Page 216 of Without a Trace
I stood across from her, trying to explain the unexplainable.
“The bond is real,” I said, voice low. “It’s tied to some ancient bloodline. Mine. One I didn’t even know existed.”
Sloane tilted her head. “So you’re... a chosen one?”
I exhaled. “Apparently. And because I—” My eyes flicked to the others. “—uh, sealed the bond with both of them... I’m now magically tethered to two Hollow Order boys.”
Trace leaned against the fireplace, hood down, arms crossed, watching me like I might break in half if I didn’t keep talking. Alden paced a slow line behind the couch, his silence more unnerving than anything else. Kane leaned on the kitchen island, sipping something too dark to be coffee. Rhett stood next to him, arms crossed but eyes soft, like he was ready to crack a joke if I needed one. Zeke hovered near the map in the corner,frown carved deep into his face like he was already drawing up contingency plans.
“And your tattoos glow now?” Sloane asked flatly. “Because of sex magic?”
Rhett coughed. Kane snorted. Trace closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “It’s not just the sex.”
“It never is,” Sloane said, deadpan. “Okay. So you’ve got a supernatural love triangle, Lena’s a backstabbing half-sister, your dad’s alive and possibly evil, and there's a prophecy that basically says you’re either gonna save us or combust.”
“That about sums it up.”
She leaned back, shaking her head. “God. I thought your shit was messy before. Now you’ve got cult markings and a fan club.”
Kane raised his cup in her direction. “I knew liked you.”
“She’s not wrong,” Rhett muttered.
Sloane’s face finally softened as her gaze returned to mine. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth. Not poetic. Not brave. Just... honest.
She reached out, tugging my hand until I sat beside her. Hemingway let out a grumpy snort but didn’t move.
“You’re still in there,” she said, quieter now. “Under all of it—the heir, the chaos, the fire. I see you, Scar.”
And just like that, my throat burned.
I hadn’t realized how badly I needed someone to say that. To not treat me like a weapon. Or a prophecy. Or something breakable.
Just me.
Scarlett.
Trace
Scarlett had barely stepped out when the quiet turned heavy.
I stayed in the kitchen, gripping the counter as if steadiness could be borrowed. As if it could stop the echo of the sound she made when I touched her.
Or the way Alden looked at her, already halfway to goodbye.
Sloane walked in with the ease of someone who didn’t need permission. She poured herself coffee, took a sip, then looked straight at me.
“You always this tense?” I asked.
“You always this in love?” she shot back.
I didn’t answer.
