10. Scarred
Ely
I wake up to silence.
The room is too bright, the fluorescent light overhead buzzing faintly, casting everything in a sterile glow. The air smells like sickness and bleach, the sheets beneath my fingers are stiff, the blanket pulled up to my chest. But there's no warmth here. Just emptiness.
It takes me a moment to remember. To piece together the fragments of pain, the suffocating darkness, the feeling of gravel scraping against my skin, the weight of hands pinning me down. My throat clenches, and instinctively, I try to swallow. A sharp, ripping pain shoots through me, burning so violently that my body seizes.
I reach up, fingers trembling as they brush against my neck.
The bandages are thick.
My breath stutters.
Jinx.
My pulse pounds as memories crash into me all at once. The smell of sweat and blood. The gleam of a knife. His voice whispering in my ear, telling me I belonged to him, that I would never leave him again. The searing, unbearable agony as the blade sliced through my skin.
I clamp my eyes shut, forcing down the wave of nausea rising in my throat.
I'm alive.
Somehow, I survived.
But I'm alone.
I shift, wincing as I push myself upright. My limbs feel weak, drained, like every ounce of strength has been stripped from me. The IV in my arm tugs as I move, the machine beside my bed beeping softly in protest.
No one is here.
Tank is gone.
Bones never came.
I don't know why I expected him to. Maybe some pathetic, broken part of me thought that, after everything, he'd come storming in here, demanding answers. Demanding to know if I was okay, if I was still breathing.
But he didn't.
Because I'm not his anymore.
My fingers shake as I slowly peel the blanket back and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My body protests the movement, muscles aching, bruises stretching, but I ignore it. I need to see. I need to know.
I stand on unsteady legs, gripping the IV pole as I shuffle toward the small bathroom. The mirror above the sink is cracked along the edge, the glass warped, but it doesn't distort the truth staring back at me.
I barely recognize myself.
My face is swollen, bruises blooming dark across my cheekbones, my lips split and dry. My skin looks wrong, sallow and thin, stretched too tight over bones that have seen too much.
Then, my eyes drop lower.
The bandages around my neck are thick, stark against my pale skin. My fingers twitch at my sides, hesitating.
I don't want to see.
But I have to.
Slowly, carefully, I reach up and peel a corner of the bandage back.
The breath leaves my lungs.
A jagged, angry scar slashes across my throat, raw and red, the skin held in place by stitches. A reminder. A brand. A fucking collar.
My stomach twists, and I slap a hand over my mouth, swallowing down the sob that threatens to claw its way free. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can't unsee it. Can't undo it.
And then I see the other scar.
The one on my arm.
TRAITOR.
The word glares back at me, bold, permanent. Undeniable.
My chest caves in on itself. A choked sound rips from my throat, and this time, I can't stop it.
Bones did this.
He sent me back.
He put me in Jinx's hands.
And I was too stupid to see it coming. Too pathetically in love to believe he would ever turn on me like that. I thought he was my savior. I thought he was different. I thought he was the one man who would never hurt me like they did.
But he was just like them.
My knees buckle, and I sink to the floor, pressing my forehead against the cold tile. The tears come hard and fast, my breath hitching painfully in my chest, my ribs aching with every sob. It hurts. Everything fucking hurts. My throat. My body. My soul.
They took everything from me.
Every single person I ever loved betrayed me.
I am done.
A knock on the door startles me, my body jerking violently. I drag a hand across my face, trying to shove the pain and panic back down, trying to force the pieces of myself back together before I completely shatter.
"Miss Holloway?"
I stiffen. The voice is unfamiliar. Not a doctor. Not a nurse.
I push myself up, gripping the sink to keep myself steady. When I open the bathroom door, two men in suits stand by my hospital bed, their expressions carefully neutral, their eyes sharp.
FBI. What the fuck?
I recognize the look. The posture. The way they scan the room, taking in every detail, assessing every movement. Plus, they flash me their badges.
"Miss Holloway," the taller one repeats. "I'm Agent Miller, and this is Agent Vasquez. We need to ask you a few questions."
I stare at them, my throat too raw to speak.
Agent Vasquez shifts slightly, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. "Your injuries match several open cases we have on file." He hesitates, then continues, "Women who were found in similar condition. Same wounds. Same level of violence. Lots of physical similarities. Some of them were dumped in this area, some over the state line."
A chill rolls down my spine. I watched enough Criminal Minds to know what this means.
Agent Miller's expression doesn't change. "The difference is, you're the only one who survived."
I exhale shakily. Jinx. Is he a… a fucking serial killer?
My hands curl into fists at my sides. It wouldn't surprise me if he was.
I could sit here. I could lie. I could say nothing. But what's the point? What loyalty do I have left? To whom? The Crimson Riders? The same men who let Jinx do this to me? The same ones who laughed while I screamed?
Or the Iron Vultures? The ones who threw me away like I was nothing?
I don't hesitate.
"I'll tell you everything I know," I whisper, my voice hoarse but steady.
Agent Vasquez lifts his head, brows raised. "Everything?"
I nod, my pulse thrumming with a strange, dangerous clarity. "The Crimson Riders MC, in particular a member of their club, Jinx, did this to me. They deal in guns, drugs, working girls. They stash their shipments in an abandoned warehouse south of Route 6. They have dirty cops on their payroll. I can give you some names. I've been living with them for years, heard a lot of their not so legal secrets."
I don’t know every little detail, but I know a lot. Some of those stupid fuckers couldn’t stop talking when they drank too much.
Agent Miller watches me carefully. "And the Iron Vultures? We know you worked for them for a while."
I should stop. I should keep my mouth shut.
But I don't. Because fuck them.
"Smuggling." My voice is stronger now. "Arms deals. Connections to the Romano family. The weapons transport routes. I know how some of it works, not much. But maybe enough. I've been hearing things working as a bartender for them. I don't know when they go on runs, but I've heard some names and locations."
Agent Vasquez exhales slowly, exchanging a glance with Miller.
I meet his gaze head-on, ignoring the way my hands shake, ignoring the voice in my head screaming that this is wrong. "You're going to give me protection. In exchange for the info. The Vultures will most likely know it was me."
I am done. I am burning it all down.
Let them come for me. Let them try.
I will never belong to them again. I'm only loyal to myself now.