Page 70 of Bitter Truths

Tristan’s voice comes quiet, but razor-sharp. “Jealousy. Deep. Obsessive. The kind that warps everything.”

I snort, disbelief breaking through. “That’s ridiculous. She has everything. I’ve been living in the woods like a feral cat.”

Weller folds his arms, watching me with that unsettling stillness of his. “The bond rejection was her snapping point. We made it clear there was no future between us. None. She would never be ours regardless of the bond… led to her complete unraveling.”

Owen speaks without looking at me, his voice low and bitter. “Her cruelty runs deep, and rejecting her came with a price we’ve been paying every day since.”

Tristan gives a tight smile, the humor never touching his eyes.

A beat of silence. Then Owen lifts his eyes, his expression dark. “And the fact that you’ve always been ours...” His voice deepens, dropping to a vibration that moves beneath my skin. “Eats her alive.”

My heart stumbles, too hard, too fast. “But I’m not yours.”

They all go still.

Four pairs of eyes find mine. The force of it knocks the breath from my lungs.

Weller steps forward, as if he can’t help it. “Bianca.” My name always sounds different in his mouth. Like it’s sacred. “You’ve been ours since the day we met.”

15

TRISTAN

The penthouse feels like a fucking tomb tonight.

I watch her by the windows, silhouetted against the city lights, and she’s nothing like what I expected.

Nothing like the girl who disappeared after graduation. Nothing like the version of her I’ve imagined in her absence.

Black clothes cling to a body that’s all lean muscle and dangerous curves now, every line speaking of discipline and violence learned through necessity. Her honey-blonde hair is woven into a French braid so tight it pulls at her temples, and my fingers itch to set it free.

Half a decade without us has turned her into a girl that’s sharp and deadly, broadcasting an unspoken warning to stay away, which makes my blood run hot and my hands ache with the need to touch her.

She’s scanning the room again, the third time since we came inside. Always cataloging exits, always measuring distances. Someone taught her to think tactically, and I want to know who. I want to thank them for making our sweet little bee so beautifully paranoid and protective of herself, but I despise that she needed to.

“The balcony,” she says. “Fresh air.”

“Excellent suggestion, sweetheart.”

The endearment rolls off my tongue like honey laced with arsenic. She flinches—just the tiniest jerk of her shoulders, but I catch it. I’m pleased she still reacts to me.

She follows me outside but positions herself strategically across the seating area.

Owen’s vibrating with restless energy, like he’s holding himself back from lunging forward and wrapping her in his arms… or throwing her over his shoulder and vanishing, consequences be damned.

Freddie keeps opening his mouth, then shutting it again. Like he wants to comfort her but knows it won’t land.

Weller’s gone perfectly still.

We’re all on the verge. Not just from wanting to touch her. From needing to. Needing to convince ourselves that she’s real, that she’s here, that she made it out of the fire in one piece. We want to relearn everything about her, map every new mark on her skin, memorize all of the changes to a girl we knew everything about. But she radiates a warning now that’s wild and volatile. She sits like a creature not used to cages, too sharp to be handled without injury, too beautiful to look away from.

One wrong move, and she might vanish.

Move too fast, and she might bite.

Correction: She definitely will bite.

The bite marks she gave me send a slow burn down my spine, branding my body in a way that feels almost sacred. My thumb rubs across a deep scratch, loving the sharp reminder that she was here, furious and alive. I’ve noticed Owen doing the same throughout the evening—our hunger a shared, wordless madness.