8. Abandoned
Bones
T he whiskey burns on the way down, but it's not enough.
I sit at my desk, the almost-empty bottle right in front of me. I stare at it, my fingers drumming impatiently against the wood, trying to drown out the noise in my head. The echo of Tank's voice. The sharp, bitter edges of his words. She almost didn't make it.
I shouldn't have answered that call.
I should've let it go to voicemail, should've fucking ignored it. But I picked up. I listened. And now my chest feels like someone has taken a blade to it and twisted.
Ely is alive.
I told myself I wouldn't give a damn if she wasn't. But even now, while battling with my own thoughts and the weight of my choices pressing down on me, I know I'm full of shit.
I care.
I fucking care.
And it's killing me.
I wish I wasn’t. I wish I could just turn it off. But I can’t, no matter how much I drink, no matter how much I lie to myself or others.
The phone vibrates against the desk again, breaking the silence. I let it ring a few times, give myself a few seconds to tame the wild pain inside my heart before I answer. "What?"
Tank exhales hard on the other end, frustration thick in his voice. "She's awake."
I close my eyes, my jaw tightening. I see her in my mind, blinking against the bright hospital lights, wrapped in gauze, her body weak, broken. I see the moment she realizes she's alone, the moment it sinks in that no one is coming for her.
Good.
She deserves to feel that.
She lied. She betrayed me. She played me for a fool, let me take her into my bed, let me make her mine, all while keeping dangerous fucking secrets. And now she's paying for it.
"You should've left her at the hospital and be back at the clubhouse by now," I say, my voice even, controlled.
Tank lets out a harsh laugh. "Yeah? And you should've fucking killed her yourself if you really meant it."
There he goes again, that accusation. Something dark and cold slithers through my veins. I keep my grip on the phone steady, keep my voice flat. "Come up with something new to throw around. I gave her to the Riders. That was enough."
"Was it?" Tank's voice is sharp now, cutting through the phone like a blade. "Because I don't think you believe that."
I don't answer.
Because what the fuck am I supposed to say?
That I've been thinking about her every night since I sent her away? That I close my eyes and see her face, hear her voice, feel her in the empty space beside me? That I called the hospital telling them to bill me for everything she needs because I couldn't stomach the thought of her not making it, not having the best medical care?
No. I'm not saying any of that.
Tank sighs, the sound heavy, tired. "She asked about you."
My heart clenches.
I force a breath in, force my body to stay relaxed, force the lie out before I can stop it. "I don't give a shit."
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Then, quietly, Tank says, "You should. Because she sure as hell still cares about you."
The line goes dead before I can answer. I let the phone drop onto the desk, my fingers twitching toward the whiskey bottle again. But I don't pick it up.
I don't drink. I just sit here, staring at nothing, feeling the weight of her name in my chest, knowing that no matter how much I want to, I can never truly erase her.
Because no matter how much I've hurt her, no matter how much I tell myself she's a traitor, I still fucking love her.
It's only half an hour later that I find myself calling for a ride to the hospital.
The hospital is quiet at this hour, the halls dimly lit. It's the kind of place that feels hollow, where pain lingers in every shadow, where people wait to see if either life or death wins the final battle. I don't belong here. I know that. But my feet still carry me forward, my steps slow, like I'm walking into something unknown that I can't come back from.
I stop at the doorway.
She's there.
The sight of her nearly knocks me to my knees.
Ely lies motionless on the hospital bed, pale beneath the harsh glow of the overhead light. Tubes and wires snake from her body, the steady beeping of machines the only proof that she's still alive. Bandages wrap around her throat, stark white against her skin, hiding the damage that nearly took her from this world. The bruises on her face have darkened, spreading down her neck like a sick reminder of what she's endured.
My hands clench into fists at my sides.
I've seen bodies beaten worse. I've seen men hanging on by a thread, barely recognizable after a night of torture. But this, this is her.
I didn't truly think the Riders would do this to her.
If she was really Jinx's woman, really one of the Riders, why would they do this? Were they punishing her for failing to get intel on the Vultures? Were they making an example out of her? Or... was she never theirs to begin with?
The thought slices through me, dangerous and unwelcome.
I push it down. It can't be and, at this point, it doesn't really matter.
What matters is that she's still breathing. What matters is that I did this to her. Didn't I?
No, not by my hand, but by my choice. I was the one who sent her back, who marked her as a traitor, who decided her fate with cold certainty. I told myself I was doing what was necessary, that loyalty mattered more than whatever the hell I felt for her.
But standing here now, looking at her like this, all I can think about is what she must have gone through. How much pain she must have been in. How she must have screamed, begged, hoped that someone, that I, would come for her.
And I didn't.
I step further into the room, my boots barely making a sound against the sterile floor. I shouldn't be here. If she wakes up, if she sees me... fuck, I don't even know what I'd say. But I can't bring myself to leave.
She shifts slightly, a quiet sound slipping from her lips, her face twisting in pain even in sleep.
I hate it. I hate seeing her like this.
My fingers twitch at my sides, a reflex, a memory. I used to touch her without thinking. My hands used to claim her, used to trace her skin, used to make her shiver for me. Now, I don't have the right.
She's alone. Because of me.
And I tell myself she deserves it. That she made her choices. That she lied to me, deceived me, made me believe she was mine while keeping secrets that could have destroyed my club.
She might not deserve this. But I sure as hell didn't deserve to be deceived by her, either.
I turn on my heel, forcing my feet to move, forcing my chest to unclench, forcing my fucking heart to harden.
She won't know I was here. She won't know that I care. That I still love her.
Because I don't. I can't. I fucking can’t.
And yet, as I step back into the darkened hallway, leaving her behind, I already know it's a lie.
I never stopped loving her. And that's the problem. Love doesn’t die in a second. It doesn’t die with a word. With a touch. It lingers, hopeful and painful. It whispers lies that paint an illusion. I need to kill it for good if I want to survive it.
With my heart in knots, I go back to my office at the clubhouse. Not five minutes later, the door opens.