Page 37 of Without a Trace
But I wasn’t a riddle.
I was a fucking fire. And I knew it.
“Next question,” I said, voice sharp, singsong.
Alden raised a brow. “Haven’t you ruined us enough for one night?”
I grinned. “Not even close.”
Trace shifted, the muscles in his forearm flexing where they rested along the edge of the tub. I saw it. Noticed it. Filled it the way you memorize a weapon. Dangerous. Mine.
“If you could only touch one part of me for the rest of your life what would it be?”
Neither of them flinched. That made it worse.
Alden stared at me, eyes unreadable. “Your neck.”
“Bold.”
“I’d want to feel your pulse,” he said. “To know when it races. To know when it’s for me.”
Trace’s voice followed. Rough. Guttural. “Your mouth.”
The cup in my hand trembled. I lifted it to my lips anyway.
“You guys are so predictable.” I laughed.
I was a fucking mess.
Because I wanted them.
I wanted Alden’s steadiness, the safety he wrapped around me without asking for anything in return.
I wanted Trace’s fire, the sharp edges that scraped against all my darkest corners, making them feel like home.
I wanted to be good.
To be ruined.
I slid across the water closer to Alden. Let my thigh brush his. Let my fingertips rest lightly on his knee. But my eyes stayed locked on Trace—that’s when it happened. A pulse, faint but electric, tugged at the silver bracelet on my wrist. Not painful. Not obvious. Just enough to make my breath catch.
“Your turn,” I said.
Trace ran a hand through his hair. Wet strands clinging to his fingers, like he needed a distraction from the storm behind his eyes. “What are you doing, Sunshine?”
“Having fun.”
“No,” he said, voice a rasp now. “What are you really doing?
I smiled slow. Dangerous, “Showing you both what it feels like to want something you can’t have.”
Neither moved.
But I saw it. The unraveling.
And maybe, just maybe—I wasn’t so put together either.
I was wine-drunk. Power-drunk. Chaos-drunk. Drunk on the way they looked at me like I was the last cigarette in a burning room.
