Page 80 of Bitter Truths

Even Weller’s mouth twitches. “Anything you do will be an improvement.”

“I appreciate that, Weller, because it looks like a serial killer’s home. All clean and soulless.” I tear off a piece of crust. “Very ‘I keep my victims’ heads in the freezer’ vibes.”

Owen barks out a laugh. “Damn, Princess. Tell us how you really feel.”

“I’m just saying, normal people show some signs of life. Books lying around. Maybe a houseplant dying slowly in the corner.” I gesture around the immaculate space. “This place screams ‘I have no personality and possibly eat people.’”

Tristan’s foot hooks around my ankle. The contact catches me off guard, and my eyes snap to his.

“To be fair,” he says, a wicked smile spreading across his face, “we might eat… you.”

Oh.

Those words, in that devilishly dark tone of his, hit the air like a bomb. Breathe, Bianca. Warmth floods my cheeks and neck as four sets of eyes that see too much lock onto me, and I feel naked and exposed, like every filthy fantasy I’ve ever had about them is written across my skin in neon letters.

I can’t look at them.

Need more air.

My fingers tighten around my wine glass, and I take a long sip, using the motion to hide behind the rim while my brain short-circuits.

The silence stretches, their scents thickening in the air, and I can feel their stares burning into my skin. My pulse thumps so hard I’m surprised they can’t hear it.

Oh god, they probably can.

“How’s Winston doing, by the way?” Freddie asks, his voice deep but gentle, bumping my shoulder with his like he’s trying to ground me.

“He’s awake.” I smile and grab another piece of pizza. “Come see him in the next few days. He’s starting to talk.”

“We definitely will.”

“His recovery trajectory is promising,” Weller adds, straightening. “We should coordinate visits to avoid overwhelming him.”

“Good?” Owen nods to the slice in my hand.

“So fucking good,” I manage around the bite I’m chewing. I pause, thinking. “I haven’t had pizza since I left Emerald Hills. Since... my birthday.”

All conversation stops. Freddie stops chewing. Owen’s jaw goes slack. Tristan sits back like I just slapped him. Weller’s fingers tighten around his water glass.

“How is that even possible?” Freddie asks in disbelief. “Pizza was your favorite⁠—”

“No pizzerias in the forest,” I say with a small shrug. “Just woodland creatures and vegetables we grew.”

Owen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Woodland creatures?”

“You’ve been hunting for food?” The way Tristan says it suggests he does not find that acceptable.

“And gardening,” Freddie adds, like he’s trying to picture me with dirt under my fingernails and a garden hoe in my hands. “Aren’t you the same girl who was scared to death of bugs?”

I laugh, genuinely amused by their shock. “You get over things like that quickly when you have to. Amazing what hunger will do for your spider tolerance.”

“Jesus,” Owen mutters. “You shouldn’t have had to live like that.”

“You’ve been surviving off fucking squirrels?” Tristan’s fingers drum once against the table, a sharp staccato that makes ice crawl down my spine. “Someone’s going to pay for that.”

“Rabbits mostly, deer,” I correct with a shrug. “Squirrels are harder to catch. Really… I’m fine. It’s satisfying to provide for yourself.”

Freddie’s hands curl around the edge of the table, knuckles going white. When he looks up, his usual warmth is gone. “You never should’ve been on your ow⁠—”