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The faint smell of tomato sauce permeates the air, and my stomach rumbles. I touch a hand there, trying to abate the hunger. I don’t want to go out there, to face them, but I know I’m going to have to do it eventually.
A small knock at my door startles me, and I croak, “Yes?”
“Mia, it’s me,” Sasha says. “Do you want to join us for dinner?”
“I…” No. “Yes, okay.”
The door cracks open, and she slips inside. “How are you feeling?”
“Please, stop asking me that.”
Her smile drops. “I’m sorry… I’m just—"
“Sasha, please. I can’t stand it, the way you all keep looking at me.”
“You’re right.” She inhales a sharp breath, moving closer to the bed. “I know it’s not easy, being here—"
“It’s fine. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.” My heart squeezes.
“Is Ashton—"
“Bexley thought it would be better if he weren’t here when we brought you back.”
“Okay.” I nod, tentatively standing. I feel weak on my feet, but I manage to grab the hoodie off the back of the chair.
“Here, let me help you.” Sasha takes it from me, sliding it up my limp arms and gently over my head.
“Thanks.”
“Ready?” She laces her arm through mine.
“I guess.”
Sasha slowly guides me downstairs. I can hear the low rumbles of chatter coming from the kitchen, and my pulse begins to kick up a gear again.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “You’re safe here.”
I want to addnow. I’m safe herenow. But I don’t have the energy to argue or get myself worked up again.
The second we reach the kitchen, the conversation dies down and all eyes turn to me.
“Mia,” Bexley breathes, shooting up from his seat. “Let me help.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I can manage.” Stepping out of Sasha’s hold, I shuffle over to a chair and sit down, exhaling a shuddering breath.
“It’s good to see you up and about,” Brandon says with pity in his eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry about your parents.”
“Brandon’s right,” Tim says. “What went down…”
I tense, and Sasha notices. “Not now,” she says, giving a little shake of her head.
“Yeah, of course.” A sheepish expression crosses Tim’s face.
But their sympathy feels disingenuous. How am I supposed to trust anything they say, knowing how blindly—and willingly—they followed Cade?
“Here you go, Miss Thompson.” Mulligan gently nudges a plate of food in my direction. “If you need anything else—"
“This looks great. Thanks.” My stomach growls in appreciation, but the second I start picking at the food, bile churns through me. I push the plate aside, opting for a drink of water instead.
