Page 24 of Bitter Truths

I touch my cheek. My fingers come away red. “It’s nothing.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Tristan snaps, inspecting my injury and checking my pupils.

The world tilts sideways. I can’t think straight—my brain feels all scrambled. Something’s wrong.

“I don’t feel right,” I mumble. My vision blurs. Cold sweat clings to my back.

Freddie’s brow creases.

My skin feels too tight, my head swimming. I lean to the side and throw up without warning, too disoriented to be embarrassed.

“Bianca!” Winston pushes through a small crowd that’s gathered. Clara follows close behind. I didn’t even realize they were here yet. Their matching concern tells me I look worse than I thought.

Winston kneels before me, medical training kicking in. His fingers gently probe the cut. “Doesn’t look like it needs stitches. What happened?”

“Fell,” I struggle to form words. “Hit side of pool.”

“Look at me.” He shines his phone flashlight into my eyes, checking my pupils’ responses. “Follow my finger.”

I track the movement, but nausea rises with each pass.

“How many drinks have you had?” Clara asks.

“Two... no, three.”

“Your pupils are dilated,” Winston tells me. “I need to get you home and monitor you.”

“No,” I protest, panic cutting through the fog. Not yet. Not before I tell them. Even if they reject me, I need them to know.

Winston ignores me, addressing the others. “I’ll get her home and text you updates.”

“We can take her,” Owen counters.

“Have any of you been drinking?” Winston challenges.

Reluctant silence confirms they have. No way in hell he’ll let them drive me anywhere.

“I haven’t had a drop,” Winston states. “Clara and I came prepared to be designated drivers.”

The world spins when I try to stand. My legs buckle. Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. Weller lifts me, cradling me against his chest.

The feel of him makes me want to cry. I burrow closer. His scent fills my nose, steadying me. I just want to stay right here. Safe. Warm. Home.

“Let’s get her to my car.” Winston’s already moving. “I’ll stay up all night with her. If symptoms change, we’ll go to the hospital.”

My head lolls against Weller’s shoulder as he walks, my thoughts spinning.

I try to speak, fighting through the fog. I need to tell him.

“Alp—” The word comes out slurred, garbled, but I see his eyes widen.

He goes still for a moment, his eyes searching my face. Then his expression softens into one that’s achingly tender. He sits me up in the backseat of Winston’s car and buckles me in. Weller brushes my damp hair from my face, then his lips press against my forehead, lingering longer than necessary.

“We’ll talk tomorrow morning. Get some rest, precious girl.”

But even through my haze, I catch the way his fingers trail against my skin as if he doesn’t want to let go.

Clara slides in beside me, her arm supporting my shoulders.