7. Dead
Ely
T he first thing I feel is the cold. It seeps into my bones, wrapping around me like a second skin, numbing everything but the dull, pulsing ache radiating from every inch of my body. My throat burns, raw and open, every shallow breath slicing through me like broken glass.
I don't know how long I've been lying here. Does it even matter? The road beneath me is rough and unforgiving, the grit of gravel biting into my skin, the weight of my own body too heavy to move. I can hear the distant rumble of an engine fading into the night, the last remnants of Jinx and whatever sick pleasure he got from dumping my body here. He thought I was dead. He didn't want to keep me anymore because I was "dirty", because I gave myself to Bones. It's better I die here. I hope I die here. Death is better than that monster.
I blink up at the sky, the stars nothing but blurred streaks through the haze of pain and exhaustion. The world tilts, the edges of my vision dimming, the ground beneath me pulling me under. I don't fight it. There's nothing left to fight for. No one coming for me. No one left who cares.
Bones made sure of that.
A broken sob bubbles up in my chest, but it barely makes a sound. My throat is too raw, the wound Jinx carved into me too deep. I can feel the sticky warmth of blood pooling beneath me, soaking into the dirt, into my clothes, staining my skin with the final proof of my existence. I want to move. I want to crawl away, but my limbs won't listen.
This is it.
This is how it ends.
Not with a gunshot, not in a blaze of fire, but here. Alone, discarded like trash on the side of the road.
It's almost funny. For years, I fought to survive. Fought to carve out a place for myself. And in the end, I was never more than something to be used, tossed aside when I wasn't convenient anymore.
The sound of tires crunching against gravel barely registers. It's distant, like a dream, like something happening to someone else. I hear the low rumble of an engine idling, the creak of a door opening. Boots hit the ground, heavy, purposeful.
Then, warmth. Hands, rough but careful, pressing against my face, my neck. The voice is familiar, deep and sharp, cutting through the fog in my mind.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Ely."
Tank.
A breath shudders through me, relief warring with something darker. He shouldn't be here. No Iron Vultures should be here.
The warmth vanishes, replaced by rustling fabric, the scent of leather and motor oil wrapping around me as something heavy is draped over my body. His cut. He's covering me, shielding me from the cold.
"Stay with me," he mutters, his voice tight, controlled in a way that tells me he's barely holding it together. I feel him lift me, his arms slipping beneath my body, cradling me like I'm something fragile. I want to tell him not to. That I don't deserve to be saved. That I just want to finally rest. But the words won't come.
I let my eyes close. For the first time in days, I don't fight it.
Bones
The clubhouse is loud, but in here, it's silent.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the half-empty whiskey bottle on my desk, grinding my teeth into fucking oblivion. The burn in my throat from the last drink hasn't settled, but I don't reach for another. I just sit here, feeling the weight pressing against my chest, that dull, fucking relentless ache that won't leave since...
Since her.
The phone vibrates against the desk, slicing through the quiet. I ignore it at first, staring at the name on the screen. Tank. Late-night calls are never good. Late-night calls mean something is wrong, mean another problem I have to deal with, mean someone has done something stupid.
I let it ring twice before I pick up. "What?"
There's a pause on the other end. A hesitation. Bad sign. Then Tank's voice comes through, tight, controlled, like he's holding something back.
"I found Ely."
My whole body goes rigid.
I grip the phone tighter, my pulse kicking hard against my ribs. The name alone sends something sharp through my chest, something I don't want to name, something I don't want to fucking feel.
Tank doesn't wait for me to answer. "She was on the side of the road, half dead. Dumped like garbage."
Ice settles in my stomach.
I can picture it. Can see her lying there, bleeding, barely breathing, left in the dirt like she's nothing. My fingers grip the desk, the edge pressing into my palm, grounding me, reminding me that it doesn't matter. She is a fucking traitor. She made her choices. Just like Tisha. She chose to spy for Jinx and the Riders. She got caught and the Riders punished her. It shouldn't matter. She betrayed me! So why does my soul bleed for her?
"She's at the hospital now," Tank continues. "They stitched her up, stabilized her. But, Bones... she almost didn't make it."
I force my voice to stay even, to sound like I don't care. "She's a traitor."
There's a pause on the other end.
Then, Tank lets out a harsh breath. "That's all you got to say?"
I clench my jaw. My throat feels tight, something pressing against it, something I refuse to acknowledge.
"She worked with the Riders. Lied to all of us. This? This is what happens to traitors."
"You really believe that?"
I exhale slowly, forcing the breath out, forcing the tightness in my chest to disappear. "I wouldn't have fucking said it if I didn't."
Tank lets out a bitter laugh. "Yeah? Then why didn't you kill her yourself when you had the chance?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut, but I don't flinch. I keep my grip on the phone steady, keep my voice cold.
I say nothing. Because I don't want to admit the truth to myself, least of all to Tank.
