Page 162 of Without a Trace
I’ll call you soon unless I die first xoxo
The read receipts popped up almost instantly.
Sloane:
WHAT
Lena: EXCUSE ME MA’AM???
Sloane: you slept with WHO
Lena: BOTH???
Sloane: blink twice if you need rescue
Lena: you need to Facetime us right now
Sloane: you’re absolutely unwell and I love it for you
I snorted. Actually snorted.
It felt good. Too good.
I pulled my knees to my chest and typed back:
Scarlett: it’s worse than that
I think I actually like them
both of them
and I think I’m starting to like this place
I set my phone down and rested my forehead on my knees.
There was still so much I didn’t understand. About the bond. The Red Veil. The Hollow Order. Myself.
But for now, I’d let myself breathe. Laugh. Lean into the ridiculousness of it all.
One more minute, I told myself.
Then I’d find coffee.
The porch creaked under my feet as I stepped outside, sun already high and blistering across the villa roofs. My hair was wild, untamed, strung over one shoulder. Trace followed behind me, silent, loose-limbed from sleep—or whatever counted as rest after the way he ruined me in that tub.
The sun was too bright. The ocean, too loud. My thighs ached in that delicious, smug way that made me want to stretch like a cat and grin at everyone who looked my way.
The others were already out there—spread across the deck like this was just another morning. Alden was drinking coffee, shirtless, all golden skin and easy indifference. Rhett had toast hanging from his mouth, flipping through something on his phone. Kane cracked a joke that made Zeke roll his eyes. Casual. Almost too casual.
“Morning,” I said, dragging out the word as I dropped into the seat next to Alden and stole the mug out of his hand.
“Morning,” Rhett echoed, not looking up. “Damn. You’re glowing.”
“I’d say thank you,” I muttered, sipping. “But I’m ninety percent sure that’s just leftover steam and sin.”
Trace sank down beside me, one leg kicked out lazily, brushing mine. He didn’t say anything. Just rested his arm behind me on the bench like I was his.
I reached for a piece of mango, still sticky from the heat, then dropped it onto my plate without eating. My voice was sweet—too sweet.
