69. Scarlett
Scarlett
I stepped out of the circle, pulled the glove off one hand with my teeth, and let it fall to the sand.
I shrugged. “Well. Congratulations, boys. Your science experiment didn’t break.”
“Next time,” I added, “just say you wanted to watch me sweat.”
Kane coughed. Rhett half-laughed. Zeke didn’t move. Alden’s eyes trailed down my arms, studying me, as if he was deciding whether to be impressed or pissed.
Trace? He met my stare and said, “You think I didn’t?”
The heat between us spiked.
I grabbed a water bottle and took a long drink, then turned to go. “Well. Hope the show was worth it.”
“It was,” Trace murmured. “Every second.”
I turned and walked—slow, unhurried—back toward the trees, the path winding from the makeshift sparring ring to the edge of the villas. My legs ached, but I didn’t let it show. Every step was deliberate. Controlled.
The kind of control that says: I’m done bleeding for you.
Sand clung to the backs of my thighs, and the sun was already scorching the boards beneath my feet by the time I hit the wooden steps. I didn’t look back. Not even when I felt them watching.
Not even when I knew they were still standing there, stuck in place.
Let them stay stuck.
They wanted to test me.
They’d gotten their answer.
I wiped a streak of blood from my lip with the back of my hand and kicked my door open. Slammed it shut behind me.
Inside, everything was still. Quiet. Cool.
I leaned against the wall for a second. Let the stillness wrap around me. Let my breathing slow. My fists drop. My armor settled back into place.
Then I peeled off the gloves. Let them fall to the floor.
Trace’s idea.
Of course it was.
And part of me hated him for it.
But the other part?
The one that felt alive in that ring, felt power in her bones again?
She didn’t hate it at all.
I stripped off my clothes and tossed them in the corner. Turned the water on so hot it nearly burned. And stepped into the shower like I hadn’t just flipped their whole world sideways.
Like I wasn’t already wrecking the rules just by breathing.
The water hit me, steam curling up my neck, and I stood still for a long time.
No tears. No breakdown.
Just… stillness.
Because under the adrenaline and sarcasm and bruises, I could feel something shifting.
Not in them.
In me.
And I hated that. Hated that they still had power over me, that even after every lie, every half-truth, every cryptic stare, I still wanted answers. I still wanted them.
I dried off, shoving the thoughts down like I always did, threw on a black tank and shorts, and flopped onto the bed with my phone.
Text message: *Chaos Club?** group chat
Scarlett: Just kicked Rhett’s ass. I think he liked it.
Sloane: Do I need to send a lawyer or a vibrator??
Lena: BOTH
I laughed—actually laughed—and pulled the covers up.
SLOANE:
You signed up for the mafia, babe. That comes with mandatory sparring and unresolved sexual tension.
LENA:
You okay??
SCARLETT:
Fine. Sore. Still hot.
Going to nap. Might emerge later in a dress. TBD.
SLOANE:
Make it a slutty one.
LENA:
I’ll tell Hemingway you’re alive.
SCARLETT:
Tell him to avenge me if I die.
I tossed the phone onto the nightstand and burrowed into the sheets, skin still warm from the shower, heart still humming from too many eyes watching.
What the hell were they training me for? What weren’t they saying? Because I wasn’t just mad anymore. I wanted to rip open every secret they buried. Whatever they were hiding, I’d find it.
Sleep took me faster than expected.
But I didn’t fight it.
Not this time.
For the first time since arriving on this island, I didn’t feel like a target.
I felt like a threat.
And maybe that was exactly what I’d always been.