests casually but possessively around her waist. He wouldn't shut up about his amazing Ol' Lady when he was at the bar with Tank, earlier. It was adorable.

She smiles. "And you must be Bones' new obsession. Finally a beautiful woman and not his bike or the Vultures."

I wipe my hands on a bar towel, giving her my full attention. "Why would you say that?"

"Because of the way he looked at you last night."

I freeze.

Layla chuckles. "Relax. The whole club saw it. That man had his eyes on you from the moment you walked in."

Heat creeps up my neck, but I force myself to stay composed. "Well... I'm just here for the job."

Layla tilts her head slightly, amusement flickering in her gaze. "Sure you are."

I have no idea what to say, but before I can even try, she leans forward slightly, her voice dropping just enough so only I can hear.

"I've never seen Bones watch someone the way he was watching you last night. He never approaches a woman himself. Yet, he approached you."

My stomach tightens.

I don't know what to do with that.

For the rest of my shift, I try not to think about him at all.

When last call finally rolls around, my hands ache from shaking cocktails, my back is sore from bending and reaching, but I don't care.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this. Like maybe I could be safe. I could have a life. A real one.

I wipe down the bar, exhaustion settling in, but my mind is racing.

I know what I have to do.

I can't let my past make me afraid.

I can't let fear dictate my future.

So I hang up my bar towel, exhale a slow, steady breath.

And I go looking for him.

My fist hovers over the wooden door for half a second before I knock.

It's late.

I should go home a.k.a. the motel I'm crashing at. Sleep on it. Think.

But my gut tells me not to wait.

A beat of silence.

Then— "Come in."

I push the door open, stepping inside his office, adrenaline and something that feels like hope spiking to new heights inside me.

Bones is sitting behind his desk, but the moment his stormy blue gaze lands on me, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the wood, like he's been waiting for me.

I swallow hard. Steel myself.

"I'd love to go on a date with you."

A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his lips.

He doesn't look surprised.

He looks like he knew this was inevitable.

Like I was always going to end up here.

And maybe I knew it, too.

The wind whips through my hair, the vibration of the bike humming beneath me, the heat of Bones' body solid against my chest.

I grip his waist tighter, my pulse thrumming, exhilaration mixing with something deeper, more dangerous.

This is not what I expected.

Men don't take random women on their bikes. Not in the MC world. That seat behind them? It's reserved for their Ol' Ladies.

So when Bones handed me a helmet and said, "Get on," my heart nearly stopped.

As the bike slows, we pull into a clearing by a serene lake, the water glistening in the fading sun.

A blanket is spread out on the grass, a cooler sitting beside it.

I blink. "You... planned this?"

He swings off the bike, smirking as he helps me off. "Had Layla help me put something together. Joker brough everything here, so we could go for a ride first."

I glance at the setup, warmth curling in my chest.

"You really went all out for a first date," I tease.

He steps closer, his hands brushing my waist, his eyes holding mine. "Because you deserve it. And I don't half-ass things."

My breath catches.

There's hidden meaning behind his words. I can feel it.

This isn't a casual thing for him.

The lake is still, reflecting the deep indigo of the sky, the faint shimmer of stars dancing across its surface. We've been talking for hours.

Now, the only sound is the rustling of the trees, the distant hum of crickets, and the slow, measured breaths of the man beside me.

Bones leans back on his elbows, one leg bent, the other stretched out, his body languid, powerful. In control, even in stillness.

He's been watching me all night.

Even when he was focused on unpacking the food, even when he made a joke that had me laughing against his shoulder, he was watching.

Now, in the quiet of the night, I feel the full weight of his attention.

"You look nervous," he murmurs.

I swallow, pressing my fingers into the soft fabric of the blanket beneath me. Not nervous. Just... unsteady.

I shake my head. "I'm not."

His mouth tugs into a knowing smirk. "Liar."

I exhale a soft laugh, shaking my head, but I don't deny it.

Because how the hell am I supposed to, when he's looking at me like that?

