Page 92 of Without a Trace
“Because in this case, it is.” His voice was low. “There are things coming you don’t understand. And when they do, you won’t have time to catch up.”
I stepped back, my hands falling to my sides. “Then tell me. Help me catch up.”
His gaze softened—just a fraction. “Not yet. You’re not ready.”
My mouth parted, a dozen arguments burning the edge of my tongue, but none of them made it out. Instead, I stared at him, willing myself to understand something in his expression. Some hint. Some truth.
I rolled my eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m the only one who doesn’t know what’s really happening?”
“Because you are.” He didn’t say it unkindly. Just... plainly. “But that won’t last much longer.”
I leaned back, arms crossed. “You planning to clue me in, or is cryptic asshole your permanent job?”
Zeke’s mouth twitched again. Almost a smile. “You’re stronger than you think, Scarlett.”
“And you’re more annoying than you look.”
He laughed under his breath, then sobered. “It’s not about strength. It’s about what you’ll do when the truth finds you.”
I stared at him.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” I asked.
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s supposed to prepare you.”
The jet shifted, descending slightly. I felt it in my stomach.
Zeke looked back toward the window. “We’ll be landing soon.”
I stood up without a word and walked back towards my seat. Trace was in the same spot, eyes narrowed as he tracked me down the aisle. Alden still asleep, sprawled across two seats. Rhett had kicked his boots up and was texting with one hand, sipping whiskey with the other.
Whatever game we were flying into, I wasn’t playing catch-up anymore.
I was watching now too.
And I’d be ready.
Even if I wasn’t.
Scarlett
The island didn’t even look real.
Turquoise water stretched endlessly, clearer than glass. White sand glittered beneath the sun, palm trees swaying with lazy indifference—as if the world wasn’t burning beyond the horizon.
We pulled up to the dock, and I stepped out in my boots, sun glinting off the laces as I adjusted my footing on the polished planks.
A wave rolled in with perfect timing, and I exhaled with the dramatic flair of a rich widow hiding something in the floorboards.
Zeke passed our bags off to the waiting staff with quiet efficiency, eyes always scanning—sharp and unreadable.
Trace’s gaze swept the shoreline, shoulders tense, posture alert. He looked ready to take down a threat at the first ripple.
Alden slid his sunglasses up his nose and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath, clearly offended by how disgustingly nice it all was.
I turned and smirked. “What? You boys don’t enjoy tropical luxury with a side of impending doom?”
Kane sat down, lounging on a chair near the dock, linen shirt unbuttoned, drink in hand. He looked like he’d been flown in from a music video shoot.
