23. Trace
Trace
T he Hollow Order drilled one law into us: master your impulses. Muzzle the rage. Calculate the blow. Violence is a scalpel, never a scream. But anger? That’s a loaded chamber.
She was curled on the couch, glass dangling from her fingers, head tipped to the side, hair a mess of gold against the cushion. Laughing—distant. It didn’t match the look in her eyes.
I didn’t sway; even my pulse felt handcuffed. One hand clamped the patio table, varnish biting my palm, anchoring me to the floor.
Outside I was stone.
Inside—flames.
Every breath she drew stole mine. Every shift of her hips cinched the wire in my chest a little tighter. I wanted to cross the room, kneel in front of her and ask her what the fuck we were doing—but men like me don’t get that mercy anymore and it made me feel fucking sick.
Hours bled into moonlight, and the buzz in my veins curdled into something sour.
The deck was a hush of crickets and a lone porch bulb. Kane and Rhett murmured in the kitchen; the fridge light flared like a heartbeat every time it opened.
Alden sat beside her, not touching, but close enough to brand the air. His thumb tapped the armrest—one, two, three—steady as a trigger pull.
I stared too long; Alden stared back through the window, unflinching. He knew. Maybe he always had.
I tore myself away, the screen door hissing shut behind me, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ached.
She didn’t belong to him. She didn’t belong to me.
But one of us was going to shatter.