70. Alden
Alden
S carlett walked off without a word.
Sun caught on the edge of her shoulders, sweat tracing down her spine. Her hair was still up. Her stride unbothered. No limp. No flinch.
She didn’t glance back.
Kane exhaled. “Jesus. That was… educational.”
“She cracked me in the jaw,” Rhett said, touching it. “I’m still buzzing.”
“You’d let her do it again,” I said.
“Probably.” He grinned.
“She’s trained,” Zeke muttered. “That wasn’t raw instinct.”
“You said it wasn’t in her file,” I added.
“Which means someone hid it,” he replied. “On purpose.”
We started toward the tree line, gravel biting underfoot. The sun bled into everything—sweat on our skin, grit on our teeth, tension hanging in the air long after she left.
“Martial Arts,” Rhett said. “She mentioned it a few years ago. Said her mom put her in classes when she was a kid—thought it’d teach her control.”
Zeke glanced my way. “It taught her something.”
Trace flexed his hands once before tucking them into his pockets. Quiet.
The skin on my chest prickled, heat twisting in my spine. Not from the sun.
From her.
“She doesn’t hesitate,” I said. “She reads movement and flips it back on you before you’re ready.”
“She doesn’t care if she gets hit,” Rhett said. “That’s the dangerous part.”
“She wants us to think we’re in control,” I muttered. “She’s already ten steps ahead.”
Zeke voice was low. “She’s a weapon. We just didn’t sharpen her.”
The hill rose in front of us, the path back to the villas carved clean through thick brush and low palms.
“I’ll loop the back perimeter,” Kane said, already veering left. “There were prints in the north side sand this morning. Could’ve been one of us. Or not.”
“I’ll help,” Rhett offered, falling in behind him.
Trace moved ahead, steady pace.
I caught up beside him. “You good?”
He didn’t slow. “She said it was my idea.”
“It was.”
“She spit blood and kept fighting.”
“That part was hers.”
He ran a hand across his mouth, tension pulled tight through his shoulders.
Zeke joined us from behind. “She’ll need a second round tomorrow. With weapons.”
“She’ll show up,” I said. “She won’t just show up—she’ll win.”
None of us disagreed.
We passed the outer villa wall. Scarlett’s sat beyond it, curtain drawn, faint shadow shifting behind the glass.
I didn’t look up again.
Whatever we thought we were doing here—whatever control we thought we had—Scarlett had already rewritten them.
And she didn’t even know it.