Page 78 of Bitter Truths

He smiles faintly, shaking his head, eyes softening as he holds me a moment longer. “Bianca, please. Let me take care of you.”

His arms remain around me, reluctant to let go, before slowly, carefully releasing me. The loss of contact leaves my skin cold. He straightens his jacket, slipping effortlessly back behind his careful mask. But his gaze lingers on me, exposing the pain beneath.

He presses a light kiss to the top of my head before moving toward the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I nod as I watch him leave.

I press my fingertips into my temples, still feeling the ghost of his touch everywhere, and try to breathe through the sharp ache behind my eyes. Inhale. One, two, three, four. Hold. Exhale. One, two, three, four.

It doesn’t ease the pain.

I take a shaky breath and force my legs to carry me back to Winston’s room to find him fully awake, eyes focused and alert. Clara’s crying happy tears, clutching his hand like a lifeline.

“Hey, Winnie,” I say, grabbing his other hand and settling into my chair. “Welcome back.”

His gaze finds mine immediately, and I can see all the questions in his eyes: surprise, concern, that protective instinct that’s defined him since we were kids.

“Did you plan this just to get me to come home?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

His mouth curves into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Even waking up from a coma, my brother’s a menace.

17

BIANCA

The black car pulls up to the familiar glass tower, and my stomach begins performing a gymnastics routine. The driver escorts me all the way to the elevator… Weller’s orders, no doubt, and my palms grow damp against the gift bag as I rise toward the penthouse.

Winston had been awake for longer stretches today, trying to talk, which exhausted him, but his eyes were clear. Focused. The doctors are optimistic tomorrow will be even more productive for him.

I grabbed a quick shower in his tiny bathroom, washing off the hospital smell and stress sweat. Now I’m clean but nervous as hell, wearing an old Emerald Hills High hoodie and black leggings. My hair hangs loose and damp down my back, air-drying because I couldn’t be bothered with more than finger-combing it.

The truth is, I feel like I’m eighteen again. It’s like slipping into clothes that don’t fit anymore—this version of me that used to exist, all soft and breathless anticipation. The woman who can field dress a deer and has been sleeping in the woods for half a decade doesn’t recognize this girl who checks her reflection twice, hoping they’ll still see what’s good in me. Five years of building walls, learning to survive, becoming someone who doesn’t need anyone—and one conversation with Weller this morning cracked me wide open, exposing parts of myself I thought were dead and buried.

Pathetic.

The penthouse elevator is all mirrors and soft lighting, but it feels like a countdown to my own execution. The floor numbers tick by too fast.

Their scents linger in the enclosed space—faint but unmistakable. My pulse quickens, and I feel hot. Too hot. My nipples tighten against my bra, breath growing shallow without permission. Warmth pools low in my belly. Fuck. My body is warning me I’ve made a mistake coming here.

The door opens and…

No scent blockers tonight.

No more hiding how fucking delicious they smell.

Everything crashes over me at once. Honey and cedar from Freddie, making my mouth water. Burnt amber and vanilla from Tristan, rich and seductive. Blackcurrant and warm spice from Owen, dangerous and possessive. Weller’s teakwood and bergamot, dominant and comforting. And underneath it all, the disturbing rose tinge that doesn’t belong.

I can’t stab her soon enough.

A slow ache builds between my legs.

Get it to-fucking-gether.

“There’s our favorite girl,” Freddie says, turning to greet me with that smile I’ve been running from in my nightmares for years. “Hope you’re a little hungry—we ordered a lot of food.”

But now I can see the fractures in it. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up to show strong forearms.

Our favorite girl. Already sinking their possessive little fingertips in, I see.