68. Trace
Trace
I said nothing.
Because what could I say? I’d wanted her ready. But I hadn’t been ready for this.
Not for her grit.
Not for the way my pulse kept syncing to her movements.
Not for how fucking gorgeous she looked, defiant and wild, half-feral under the sun with bruises already blooming across her ribs and pride stitched into every swing.
The crowd had turned into a storm. Rhett said something low and careful, something I couldn’t hear. She shook her head, undeterred.
Then she struck again.
And I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Not because she was mine.
Because I was hers.
Even if she never chose.
Even if she walked off that beach and never looked back.
She’d already made me into something I couldn’t un-become.
I scratched at my forearm again. The burn didn’t fade.