Page 75 of Bitter Truths

When I can’t handle the emotional warfare of considering all the implications of this, I just imagine all the creative ways I can kill her.

Clara sits on Winston’s other side, her fingers wrapped around his hand like she’s afraid he’ll slip away if she lets go. She’s been here all night, hasn’t left except when I forced her to eat a sandwich from the cafeteria.

I touch his leg through the hospital blanket and shake it. “Winnie, it’s time to wake up.”

I’m not expecting him to; it’s been hit or miss, but I catch the movement of his fingers wiggling against Clara’s palm.

“Oh my god,” Clara breathes, her free hand flying to her mouth. “Winston? Baby?”

His eyelids flutter. They don’t open but move like he’s trying to surface from somewhere deep underwater.

“Winston,” I say, louder this time. “Come on, you pain in the ass. Open your eyes.”

Another finger twitch. Stronger this time. His breathing changes, becoming less even, more like someone fighting their way back to consciousness.

“Should I call the nurse?” Clara asks, but she doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Not yet. Let’s see if he can get there on his own.”

We wait. I count my breaths, trying to stay present instead of spiraling. One, two, three, four. In. Hold. One, two, three, four. Out.

But my mind won’t stay quiet. Last night keeps playing on repeat—the way Tristan’s tone dropped to that register that used to make me weak. The closeness of him in that elevator, all warm skin and undeniable longing. I wanted to pull him down and kiss him until neither of us could think straight.

Fuck.

My body’s a complete traitor. Standing that close to him, feeling his chest under my palms… it would’ve felt too good to give in. That’s the problem, isn’t it? If I give in to one of them, there’ll be no stopping. They’ll consume me whole, and I’ll let them because some sick part of me wants that still, even after everything.

But what then? What happens when Whitney comes back and finds out they’ve been talking to me?

Nothing good.

I press cool fingers into my temples, trying to massage away the headache building there.

Going back to the refuge would be easiest. Safest. Back to Megan and her terrible pottery. Back to the morning routines and training sessions and the simple clarity of survival.

Back to Ezra.

The thought of Ezra brings up complicated emotions. He’s been my anchor all this time, the steady presence that helped put me back together when I was nothing but bloody pieces. The thing between us isn’t a love story in the typical sense; it never has been, but I depend on him and his friendship. He knows every scar, every trigger, every wall I’ve built to keep myself safe.

And I love the refuge. I love the work we do, the way we help people find their strength again. It’s good work. Important work.

But.

The alphas still feel like home.

Even as twisted and fucked up as this situation is, they still feel like the missing parts of myself I’ve spent years hunting to find. The hungry spark in Tristan’s eyes when I challenged him. Freddie’s quiet, urgent need to soothe every hurt I’ve ever experienced. Owen, practically vibrating with the impulse to keep me close and never let me out of his sight again. And Weller, the man who used his control like armor, stripped bare and left with none… stolen by someone who never had the right to take it from him.

It’s heartbreaking.

We’re all damaged in our own ways now.

If Whitney blamed the bond rejection on me, then they’ve suffered ever since because of me. They’ve been trapped in a nightmare I can’t even comprehend, while I’ve been relatively safe in my mountain sanctuary, trying my hardest to hate them.

Fuck. The guilt might kill me.

Winston’s eyes flutter open. Just for a second, unfocused and confused, before they slip closed again. But it’s progress.

“Winston?” Clara gets closer to his face, speaking softly. “Baby, we’re here.”