81. Alden
Alden
I didn’t want to open my eyes.
Not because I was tired—hell, I barely slept.
I just didn’t want to risk breaking whatever this was.
The weight of her body pressed against me.
The soft sound of Trace’s breath on the other side of her, I could feel the tension and I didn’t need to look at him to know his mind hadn’t shut off either.
She was the only calm between us.
And even that was a fucking illusion.
I’m not pretending anymore. Not about her. Not about how long I’d loved her in silence. About how fucked I was from the second she let that robe fall.
I’d watched her fall apart last night, torn between us, giving herself to both. And even now—with my fingers still tangled in hers—I felt the echo of something deeper.
Something that had been building for years. Every time her voice goes sharp or her spine straightens or she walks into a room and makes the air feel too fucking small.
A pull we never talked about. A thread none of us meant to tie.
Trace felt it too—I saw it in his eyes when our hands brushed the inside of her wrist. That look he gave me wasn’t just shock. It was recognition. We both felt the buzz. That flare of heat. The crackle beneath her skin.
We’d ignored it. Pretended it was lust. Tension. Complication. Whatever sick cocktail of hormones happens when your entire world reorients around one person without your permission.
But it’s more than that.
We knew it was more.
And now we’d fed it.
She has no idea who she is.
Who she’s always been.
I turned just enough to study her shoulder, the curve of her neck. Her skin still flushed, hair damp against her temple, that little wrinkle between her brows soft for once. Her grip on my hand never eased.
She’s not letting go. Not yet.
And I’m not sure I want her to.
Trace moved again, subtle. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t need to. We were both in the same goddamn mess—chest-deep in something we couldn’t name, wouldn’t admit, and still craved enough to drown in.
There was a time I thought I could keep my distance. Play the long game. Be the steady one in her orbit and wait for the storm to pass. But last night proved something I didn’t want to admit.
It was never going to pass.
She was never just a girl.
And whatever’s happening between us—it’s not finished.
I opened my eyes slowly. Her bare shoulder rose and fell with each breath. My fingers were still linked with hers, both of us holding on in a half-sleep. Not letting go. Maybe we couldn’t.
Trace stood up, grabbing a glass of water off the nightstand. I didn’t look at him. We’d said enough without speaking.
We both knew the danger. But did it anyway.
Because she doesn’t know. And maybe we don’t fully either.
But something ancient stirred the second we touched her. And now it’s awake.