Page 69 of Without a Trace
But I wasn’t going to cry anymore.
I was going tomake them watch me smirk instead.
Standing up, I sauntered toward the kitchen for a drink, brushing past Alden—close enough to feel him inhale.
I poured tequila into a glass. No lime. No salt. No mercy.
“Oh,” I added casually, “someone go get Zeke.”
The room stiffened.
Rhett blinked. “Why?”
“Because I want him to see what chaos actually looks like,” I said. “Let’s see how well he plays games.”
Trace’s jaw locked so tight I thought I heard his teeth grind.
Alden didn’t move.
Lena choked on her drink. “Scarlett.”
I smiled wider. Fire blooming in my chest. “What? He’s part of the fun now, right?”
And for the first time since Zeke arrived, I felt powerful again.
Because they wanted me.
And now, he would too.
***
The tequila burned. But I burned hotter.
The living room looked like a crime scene from a party that had gone too far—blankets tangled like bodies, glass rings on every surface. Tension hanging in the air like smoke.
I took the center like a throne. Hair wild, thighs bare, shirt barely buttoned. Power clung to me like perfume.
Sloane was curled in the corner, already blushing. Lena sat cross-legged, half-horrified, half-obsessed. The boys? They didn’t know whether to run or beg.
Before anyone could move, the door creaked.
Zeke stepped in like he’d been summoned—dark shirt, darker smirk. Like he’d smelled the tension from down the hall and wanted a taste.
“Speak of the devil,” I said, lifting my glass.
He gave a small bow. “Wouldn’t miss it, sweetheart.”
I watched his eyes track the room—every body, every glance. But mostly, me. Like he already knew I was the fuse.
“Take a seat,” I said sweetly. “We’re playing.”
He smiled like it was his favorite word. “Aren’t we always?”
Trace hadn’t said a word. Alden took a slow sip, knuckles white around the glass. Rhett and Kane leaned forward like this was the only entertainment they’d ever need.
I spun the bottle lazily.
It landed on Rhett.
