80. Trace
Trace
S he was awake. I felt it in the shift of her weight, the way her cheek pressed harder against my chest—seeking something steady.
She could fucking have it.
I’d let her anchor herself in me until I shattered from it.
My hand stayed right where it’d landed—over her ribs, just beneath her breasts. I could feel the steady beat of her heart. Still fast. Fucking real.
I didn’t sleep much. Not after what happened. Too much noise in my head.
She was soft between us, hair still damp against my collarbone, body warm.
Alden’s breathing was slow and even behind her. Calm. Always fucking calm. Like any of this made sense.
But it didn’t.
Nothing about her ever has.
It didn’t make sense how I could still want her like this. How I could feel her breath on my collarbone and ache with the fucking need to keep her. Claim her. Tear the rest of the world apart if it ever tried to take her from me.
It didn’t make sense how I could let him touch her too.
I should’ve walked away. I should’ve let go the second she said my name like that—soft, aching, wrecked. But I couldn’t. Not with her mouth on mine, not with her moaning under him, not when I saw her eyes and knew she fucking meant it.
She’s mine in ways no one's ever been.
And that’s what kills me.
Because I watched his hands on her. Watched her fall into him. Heard her cry my name while he fucked her.
And I stayed.
Because something deeper pulled at all of us.
Something ancient. Something I can’t name.
And it burned like hell watching her fall apart between us.
I knew it was fucked up.
I didn’t care.
Because she chose us last night. Not in some fragile, poetic way—but with her body. With every kiss, every thrust, every fucking breath she gave us.
I’d never belonged to anyone. Never let anyone in.
But she was in my fucking blood now.
And I’d bleed forever just to keep her there.
Even if I had to fucking share her to keep her.
She doesn’t know what she is to us yet. Doesn’t see it.
But I do.
It’s in her blood. It’s in the way that bracelet hums when I touch her wrist. It’s in how my tattoos respond when she’s near.
She doesn’t know we’ve always known.
And I don’t know what happens when she finds out.
A sound broke from me—low, raw. She shifted closer.
My hand tightened against her waist, holding her there.
If I could’ve burned the world down to stay in this bed, I would’ve.
I still might.
Because one day, she’ll have to choose.
And if it isn’t me—
God help whoever stands in the way.