Page 29 of Without a Trace
I rose slowly, dizzy, wine glass dangling from my fingers.
“I’m not holding anything together.”
And the thing was—I meant it.
Every jagged, unraveling word of it.
Alden
The house was quieter now. Still humming with leftover music and flickering candles, but the chaos had thinned. Scarlett came in through the front door looking wrecked and radiant all at once. Hair windblown. Eyes red. Still barefoot. Still gripping that empty wine glass she hadn’t let go of since sunset.
She always burned brighter than anyone in the room.
But tonight, the fire was fading.
She curled into herself on the couch, one arm slung lazily over a pillow, a dress strap slipping off her shoulder. Mascara smudged. Her mouth was soft. Unfiltered. And everyone saw it but pretended not too.
Everyone except me.
Kane made some joke about her being a lightweight. Lena swatted him. Sloane was already gathering plates and avoiding my eyes. Rhett returned from the porch, quiet.
Trace was long gone, out in the trees somewhere, probably punching bark, trying to forget how badly he wanted her.
But I stayed. Someone had to. Because even if she never looked at me the way she looked at him, I knew her in a way he never would.
I’d seen her when the room was quiet. When the storm passed. When the fire dimmed, and she didn’t think anyone noticed the smoke.
I noticed.
Curled up like that, she looked small. Breakable in a way she never let herself be. The tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep—but from carrying too much for too long.
She mumbled something under her breath, her head falling onto the armrest. I could tell she was trying to stay awake. Maybe waiting for someone. Maybe no one.
I remained silent, my gaze fixed on the gentle curve of her shoulder. The way her fingers curled under the blanket like she was bracing for something. Maybe she was. Maybe she always had been.
I sat next to her, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough not to scare her off. Close enough to make Trace furious, if he ever came back.
I wasn’t trying to be good.
I was trying to be better than him.
And in the silence between us, I wondered if maybe that was worse.
Trace
The Hollow Order drilled one law into us: master your impulses. Muzzle the rage. Calculate the blow. Violence is a scalpel, never a scream. But anger? That’s a loaded chamber.
She was curled on the couch, glass dangling from her fingers, head tipped to the side, hair a mess of gold against the cushion. Laughing—distant. It didn’t match the look in her eyes.
I didn’t sway; even my pulse felt handcuffed. One hand clamped the patio table, varnish biting my palm, anchoring me to the floor.
Outside I was stone.
Inside—flames.
Every breath she drew stole mine. Every shift of her hips cinched the wire in my chest a little tighter. I wanted to cross the room, kneel in front of her and ask her what the fuck we were doing—but men like me don’t get that mercy anymore and it made me feel fucking sick.
Hours bled into moonlight, and the buzz in my veins curdled into something sour.
