Page 78 of Without a Trace

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And for the first time since the game began—I realized I’d gone too far.

And maybe that was the point.

Maybe this wasn’t about the game anymore. Maybe it never was.

Because the way Trace looked at me—

The way Zeke kissed me.

The way Alden whispered that dare.

And the way Rhett held my waist—gripped it as if he didn’t want to let go, as if even he didn’t understand why he responded to me that way—

None of it felt normal.

It felt inevitable.

I wasn’t just a girl in a room full of tension and tequila.

I was the reason they were all here.

And suddenly, the silence didn’t feel empty.

It felt staged.

Heavy.

Waiting.

I was the missing piece in something none of them wanted to explain.

And I was finally starting to feel it—

The truth behind their stares.

The weight in their silence.

The secret in my blood.

I didn’t know what I was yet.

But I was starting to understand.

They did.

I didn’t say anything when I left.

I just walked upstairs like my bones were hollow, like my skin didn’t quite fit anymore.

No one followed.

Good.

The air in the bedroom was still. Heavy. My head buzzed, heart still thudding from something that had nothing to do with tequila.

Hemingway was on the bed, curled into the same spot he always claimed, lifting his head when I came in. No judgment. Just eyes. Warm and soft and real.

Sitting down beside him, I buried my fingers in his fur.

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