Page 81 of Bitter Truths

“I learned to enjoy the lifestyle,” I interrupt.

Weller just stares at me, and I can tell he’s trying to wrap his head around this while seething.

Nobody says anything for a few minutes. I can feel the weight of all the things we lost while we were apart.

“Tell us about the refuge,” Weller says calmly.

I set down my slice, wiping my hands on my napkin. “It’s... peaceful. Hidden deep in the woods where no one can find us.”

“Us?” Owen’s dark eyes sharpen.

“Thirty-three people, give or take. Mostly omegas who want to hide for whatever reason. Some betas. Never alphas. We teach each other skills, and there’s counseling. We grow our own food, live off the grid.” I shrug like it’s nothing. “It’s important work.”

“What kind of work?” Tristan leans back in his chair, studying me.

“Helping people heal. Teaching them to fight. To protect themselves.” I pick at the pizza on my plate. “Making sure they never have to be victims again. I’m lucky I found it.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air—that without the shelter I found, I might not have survived at all.

More silence. More loaded glances between them.

“I miss having my weapons,” I admit, trying to lighten the mood. “These plastic utensils feel like toys.”

Owen’s mouth curves up. “My leg would beg to differ.”

“I can do much better with the right tools.”

“I’d like to see what you can do,” he says darkly.

He sounds like he’s talking about way more than knife skills.

Before I can respond, he’s standing up and walking toward what I assume is his bedroom. He returns a few minutes later, carrying a leather sheath.

“Thought you might want this,” he says, setting it on the table in front of me.

I slide the blade free slowly, my breath catching at what I find.

My eyes widen like a kid on Christmas morning. This is one of the best gifts anyone’s ever given me.

“Maybe we should be careful with that,” Freddie says warily as he watches me test the blade’s balance.

“It’s perfect, Owen.” I test the grip, the weight, the razor-sharp edge. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Princess.”

I press the tip against my fingertip, just enough to feel the sharpness. A bead of blood wells up, bright red against my skin.

Weller’s entire body goes rigid.

“Bianca.” The word cuts through the air like a command.

I look up to find his hazel eyes locked on the drop of blood, his expression dark with anger. Like the sight of me hurting myself offends him on a fundamental level.

He can’t stand watching me bleed.

“What?” I test the blade again, another small prick.

“Do you want me to take that away from you?”