Three is a War(56)

He returns my stare for a long moment before releasing a sigh. “I’m pretty sure he thought I was going to break the rules tonight.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.” He looks at me with unflinching eyes. “He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

“If you can’t beat them, join them,” I mumble sadly.

“Or control them. He participated because he couldn’t fathom me making love to you without his almighty hand involved.”

I love Trace’s almighty hand and his control, but not at the risk of hurting him. “Did he tell you this?”

“I know him, baby. Better than you do.”

As I turn that over in my head, I kick myself for not being as perceptive as Cole. If I’d known Trace wasn’t acting purely on passion, I would’ve stopped it from happening. Or at least tried to stop it. I have a hard time saying no to them when it comes to sex. It’s just not in my DNA. I bend, yield, surrender, and they shine in the power it gives them. That’s why we’re so good together.

Braced on an elbow, I trace a finger along the ridges of his abs. “Did you want the threesome?”

“No.” His muscles tense beneath my touch. “I had to block him out of my mind the entire time.” He runs a hand down the length of my spine. “I agree with him on that point. I’ll never do it again.”

He doesn’t say that he regrets it, but it’s there in the creases around his mouth. It feels a slap in the face.

Maybe I’m just emotionally and physically drained, but I can’t hold the dam on my tears. They rise fast, spilling down my cheeks, but I keep the sounds trapped beneath rapid swallows.

“Why did you do it?” I whisper.

“Because I love you. I want you.”

“I don’t understand why you want anything to do with me. I’m a mess.”

“I’ll take you messy and crying and in love with another man.” He hugs me against his chest and rests his lips on my head. “I’ll take you anyway I can have you.”

“That’s just it. You shouldn’t have to.”

We fall quiet—a silence that brings everything into sharp focus. Seductive words, sexy dimples, arctic blue eyes, passion, and self-control… I fell in love with two men, went to war to keep them, and now it must end. Someone has to choose the break-up song and dance to the mournful melody, and that harrowing fate is meant for me.

I have to choose. Not in four months. I need to do it soon, within a week, and put us out of our misery. No more dragging my feet. No more waiting for some enlightening aha! moment. That’s never going to come. I just need to reach in and tear out part of my heart and be done with it.

After a while, Trace emerges from the bathroom and returns to bed in a pair of boxer briefs. He slides in behind me, aligning his body along the length of mine with my chest against Cole’s side and my head on his shoulder.

“Happy Birthday, Danni.” Trace kisses my neck, telling me with his lips that he loves me.

And I silently cry.





I wake to the sound of rain pelting the windows. A dreary morning. Cold mattress. No Cole. No Trace. Only the sick weight of dread pressing down on my chest.

Shower, clothes, coffee—I move through the motions, wretchedly numb.

Trace is locked away in the office, working. Cole left a note, letting me know he’s fishing.

With a mug of creamy coffee in hand, I stand at the kitchen window and stare out at the freezing rain. Who goes fishing in this weather?

Someone who wants distance from an awkward situation.

It rains for the next three days.

Three.

It’s an impossible number.

A cruel number.

Three is an emotional war.

Cole and Trace go out of their way to avoid each other. They live under the same roof, share the same bed, but they don’t exchange a word or a glance. We don’t talk about what happened. Every time I try, I’m shut down. So much for open communication.

When they’re alone with me, however, they arrest me with their eyes and undress me with their words. Each man makes me feel loved in his own way. A tender touch, sultry suggestion, brush of lips… But the intimacy ends there.

I understand. The rules are wrecked, and the future is unclear. They want space to process or do whatever it is they need to do.

I’m giving them space, but they’re crazy if they think we can go another four months like this.

While they spend the rainy days in separate parts of the house, I’ve been holed up in the dance studio. Well, not exactly holed up. I leave the door open and blare the music. I’m here, ready to listen when they’re ready to talk.

I have some things of my own to say.

Gripping the ballet bar, I face the rain beyond the windows and sync my hips to the somber melody of You Don’t Know by Katelyn Tarver.