Like he's already decided we belong together. Like he's just waiting for me to figure it out, too. The space between us is small, but it feels heavy. Electric.

He moves first.

A shift of his weight, a slow roll of muscle as he leans toward me, his hand brushing my thigh, a featherlight touch that sends a shiver down my spine.

"You've accepted to date me," he murmurs, his fingers trailing higher, teasing the frayed edges of my jean shorts. "You realize what that means?"

I tilt my head slightly. "What does it mean?"

His eyes darken, stormy blue-grey, fixed on mine like I'm the only thing in the universe.

"It means I don't share," he says simply.

My breath catches.

He lifts a hand, fingers sliding into my hair, curling at the nape of my neck, his thumb dragging slow circles against my skin.

I should feel trapped.

But I feel anchored.

Held in place by a man who can make me lose my mind with just one look.

"You’re with me now," he murmurs.

It's not a question.

It's a declaration.

I should argue. I should tell him we’d better slow down.

But the words don't come.

Because I want it. I want this man.

I let out a shaky breath, tilting my head slightly, pressing my cheek into his palm. "You move fast."

He smirks, the corner of his mouth tilting up just enough to make my stomach flip.

"When I know what I want, I go for it."

His fingers tighten in my hair, tilting my face up toward his. "And I want you, baby."

My pulse skips, then slams hard.

The last thing I should be doing is falling for a biker.

The last thing I should be doing is giving him this much of me.

But as his lips brush against mine, slow and commanding, his fingers tugging just enough to make me gasp, I know I'm already his.

He deepens the kiss, a slow burn turning into something hotter, rawer, more consuming.

His hands slide down my back, gripping my waist, pulling me against him until I'm straddling his lap, my knees sinking into the blanket, my hands braced against his chest.

He feels like stone and fire beneath my fingertips, solid muscle and raw strength, a body made for fighting, for ruling, for taking.

But with me?

Right now?

He's just taking his time.

Testing. Tasting.

Like he wants to commit to memory every second of this.

I shift, pressing closer, and he groans, low and rough, his grip tightening on my hips.

His mouth moves along my jaw, down my throat, teeth scraping lightly, sending shivers through my entire body.

I don't know when my fingers slipped under his shirt, but I feel the heat of his skin beneath my hands, the tension in his stomach as I drag my nails over every hard plane.

"Fuck," he breathes against my lips.

I smile against his mouth. His grip tightens.

Then, without warning, he flips me onto my back, pinning me beneath him.

His weight presses me into the blanket, his hand exploring beneath my shirt, fingers brushing over my bare skin, my ribs, my stomach, lower.

He watches me, his breath heavy, his eyes dark with desire.

Then he kisses me like he plans to ruin me.

And I want his kind of ruin.

Later that evening, under the stars, I lay against his chest, my fingers tracing over his tattooed arms, my body still buzzing.

I feel safe.

I think I might have a future.

And it terrifies me.

The Iron Vultures MC is nothing like the Crimson Riders.

They're just as rough, just as violent, but there's something different here.

They trust Bones.

And because he keeps me close, they accept me, too.

I never had this before. The Crimson Riders used me, let Jinx destroy me. But here, it's different.

I can breathe.

I cook in the clubhouse kitchen, laughing with the old ladies. I wipe down tables, swap jokes with the guys, listen to stories of club history over beers.

They watch me, sure. Test me.

But they don't treat me like I'm temporary.

Like I'm replaceable.

Two months ago

The clubhouse is alive tonight, filled with the familiar chaos of an Iron Vultures party.

The bass from the music thrums beneath my skin, a steady vibration that mixes with the laughter, the clinking of beer bottles, the low murmur of deals being made in the corners.

I move easily behind the bar, pouring whiskey, mixing drinks, throwing jokes around with some of the drunk brothers who are too far gone to even sit up.

No matter how drunk they are though, they always remember who I belong to. Because if they didn’t, Bones would make sure they never forget again.

I glance across the room, my gaze finding him instantly. Tall, broad, all raw dominance and power, his black T-shirt stretched across his muscled chest, his leather cut hanging open. He looks like he owns every inch of this place. He does.

