Page 62 of Bitter Truths

I hear Ezra chuckling as the phone shifts. “You’re on speaker now.”

“Bianca!” Megan sounds chipper as usual. “I miss you so much it’s disgusting. Everything here is boring without you. Marc tried to make your vegetable soup last night, and it tasted like sadness.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “Tell Marc he needs to add more salt.”

“I already did. He told me to mind my own business and stick to pottery.” She pauses. “Which reminds me, I made you a bowl. It’s terrible. You’ll love it.”

“Can’t wait to see it.”

“Come home soon, okay? Ezra’s not funny like you.”

Ezra laughs, sounding genuinely offended. “Excuse me? I’m hilarious.”

“You’re about as funny as a funeral, Ez,” Megan shoots back cheerfully.

We talk for another few minutes—about Winston’s progress, about Clara’s relief, about Megan’s latest pottery disasters.

When I hang up, I grab the smoothies and head back upstairs, ignoring the phantom sensation of being watched. Every shadow feels like it might contain familiar faces; every smell makes me tense. But the hallways remain empty of anyone I recognize.

My paranoia is getting ridiculous. They’re back home doting on their omega... message received loud and clear.

The thought should be satisfying. Instead, it makes me feel sick.

Clara takes the mango smoothie gratefully, settling back into her spot beside Winston’s bed. I perch on the window ledge, sipping mine and watching the parking lot below.

A few hours later, I can’t stand the hospital anymore. I need air. Space. My own bed.

“I’m going to head home,” I tell Clara. “Get some real food, a shower. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”

Clara gives me a hug and promises to call if anything changes.

I take the elevator down to the parking garage and look for my mom’s car. The underground space is dimly lit, shadows pooling between concrete pillars. My footsteps echo off the walls.

I pull out my phone to text her about Winston’s progress. She’s going to be so disappointed she missed it. My fingers move across the screen as I walk, half my attention on the message.

The attack comes without warning.

Hands grab me from behind, one clamping over my mouth before I can scream. My phone clatters to the concrete as I’m dragged backward. Pure panic floods my system. They’re odorless, which makes everything worse.

Training kicks in.

I drive my elbow back hard, connecting with ribs. Whoever’s holding me grunts but doesn’t let go. I stomp down on an instep, bite the hand covering my mouth, taste blood.

“Fuck—”

I break free, spinning around to face my attackers.

Tristan steps into the light, blood running down his forearm from bite marks on his hand. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, and he’s grinning like I just made his fucking year.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming with dark fascination. “You’ve learned some interesting skills, little bee.”

“I’m going to cut your knots off and shove them down your throats.”

His grin widens. Blood from where I bit him drips onto his shirt. “You’ve always had a wild imagination.”

I lunge for him, fingernails aimed at his eyes. He catches my wrists but not before I rake deep scratches down his forearm. The wounds bloom red against his skin.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes, pupils dilating further. “More.”