Page 66 of Bitter Truths

A muscle jumps in Weller’s jaw, the tiny movement betraying the iron control he’s exerting. No reaction other than that tiny tell that says I’m getting under his perfect skin.

Good. I want to shatter his composure like he shattered my heart.

“Feeling better?” Tristan asks. He’s leaning against the kitchen island with his weight on his elbows, head tilted like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s seen in years.

“Not even close.”

I relieve the stuffy room of several more pieces without even looking at them.

I spy a crystal fruit bowl on the island by the kitchen. I toy with it for a moment, like a cat might, before pushing it off the edge. Breaking shit is therapeutic, I have to admit. Looking back at the trail I left behind, I know Weller’s losing his shit over the chaos. His fingers are curling and uncurling like they’re itching to clean it up.

“Where is your ankle biter anyway?”

The temperature seems to drop ten degrees, and their faces harden simultaneously.

“Europe,” Weller answers. “Medical convention with her father.”

“How long is she gone?”

“Less than a week.”

My lips curl back from my teeth. They’re spending their time away from their mate hassling another woman. How romantic.

“Trouble in paradise? What will Whitney think about you kidnapping me while she’s away?”

They don’t need to answer for me to know Whitney will crash out.

I move into the kitchen and begin opening cabinets.

Behind me, Tristan walks in and starts rummaging through the pantry. The microwave beeps.

“Anyone else want popcorn?” he snickers.

I hold my arm out straight and drop the mug. Ceramic fragments explode across the floor, skittering toward his feet.

“Could you not have waited until I left the kitchen?” Tristan asks.

“I saw an opportunity and took it.”

His smile is slow, wicked. It starts at one corner of his mouth, spreading until dimples appear and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well played, sweetheart.”

The words hit me wrong. They crawl under my skin and nest there. Possessive. Familiar. Like I belong… and I don’t.

More mugs beckon me from the cabinet. They have various designs and wording on them. One has a science joke. Another shows a beach I’ve never visited. I don’t bother to look closely before grabbing another.

“Ah, that’s my favorite—” Freddie starts, his voice catching on the last word.

I drop it. It breaks with a higher pitch than the others, almost musical. I watch him wince as his shoulders curl inward, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“Oops.” I pick up the next one. “Sometimes our favorite things don’t last forever.”

The symbolism isn’t lost on anyone.

Tristan chuckles through a mouthful of popcorn. I blink, floored at the audacity. “Savage.”

They’re all staring at me like I’m putting on a show. Not angry about the destruction. Not trying to stop me. Just... watching. Waiting. Their eyes follow my every movement.

It’s unnerving as hell. I expected… some kind of reaction. Not this calm acceptance.