Page 67 of Bitter Truths

I grab a knife from the block sitting on the counter. The handle fits my palm like it was made for me. The blade catches light along its edge, nice and sharp.

“Should I put the finishing touches on your bedrooms next?” I head down the hallway, trailing the knife along pristine walls. The blade scrapes paint, leaving a thin scar in the perfection. “See where the magic happens?”

The master bedroom is all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, the bed large enough for orgies. Dark sheets pulled taut across the mattress, not a wrinkle in sight. The city sprawls below.

They stand in the large hall, watching me. Four statues breathing in unison.

“This is where you fuck her?” I turn back to them. “Nice.”

“Never here,” Owen says, with a disgusted look on his face.

My fingers twitch around the handle of the knife at the suggestion that they’re still fucking her somewhere, even if it’s not in this particular spot. The blade trembles in my grip, hungry to inflict pain.

His tone makes me pause, though. He makes it sound like the thought physically sickens him. That’s... unexpected. They’re bonded. I don’t understand.

“Here’s how this is gonna go.” I turn to face them, testing the point of the knife against my fingertip, a pinprick of pain that grounds me in reality. “If you’ve wasted my time bringing me here for some fucked-up side piece proposition or to try and be my little buddies again, I’m leaving with trophies. And fair warning, they won’t be ugly art sculptures.”

Owen barks a laugh. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Perfect. The word sends lightning through me. My nipples tighten beneath my shirt, and my thighs squeeze together. I want to punch myself in the face for responding to them like a trained dog.

Fucking pathetic.

“Start talking.”

Weller steps forward and gestures back to the living area, the movement cautious. “Come sit down, Bianca.”

His request comes out as a plea.

“I prefer to stand.” The knife’s weight grounds me in reality. “In case I need to stab someone else.”

Freddie makes a strangled noise, and his hand rises to the back of his neck, rubbing like he’s trying to ease tension.

I move past them, standing next to the large windows while they arrange themselves around the room.

“Bianca, please. We just want to explain what happened.” His eyes plead where his words can’t reach. “What you think you saw... it wasn’t what it looked like.”

“What I think I saw?” It feels like my throat’s on fire. “I don’t think anything. I saw a recording of the four of you fuckingher.” The words taste vile. “And it looked like you were enjoying yourselves, I have to say.”

“I assure you we weren’t.” The way Weller is looking at me makes my skin prickle.

“Did Whitney say anything to you about the bond?” Weller asks, tension radiating from his shoulders beneath his perfect control.

“Why the fuck do you care?” My knuckles burn white around the knife handle. Fight or flight washes over me, remembering my worst day, remembering the horror of seeing them with her, remembering everything I ever wanted slipping between my fingers like sand. I push my fingertips into the spot where my scent glands lie, not scratching, not digging… not yet.

Freddie lurches forward, panic flashing across his face. “Please, don’t—” The words tear from his throat, raw and unfiltered.

Owen’s body goes rigid, Tristan’s eyes widen, and Weller takes a step toward me, hand outstretched.

I swing the knife up, pointing it at Weller’s throat first and then swinging it toward the rest of them. “Back the fuck up. All of you.” I’m proud of how firm I sound, despite the tremor running through me, the blade holding firm between us.

“Bianca, the video you saw was not consensual. None of it was.”

I begin counting silently and working to steady my breath because what the fuck is he talking about?

“What?” The word struggles past the tightness in my throat. “You’re lying.”

“We were drugged,” Owen grinds out. “At the graduation party. Same as you.”