Page 131 of Bitter Truths

25

BIANCA

I wake to the sound of car doors slamming in the driveway.

My eyes crack open to late afternoon light slanting through my childhood bedroom windows. The house sits empty around me, Mom and Dad both at the hospital, leaving me alone with the silence I desperately needed.

Everything hurts. My knuckles throb where skin split against bone. My shoulders ache from the tension I’ve been carrying since I returned to Emerald Hills. Even my fucking soul feels bruised. But crashing for three hours was exactly what I needed. It was time to shut out the world for a little while.

More car doors slam outside. Heavy footsteps on the gravel.

Are my parents home?

I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up, showing a string of missed calls. All from Weller. Twelve of them over the past hour.

Shit.

I drag myself to the window and peer through the blinds. A black SUV sits in our driveway. Tinted windows, aggressive lines, the kind of vehicle that screams money. I roll my eyes.

My heart kicks into overdrive because I know who’s here.

The front door rattles with sharp, insistent knocking.

“Bianca. It’s us.” Weller’s voice carries through the house, tight with tension. “Your parents said you were here.”

I consider ignoring them. Pretend I’m still asleep. But I can tell they’re not leaving without talking.

Another round of knocking, harder this time.

“Open the fucking door,” Owen snarls, and there’s a raw edge in his voice that makes my skin prickle. Not anger. Desperation.

I pad downstairs in bare feet, still wearing the oversized t-shirt and shorts I crashed in. My hair’s a mess, pillow creases mark my cheek, but I don’t care. If they want to show up unannounced and be demanding assholes, they get what they get.

Along with the mood to match.

I unlock the front door and pull it open, leaning against the frame like I’m bored.

They’re all here. Crowding my parents’ porch like they’re staging an intervention. Their stress hits me before I even step outside, bitter and overwhelming in the afternoon heat. Four alphas wound tight, and apparently I’m the reason why.

“Well, well,” I drawl, crossing my arms. “This is risky, isn’t it? What if Whitney checks your trackers?”

“We tried calling,” Weller says, voice flat.

“I was sleeping.” I shrug. “Sue me.”

“We need to talk.” Freddie rubs the back of his neck, that sunny smile nowhere to be found.

“About what?”

Owen steps forward, and his approach sends a little thrill down my spine. He takes a step closer, eyes dark with frustration. “You know what.”

“Do I?” I cock my head, letting sarcasm drip from every word. “Because last I checked, I’m not accountable to any of you for how I spend my afternoons.”

“Cut the shit, Bianca.” Tristan tilts his head like a raptor sizing up dinner. “Rebecca Wells quit her job this morning. Funny timing, considering you stopped by yesterday.”

Heat spreads through me. Four intense alphas and my body’s getting the wrong idea. “And?”

Weller goes very still. “Did you hurt them?”