48. Scarlett
Scarlett
T he bottle spun again.
We were past the point of no return—drunk on tequila, tension, and the raw ache of everything no one was saying. The room felt like it might split open if someone so much as breathed wrong.
It landed on me.
Of course it did.
I looked up. Smiled slow. “Dare.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sloane muttered.
Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes already glinting with chaos. “I dare you to sit on someone’s lap and kiss them like you’re trying to break them.”
The silence could’ve shattered the glass on the table.
Then Lena gasped.
Alden knuckles went white where they gripped his drink.
Trace didn’t move. But I could feel him—tight, seething, seconds from detonation.
I stood. Smooth. Calm. Power in every step.
Then I walked straight over to Rhett.
I straddled his lap like I fucking meant it, my hands sliding into his hair before he could even process what was happening.
And I kissed him.
Hard.
Deep.
Messy.
Open-mouthed and filthy and long enough that I forgot who was watching.
His hands gripped my thighs. I didn’t stop.
I kissed him until I felt the tension snap somewhere across the room—a rubber band stretched too far.
Sloane choked. “Scarlett!”
Lena’s full-on gasped echoed throughout the room.
Alden swore under his breath.
Trace stood, I didn’t have to look to know it. The way the energy in the room flipped. The way everything tightened .
I pulled back from Rhett, breathless but smiling.
He looked stunned. Truly ruined.
Standing like nothing happened, I grabbed my glass and took a slow sip—savoring the heat still lingering on my tongue.
Then turned back to the circle. My eyes grazing each one of them, daring someone to speak.
“Well,” I said, licking the taste off my lip. “That was fun.”
Then I spun the bottle again.
And the room didn’t dare breathe.
I was drunk on it now.
The chaos. The tension. The way every breath felt like it could tip into violence or lust or both.
It landed on Alden.
The room stiffened.
His eyes lifted. Met mine.
“Truth or dare?” I asked, my voice a blade wrapped in silk.
He didn’t blink. “Dare.”
I licked my lip, slow. “Come sit behind me. Wrap your arms around my waist. And whisper in my ear what you’d do to me if no one else were here.”
Sloane gasped. “Scarlett—”
“Don’t,” I snapped. “Let him play.”
Alden didn’t move at first. Then—he stood. Quiet. Controlled.
Crossed the room.
Sat behind me on the floor like he was surrendering something ancient.
His legs bracketed mine.
His arms wrapped around my waist—slow, sure, reverent.
His mouth brushed the edge of my ear.
“I’d fuck you against this floor,” he whispered. “Slow at first. Just to feel you beg. Then rough enough to make you forget everyone else exists.”
A visible shiver rolled through me.
The room was dead silent.
Lena covered her face while Sloane let out a stunned breath.
Alden pulled back just enough to let me feel how hard he was breathing.
And I didn’t move.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t laugh.
I just said, “Thank you,” like I was royalty collecting confessions.
And spun the bottle again.
Trace hadn’t moved.
But I could feel the war in him from across the room.
We were so close now.
So close to everything breaking.
***
The bottle spun, my pulse a thunderstorm behind my ribs.
Zeke.
It landed on Zeke.
He leaned back in the chair like he’d been waiting for this the entire night. Calm. Confident. Dangerous.
“Truth or dare?” I asked, voice slick with tequila and sin.
He raised a brow. “Dare.”
The room stilled.
Sloane looked like she was going to throw something. Lena’s mouth parted in protest.
Trace watched. Burning .
Alden was still behind me, silent, breath sharp.
I smiled. “Kiss me.”
Lena gasped. “No—”
“Kiss me like you want to ruin something,” I added. “Or don’t bother.”
Zeke stood slowly, eyes never leaving mine. “You sure you’re ready for that, sweetheart?”
“Are you?”
He crossed the space in three slow steps.
And he kissed me.
Not a peck. Not a tease.
A real kiss.
Hard. Deep. Possessive.
His hand curled around my jaw. Mouth pressed into mine like he’d earned it. Like he already owned it.
I leaned into it.
And Trace moved.
Fast.
Explosive.
Shoving the coffee table out of the way so hard it slammed against the wall, shattering.
Zeke stepped back just in time to avoid Trace’s fist.
“Trace!” Lena screamed.
“Fucking outside,” Trace growled, voice dark and guttural.
Alden jumped to his feet. “Don’t—!”
But it was too late.
Trace grabbed Zeke by the collar, shoved him backward through the doorway, out onto the porch, into the night.