My stomach flutters, a warmth spreading in my chest.

He's mine.

He catches my eye like he feels me looking at him, his mouth tugging into a small smirk, but before I can go to him, someone else does.

Someone new. A girl I don't recognize. Long dark hair, deep red lips, and a too-confident sway in her hips. She's making a beeline for Bones. Something inside me tightens. I wipe my hands on a bar towel, my gaze locked on the interaction.

The girl stops in front of him, tilting her head, her smile too eager, too calculated. And then she touches him. Her fingers trail over his chest, slow and teasing. I freeze, ice settling in my veins.

Bones doesn't move. Doesn't even react.

The girl leans in, saying something I can't hear over the music, but I see his response. His expression stays blank, his jaw tight, but his rejection is clear. He grips her wrist, firm but not rough, pulling her hand away from him and dropping it like it disgusts him.

Then he speaks. His voice cuts through the noise, clear, final.

"I'm taken. Go fish somewhere else."

My lips part slightly, a wicked kind of satisfaction flickering through me. He doesn't wait for her to say anything else. Doesn't even look at her again. He just turns his back to her, and that's when I decide to make my own statement.

I step out from behind the bar, weaving through the crowd, my heart pounding. Not with insecurity, but with something possessive, fierce.

The girl, Tisha , I hear someone call her from the side, is still standing there, frozen in disbelief and irritation. Perfect. I slide up to Bones, wrap my arms around his waist, and pull him down into a kiss. A real one. Hard. Deep. Greedy.

His body tenses for half a second, then relaxes, his arms wrapping around my waist. He pulls me flush against him, his lips claiming mine in return. When I finally pull back, I turn to Tisha.

"Stay away from Bones. Plenty of others around." My voice is even, steady, but there's no mistaking the warning.

She blinks, her eyes flicking between us. Then she smirks.

"Guess I'll just have to find another toy, huh?"

I narrow my eyes. "I'd suggest you do that."

Bones doesn't even spare her a glance. His arm stays around me, his body relaxed, like she's not even worth his time. Like she doesn’t even exist.

Tisha turns and walks off, laughing under her breath, as if this is all a game to her.

Something in my gut twists. But I brush it away. Because I'm too happy to care. Things are good. I don't need to be paranoid.

Right?

Two weeks ago

The clubhouse is packed.

Music shakes the walls, bottles of whiskey and beer passed around, people laughing, celebrating, but I don't know why. No one told me what was happening.

I catch Tank's smirk from across the room.

"You should look excited, sweetheart," he calls out. "It's not every day you get claimed."

I freeze.

"Claimed?" I echo.

The room parts, and that’s when I see him.

Bones.

He moves through the crowd like a king, his expression unreadable, his eyes locked on me. My pulse skips — then slams hard as he stops in front of me — his eyes burning through my soul.

"Put it on," he orders.

A cut — a leather vest — is in his hand, offered to me.

My chest tightens as I stare at the patches sewn onto the back.

Iron Vultures MC

Property of Bones

I look up at him, my breath shaking. "Bones..."

"Put it on," he says again. Demanding. Final. No hesitation.

Like there's never been any other option.

Like he's just waiting for me to catch up to what he already knows.

I swallow hard. My hands shake as I slide it over my shoulders. It feels like love hugging me softly.

The second it's on, the room erupts into cheers, a chorus of laughter and approval, hands clapping my back, voices shouting, "Welcome to the family, Ely! Officially!"

My throat is tight.

Bones' fingers curl around my jaw, tilting my face up to his. "You're mine now. Forever."

It's not a question.

It's a declaration.

Like I was always meant to be his.

And God help me, I loved it.

Present

A harsh laugh escapes my lips.

It echoes in the empty basement, sounding wrong, broken.

I actually thought he loved me.

I actually thought he was different.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead into my knees, biting down on my bottom lip until I taste blood.

Bones had looked at me like I was filth. Like I was nothing. Like every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise was a goddamn joke.