Instead, I fall back on what I know, what I have to believe, what I have to fucking stick to, or else it all falls apart.
"Come back to the clubhouse. Now."
More silence.
Then, Tank's voice hardens. "She's gonna wake up soon. I'm staying until then."
"No, you're not."
"She almost died, Bones."
I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the phone so hard I think it might snap in my hand. The image of her, battered and broken, flickers behind my eyes, unwanted, unwelcome.
But it's there.
I can still hear her voice, still see her looking at me with those fucking green eyes, still remember the way she used to press her body against mine like I was the only thing keeping her together. I remember the way she whispered my name like it was the most delicious dessert she’d ever tasted.
Kane.
I let her be the fourth person to know it. Something that I always kept to myself.
I press the heel of my hand against my chest, pushing against the ache there, trying to smother it, trying to bury it beneath some semblance of strength.
"Until she wakes up. Then you come back. She is not our concern anymore," I grind out.
Tank lets out a sharp exhale, frustration thick in his voice. "She was one of us."
"No, she wasn't. She was a Trojan horse. She made her choice and it sure as fuck wasn't us. It was the Riders. She had eight months to tell me the truth!"
"What if she was too scared to tell you? She loved you, she truly did, it was obvious!" Tank snaps. "She's still the Ely that was my friend."
Something cracks inside me.
It's small, barely noticeable, but I feel it.
I force myself to breathe, to swallow back the sharpness in my throat, to push past the memories clawing at the edges of my mind.
"You do what you want," I mutter, my voice hoarse, raw. "But you better be back here soon."
I hang up before he can say anything else.
The silence comes rushing back in, heavier than before, pressing down on me like a weight I can't shake off. I sit here, phone in my hand, staring at nothing, feeling everything.
I should've insisted he leave her.
I should've told him not to call me again about her.
I should've meant it when I told myself I didn't care.
Instead, I sit here in the dark, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey, with the echo of her name still rattling around inside me, with the suffocating, unbearable truth that I can't outrun—
I do care. And I'm hoping he calls me back with an update.
Ely
The next time I wake up, everything is too bright. The sharp scent of antiseptic stings my nose, the distant beep of machines filling the silence. I'm warm, cocooned in too many blankets, my body aching but no longer unbearably cold. The steady hum of something mechanical filters in. An IV drip, oxygen, things keeping me tethered to this world when I should have been left behind.
I shift, and pain lances through my side, through my throat. A choked sound escapes me, and instantly, there's movement beside me. A chair scraping against tile. Heavy boots.
Then, a voice.
"Easy, sweetheart."
Tank.
I blink, my vision sluggishly adjusting to the dim light. He's sitting beside the bed, leaning forward, arms braced on his knees, his face a mask of controlled rage. But his eyes... his eyes are something else.
Haunted.
"You scared the shit out of me," he mutters, shaking his head, rubbing a hand down his face. "Thought I was too late."
I swallow, regret burning like acid.
"You should've left me." My voice is barely a whisper, rasping and raw, a ghost of sound that shouldn't exist.
His jaw clenches. "Yeah? Well, too fucking bad."
I turn away, staring at the IV line snaking into my arm, at the stark white sheets that don't belong to me. "Where am I?"
"Hospital outside of town. They stitched you up, pumped you full of fluids. Said you were lucky. Another half hour and..." He trails off, but he doesn't need to finish.
I know how close I was.
I should have died.
I almost did.
Tank exhales sharply, his chair creaking as he shifts his weight. "You need anything?"
A bitter laugh, weak and empty, slips past my lips. "Yeah. A time machine."
He doesn't react right away. He just watches me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, he leans forward, his voice quiet, edged with steel. "Did he do this to you?"
I don't answer. I don't have to.
He curses under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. "That sick fuck..." His knuckles go white where they grip the armrest, tension radiating from every muscle in his body.
Silence stretches between us. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to feel. There's nothing left inside me but exhaustion.
Tank shifts again, his hand hovering over mine for a second before he pulls back. "I called Bones."
Everything inside me freezes.
Ice replaces the warmth Tank's presence gave me, my heart stuttering, then sinking into the abyss of my chest. I force myself to breathe, but it feels like inhaling glass.
I wet my lips, ignoring the way my throat protests. "And?"
He hesitates. Then, with a quiet sigh, he delivers the words that crack something deep inside me.
"He ordered me to go back to the clubhouse."
The world stops. Everything inside me shatters. I already knew it. Deep down, I knew. But hearing it? Hearing the man I loved, the man I gave everything to, decide I wasn't even worth saving? It breaks me.
A sob rises up, but I swallow it down, locking it behind my teeth, behind the agony threatening to rip me apart. Tank curses again, but this time, there's something raw in his voice.
"I'm sorry, Ely."
I nod. What else is there to say? I close my eyes, letting the pain take me under again, drowning in it, hoping I never wake up.