Page 64 of Bitter Truths

I manage to get one good kick off, my heel connecting with Owen’s shoulder. He grunts but holds the wheel steady.

“Behave,” Tristan says, tightening his hold around me. “You’re going to make us wreck.”

“Good!” I snap, but stop struggling so violently. The last thing I need is to die in an accident with these lunatics.

“Let me go,” I demand, though I know it’s useless.

“Not happening,” Owen says from the front seat. He’s studying me in the rearview mirror like I’m artwork. “We tried asking nicely.”

“And I politely said fuck you.”

“Details,” Tristan murmurs against my ear. “We need to talk, and you’re remarkably good at avoiding conversations.”

The SUV starts moving through the garage, then we’re out into the night, driving on familiar streets I’ve known since childhood. Taking me somewhere unknown.

My hands are sticky with blood—theirs, mine... hard to tell. My knuckles throb from punching Owen’s face. Tristan’s arm across me is solid, warm, achingly familiar despite the time apart.

My body recognizes the shape of him, the way he holds me, the sound of his breathing.

And that pisses me off more than anything. My traitorous body responding to them, recognizing them, wanting to lean into familiar comfort even after everything they’ve done. Even as they’re literally kidnapping me.

I hate my body for that almost as much as I hate them.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, proud that my voice stays steady despite the fury building inside me. “You’re not taking me somewhere to kill me, right? At this point, I don’t know what to expect from you.”

“Somewhere we can talk without interruption,” Tristan says. “And we would never harm you.”

“Because that’s not exactly what a killer would say,” I mutter.

Owen laughs—a real laugh, deep and genuine. The sound makes Tristan start laughing too, and then they’re both cracking up like I just told the world’s funniest joke.

No clue what is so damn funny.

“Somewhere you can’t run away from us,” Owen adds, touching his split lip experimentally in the mirror. “Again.”

“I didn’t run away from you.” The words come out just as sharp as I intend. “I left. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Tristan says mockingly. “Because from our perspective, you vanished without a word.”

“Oh, believe me, boys. I had plenty to say. But lucky for you... I chunked my phone off a mountain. I hope someone found it and enjoyed the show.”

They both go silent. Owen’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. Tristan’s arm around me goes rigid.

“Fuck,” Owen breathes, and Tristan squeezes me as if to comfort me.

Outside the windows, the city gives way to Westmont. The expensive part of downtown with glass towers and luxury high-rises. I recognize the area but have no idea where they’re taking me.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, darkness stirs inside. If they fuck with me, they’ll learn quickly that the girl who left is dead.

In her place sits someone who’s tasted blood and found she likes the flavor.

My pulse thunders against Tristan’s arm where it crosses my throat, and I can feel my body betraying me—responding to his delightfully soothing warmth, to the familiar weight of his arms around me. It makes me even more furious, this physical recognition that bypasses my brain entirely.

These assholes are bonded to someone else. I can smell her when they’re not wearing the blockers. Even the thought of their scents together makes my heart race. It’s so wrong.

We pull into a parking garage beneath a gleaming high-rise in West Tower. Owen kills the engine and gets out, opening my door before I can even think about making a run for it.

“Come on, Princess,” he says, reaching for me.