Page 35 of Without a Trace
But I wasn’t ready to stop.
Trace
Alden was right, she was fire.
Not in the way people are when they’re drunk and reckless. I mean real fire—slow, glowing. Dangerous. The kind that eats through everything and leaves you standing in the ash, wondering if you ever really knew the warmth or if it was just her.
And I was fucking burning.
Scarlett sat between us like she was born for it, like the world was always meant to spin around her. Like she’d never once considered that someone mightshattera beneath the weight of her stare—that molten green gaze, that mouth curved into chaos, that laugh sweetened by too much wine and not enough regret.
I watched her lift the cup again, smudged lipstick hugging the rim, her tongue darting out to catch a drop at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes wild. And I had never wanted something so badly while also wanting to run the fuck away from it.
She leaned closer to Alden. Said something bold, fearless, filthy. And I answered.
Of course I did.
Because I’d thought about it.God, I’d thought about it.
Her in my hands. Her on her knees. Her pressed against a door begging me not to stop. She had no idea what she did to me. Or maybe she did. Because the moment Alden touched her—just a brush of skin under the water—something snapped behind my ribs.
I wanted to break the goddamn bottle.
But I smiled. A tight, sharp thing that didn’t touch my eyes.
She fuckingknew we wanted her, and she was playing us like strings she’d been plucking for years.
She was watching us. All fire. All challenge. And I knew I was losing.
Because if I touched her now, it wouldn’t be enough.
I wouldn’t stop at her wrist.
I’d drag her into me. Fist that bikini at her hips. Make her forget every version of Alden she’d ever thought to kiss. I’d ruin her in the way only someone who’s loved her too long could.
But I didn’t.
Because if I kissed her tonight, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
And she wasn’t ready for that.
I wasn’t sure either of us were.
So, I stayed still. Burning. The mark on my forearm prickled like it heard her too—as if she was the one who could either heal us or destroy everything we were.
And she leaned back, smug. Victorious.
Alden
She was sitting right there.
So close I could feel the shift of the water every time she moved.
Scarlett. In the middle. Of everything. Of me.
She knew exactly what she was doing—of course she did.
The wine, the smile. The way she tilted her head when she asked those questions like they were just games and not tiny emotional grenades she kept lobbing between us.
