Page 103 of Without a Trace
The sun was already bleeding through the gauzy curtains when I opened my eyes.
My head wasn’t spinning anymore. Just humming—soft, steady, the fire turned to embers inside me.
I stretched, felt the soft fabric of my tank shift against my skin. No bra. No pants. Just black underwear and a threadbare tank clinging to last night’s heat.
Morning air curled though the villa as I padded barefoot to the kitchen, found the carafe on the counter, poured myself a mug of coffee without checking the label. Too early to care.
When I stepped out onto the deck, I Alden was leaned on the railing, facing the water, shirtless, broad-shouldered. His hand cradled a mug, steam curling around his fingers. His back was all hard lines and quiet fury, and when he turned, his eyes hit me like a goddamn collision.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t have to.
I took a slow sip of coffee, unbothered, unmoved. Made no move to cover up.
“Morning,” I said, voice still rough from sleep.
He didn’t turn around. “Didn’t hear you come out.”
I stepped closer, letting my presence do the talking. “Didn’t know I needed permission to stand on my own damn deck.”
His eyes dropped—just for a second—to the curve of my legs, the hem of the tank. Then back to my face. “You always walk around like that?”
“Only when I’m feeling dangerous.”
I walked over and dropped in the chair beside him, stretching my legs out, totally unfazed. He stared out at the horizon, the air between us pulsed.
“You sleep?” I asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
The wind played with my hair, and I let it. I liked the way it made me feel—untouchable. Unapologetic.
He still didn’t look. “You don’t know what you’re doing to us.”
I tilted my head. “Don’t I?”
His mouth parted—something sharp balanced on the edge of it—but he swallowed it back. His grip on the mug tightened.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I said, setting my coffee down. I stood, slow and deliberate, the kind of rise that made a statement without needing to say a word.. “And that’s the problem.”
I stepped closer, not enough to touch him—but enough to be felt.
He looked up finally, and I could see all of it. The restraint. The hunger. The ache that never left.
“You think this is a game,” he said, voice rough.
“No,” I whispered. “I think it’s already over. And no one won.”
A beat passed. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
“What do you want from me, Scar?”
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know. But because I did.
“Everything,” I said. “And nothing I can ask for.”
