Page 133 of Without a Trace
Something that had been building for years. Every time her voice goes sharp or her spine straightens or she walks into a room and makes the air feel too fucking small.
A pull we never talked about. A thread none of us meant to tie.
Trace felt it too—I saw it in his eyes when our hands brushed the inside of her wrist. That look he gave me wasn’t just shock. It was recognition. We both felt the buzz. That flare of heat. The crackle beneath her skin.
We’d ignored it. Pretended it was lust. Tension. Complication. Whatever sick cocktail of hormones happens when your entire world reorients around one person without your permission.
But it’s more than that.
We knew it was more.
And now we’d fed it.
She has no idea who she is.
Who she’s always been.
I turned just enough to study her shoulder, the curve of her neck. Her skin still flushed, hair damp against her temple, that little wrinkle between her brows soft for once. Her grip on my hand never eased.
She’s not letting go. Not yet.
And I’m not sure I want her to.
Trace moved again, subtle. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t need to. We were both in the same goddamn mess—chest-deep in something we couldn’t name, wouldn’t admit, and still craved enough to drown in.
There was a time I thought I could keep my distance. Play the long game. Be the steady one in her orbit and wait for the storm to pass. But last night proved something I didn’t want to admit.
It was never going to pass.
She was never just a girl.
And whatever’s happening between us—it’s not finished.
I opened my eyes slowly. Her bare shoulder rose and fell with each breath. My fingers were still linked with hers, both of us holding on in a half-sleep. Not letting go. Maybe we couldn’t.
Trace stood up, grabbing a glass of water off the nightstand. I didn’t look at him. We’d said enough without speaking.
We both knew the danger. But did it anyway.
Because she doesn’t know. And maybe we don’t fully either.
But something ancient stirred the second we touched her. And now it’s awake.
Scarlett
Iwoke to the sound of water running.
Trace stood in the bathroom, shirtless, head bowed, one hand bracing the counter. His gaze caught mine in the mirror—no words, just pretense. The weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
I slipped out of bed. Alden stirred beside me, tossing once, phone dimly lit in his hand. He didn’t look over. Just scrolled, pretending not to care—but his thumb stopped moving.
I grabbed the first shirt I saw on the floor—Trace’s, of course. Worn and oversized. It smelled like him—smoke, cedar, danger—and I didn’t bother with anything else. Just bare skin under fabric and the faint ache between my thighs that reminded me exactly what I’d done.
What we had done.
I headed out of my villa, heading toward the main house and into the kitchen like it was any other morning.
Kane, Rhett, and Zeke were at the island—half-eaten food, mugs in hand. Their conversation shifted the second I stepped into the kitchen.
