Page 119 of Bitter Truths

Anger courses through me every time I think of the hell she’s been through without us. It’s enough to turn my blood to fire and my focus to revenge.

I would love nothing more than to grab her and run. Fuck Whitney. Fuck the bond. Fuck Montgomery. Fuck my dad and the rest of them.

They can all rot in hell.

I’d kill them, every last one, without hesitation if it gave her a future worth waking up for.

But instead, it would probably mean I’m dead.

And she’s alone. Again.

So it goes.

First things first, I need to clean up.

When I come out of the bathroom wearing fresh clothes, my hands are still shaking from the taste of her, from the way she said “yes, alpha” like it got ripped straight from her soul.

From coming in my goddamn pants.

Shame burns, but not as hot as the satisfaction. Absolutely worth it to feel her legs wrap around my neck, pulling me closer to her instead of pushing me away. To know I scent-marked the fuck out of her and claimed her in the only way I can right now. It gave me back an ounce of my sanity.

Just an ounce, though.

Peace doesn’t last long. Not when my mind goes to how the omega has given her hundreds of orgasms. I wish I hadn’t pushed for a number like a goddamn idiot. I don’t know what answer I was expecting, but that… was not it. Now I’ll obsess over it every minute of the day until I can mark every inch of her skin and chase the thought of someone else claiming her from my mind.

My jaw locks so hard my teeth might crack. It cuts deeper every time I think about another man’s hands on her. Another man inside her. Another man hearing the sounds she made for us tonight.

But he kept her safe. He found her when those alphas could’ve…

Can’t finish that thought. Can’t let myself see what was bound to happen if the omega hadn’t stopped them. If those fuckers had touched her against her will or taken what was mine forever.

And there was nothing I could have done about it. Nothing.

Now, more than ever, I want to wrap my hands around Whitney’s throat and squeeze until it’s over.

Weller stands, eyes on Tristan, whose stillness hums with quiet aggression as he keeps Bianca tucked against him. “I’m taking her to bed.”

He moves toward the armchair, reaching for her. I watch him approach, his expression blank, but I catch the way his hands clench and unclench. His restraint is one breath from breaking.

He’s as fucked up about this as the rest of us.

Tristan’s arms tighten around her instantly, fingers spreading possessively across her back. “She’s fine here.”

“She needs to be cleaned up and put to bed properly.” Weller’s voice remains composed, but the authority woven through it tightens the air. “Let me have her.”

“No.”

The word lands like a gauntlet. Tristan doesn’t back down, his eyes holding Weller’s with feral intensity, his scent thick with challenge and ownership.

I get it. Fuck, do I get it. The thought of letting her go makes my skin crawl. Every instinct screams at me to take her myself, to keep her pressed against me where I can feel every breath. But Weller’s right. She’s covered in our scents, in her own mess. She’ll be uncomfortable when she wakes up.

“Tris.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Give her to him.”

Tristan’s gaze snaps to mine, betrayed. “Seriously? You too?”

“Let him take care of her.”

Tristan doesn’t move, his jaw working, muscles jumping under his skin. He gives the slightest nod.