Page 109 of Bitter Truths

“This doesn’t look like a fall.” His voice drops low, almost a growl.

I ease my hand out of his grip. “Concrete’s rough. I wasn’t paying attention.”

They all glance at each other. That silent way they talk when they think I’m not watching. The way they always did when I was just Winston’s little sister, never quite sure what they were communicating.

Weller’s eyes narrow. Tristan’s mouth ticks at the corner. No one says it out loud, but they don’t buy a word of it.

“Well, we’re glad you made it,” Freddie says, clearly deciding to let my lie slide. His smile remains, though concern lingers in his eyes. His scent reaches across the room, wrapping around me like a blanket I desperately want to snuggle into.

Tristan leans back in a chair near the window, his legs stretched out like he owns the room. His eyes track over me slowly, not even pretending to be polite. When they settle on my bare legs, his expression doesn’t change, but the scent of the air does. Arousal.

“Nice dress,” he says.

I keep still, but my fingers itch to tug the hem lower. His focus stays right where it is… unbothered, and I feel the heat of it long after he looks away.

Weller stands near the minibar, a dark drink in hand. The amber catches the light as he tips it, the ice clinking against the glass before he sets it down.

“You want a drink?” he asks, eyes on the glass but voice directed at me.

“Whiskey… if you have it,” I say, stepping further into the room. “Straight.”

He pours and hands it over. Our fingers brush, and I feel the urge to move closer to him. But I don’t.

His eyes follow the glass as it touches my lips, but it’s not the whiskey he’s focused on. “How’s Winston?”

“Better.” The burn goes down smooth, settles low in my stomach. “He’s awake. Talking.”

My mind drifts to my conversation with Winston earlier today. His theory about pre-bonding still rattles around in my head.

I’m not ready to tell them. Not yet. Not when I’m still processing what it means. Not when I’m still trying to figure out who I am and what this situation is. If I tell them now, everything changes before I even understand what I want.

“I’ll order room service.” Weller reaches for the menu sitting on the desk. “Preferences?”

“Whatever.” Owen hasn’t taken his eyes off me, still trying to decipher what I’m hiding.

“I’ll eat anything.” I move toward Freddie on the couch, away from Owen’s unsettling scrutiny.

Weller nods. My stomach rumbles as I hear him order steak, pasta, salad, and dessert. I guess my little rendezvous earlier worked up an appetite.

“Come sit.” Freddie pats the cushion beside him.

I cross the room, hyper-aware of my dress brushing my thighs with each step. They all track my every movement, and blood rushes in my ears as my heart skips erratically.

The couch dips beneath me as I perch beside Freddie, maintaining distance between us.

“How are you feeling?” Genuine concern softens his features. “Really?”

“I’m okay.” Even though nothing is okay.

The truth? I’m buzzing from knowing I made them pay for touching what’s mine. My knuckles throb, my muscles burn with exhaustion, and a dark and powerful feeling purrs in my chest. I feel fucking alive. But I can’t let them see that side of me. Not yet.

“What did you do today?” Freddie asks. “After you left the hospital?”

I shrug and avoid making eye contact. “Ran some errands, went to shower at my parents’ house.”

“You should’ve texted.” Restless fingers tap against Tristan’s thigh.

“Why?” The question cuts sharper than intended.