50. Sloane
Sloane
S carlett didn’t come back downstairs.
And honestly, no one expected her to.
No one said a word after Trace and Alden came back in.
I sat on the floor in front of the cold fireplace, legs folded under me, hands gripping the edge of the blanket I’d pulled around myself like armor. The room felt haunted—something sacred had been scorched.
Lena was curled tighter on the couch, her eyes wide and glassy. Rhett hadn’t moved since the bottle stopped spinning. Kane stood in the corner, arms folded, jaw working as he wrestled with silence.
The tension in the room hadn’t broken. It had only changed. Quieter now. Heavier. A hundred questions no one wanted answered.
I turned to Alden. “What the fuck was that?”
He didn’t look at me. “Scarlett.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
I rubbed my face, exhaling. “I’ve seen her wild before, but that? That wasn’t wild. That was war.”
Rhett finally spoke. “I didn’t mean to…”
“You didn’t do anything,” Lena said softly. “She did.”
Trace paced, slow and calculated like a caged animal trying not to snap. He stopped near the window, arms crossed over his chest.
“You think she’s okay?” I asked quietly.
He didn’t turn around.
“No,” he said. “I think she’s burning.”
And none of us knew how to put her out.