87. Scarlett
Scarlett
T he moment I stepped into my villa, I shut the door harder than I meant to.
The heat clung to my skin, but it was nothing compared to what sat in my chest. Not rage. Not even confusion anymore.
Just pressure.
A bruise blooming in a place I couldn’t touch.
I peeled off the sweat-drenched shirt and tossed it toward the chair, toeing off my boots next. My hands trembled—not from the training. From the knowing. The way Trace had looked at me. The way my fingers moved before my brain caught up.
Something in me had done this before.
I collapsed onto the bed without bothering to shower. My body gave out first, then my thoughts scattered. The ocean pulsed in the distance, a faint heartbeat I couldn’t sync to.
And then—
Darkness.
The road was slick.
Night air cut sharp through the cracked window. I was in the passenger seat. Small. Barely able to see over the dashboard. My hands were sticky with red—no, paint. Not blood. It had to be paint. I was holding something in my lap.
A silver bracelet.
“I told you not to take that,” the man said.
His voice was smoke and iron. Not unkind, but heavy.
I turned to look at him, but I couldn’t see his face. Only the shape of him. A ring on his right hand. A scar at the base of his neck. The sound of his breathing, too loud for the silence in the car.
“You have to forget, Scar,” he said, voice cracking. “It’s the only way.”
My throat burned.
The headlights cut through rain.
And then—
Metal shrieked.
Glass burst.
The scream wasn't mine.