Page 54 of Bitter Truths

“Quiet. Megan burned dinner last night trying to make that stew you like. Marc had to take over before it was inedible.”

I smile. “Tell her I’ll give her a cooking class when I get back.”

“She misses you. We all do.”

The words hit harder than I expected. “I miss you too, Ezra. All of you. I miss home.”

“How are you holding up? Really?”

I could lie. Tell him I’m fine, handling everything like the strong woman he knows I am. But this is Ezra. He’ll see right through it.

“They’re here.”

Silence on the other end, then a soft exhale. “Remember you’re not the same girl who left...”

“Sometimes I feel like her. Being back has been weird.”

“Then remember your breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Ground yourself. You’re solid. You’re strong. You survived.”

I do what he says, focusing on the rhythm of my breath, the warm weight of the phone in my palm. The fountain keeps trickling, birds chirp somewhere in the hedges.

“Better?”

“Better.”

“Take care of yourself. Eat real food, not hospital vending machine garbage. Sleep when you can. And remember—you don’t owe them anything. Not conversation, not explanations, nothing.”

God, I love this man. Not the way I thought I’d love someone when I was eighteen, but deep, real, and safe. “I know. I just⁠—”

Their scents slam into me. Honey and cedar. Teakwood and bergamot. Burnt amber with vanilla. Blackcurrant and warm spice. Roses.

Everything stops.

The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the concrete. Every breath feels too small, like my lungs can’t get enough air. The world tilts sideways and I’m eighteen again, dying in a hospital bed while they fucked my best friend.

No. No, no, no.

My hands fly to the soft skin where my scent glands sit dormant beneath the surface. I claw at them desperately, trying to scratch away the omega in me that made me so fucking vulnerable. The skin tears under my nails, but I can’t stop. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.

Get it out. Get it out of me.

The roses. God, the smell of roses mixed with their scents makes bile rise instantly. I stumble toward the trash can and retch, bringing up coffee and acid until there’s nothing left but the taste of betrayal.

“You guys fucking reek,” I gasp between heaves, wiping my mouth with the back of my shaking hand. Blood smears across my fingers from where I clawed my neck.

“Jesus, Bianca—” Freddie’s voice sounds thick with desperation. His eyes are locked on my bleeding throat, hands twitching like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t dare.

“Stay back!” I whip around, backing away from them, one hand still pressed to my bleeding throat. “Don’t you dare come any closer.”

But they’re already there. Surrounding me. Four faces that look like they’re witnessing their worst nightmare come to life. Freddie’s eyes are glassy, like he’s about to cry. Owen’s jaw is clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding. Tristan’s composure has cracked, and Weller looks like someone just ripped his heart out.

“Breathe,” Weller says, in that calm, controlled tone he uses in crisis situations. “You need to breathe.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” The words tear out of me, raw and jagged.

Freddie takes a small step forward, hands shaking as he reaches out instinctively before stopping himself. “Bianca, please. You’re hurting yourself, and it’s killing me to watch.” His eyes are still fixed on the blood seeping from the scratches.

I look down at my hands and the blood under my fingernails. Just like in the hospital when they had to put mittens on me to stop me from clawing myself apart.