Page 60 of Bitter Truths

For years, I’ve been the cautious one. The one who insisted we lay low, survive however we could manage, and find ways to get out of the bond that didn’t result in our deaths, one way or the other. I’ve held this pack together by the skin of my teeth but none of it has worked.

Watching Bianca claw at her own throat because our presence disturbs her? I need her suffering to end. Now.

“What are you suggesting?” Tristan sounds eager with anticipation.

I meet each of their gazes, letting them see the beast I’ve kept leashed for years.

“Whatever it takes.”

Owen’s smile is sharp enough to cut. “Finally.”

“We get the scent blockers,” I continue, my mind already working through possibilities. “Then we make sure she can’t run again until she hears the truth.”

Freddie’s expression twists like he doesn’t like the sound of that, but I’m past the point of trying to be civilized. We need results and we need them now. She’s covered in scars, stabbing people, living in the mountains like some kind of feral creature. Enough.

I want names. Addresses. I want to know who touched her, who threatened her, who made her feel unsafe enough to become a weapon. I want payment in flesh for every mark on her body caused by someone else.

I look toward the hospital, toward the window where Bianca likely sits hating us with every breath she takes.

It’s time to reclaim what was stolen from us. Whatever it takes.

13

BIANCA

The machines keep their steady rhythm. Beep. Pause. Beep. Like Winston’s heartbeat translated into electronic language, each sound a promise that he’s still here, still fighting.

I slouch deeper into the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, studying his swollen face. The bruising’s gotten worse since yesterday—purple spreading like spilled wine across his jaw, down his neck. But his breathing sounds stronger. More natural.

“So,” I say casually. “Your friends showed up yesterday.”

Winston doesn’t respond, of course.

“Looking like the walking dead, honestly.” I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “Though I guess being bonded to Whitney would drain the life out of anyone.”

The memory of yesterday’s encounter burns through me. The way their scents slammed into me like a physical assault threw me off. Fucking roses mixed with a smell that used to mean home, safety, and everything good in my world is particularly offensive.

The humiliation of my freak-out still makes my cheeks burn. I haven’t been that out of control in years. Haven’t felt that vulnerable since those first months after I left.

“They wanted to talk. Had the audacity to give me an address, like I’m some obedient little omega who’ll come running when summoned.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “Guess they didn’t realize I grew some fucking teeth while they were playing house.”

I take a sip of water.

“By the way, I stabbed Owen.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “Right in the thigh. He seemed to enjoy it, which is... concerning. Even for him.”

There’s something off about them. Wrong. They don’t feel like the guys I remember, the ones who used to make me feel safe just by existing in the same room. There’s a darkness there now, a desperation that makes my skin crawl. Or maybe that’s just what five years of Whitney does to people.

I wish Winston could tell me what’s been going on. What they’ve been like these past years, how they’ve changed, why they all look half-dead.

“I’m so fucking lost here, Win.”

His fingers twitch.

Not his whole hand. Just his index and middle fingers, an almost imperceptible movement against the white hospital blanket.

My pulse races like it wants to escape my body.

“Winston?” I lean closer, grabbing his hand. “Did you just...?”