Page 83 of Bitter Truths

“Us fucking other people.” The words come out so quietly. “Her friends.”

The room tilts sideways. Blood roars in my ears. “Who?”

“Katie, Rebecca, and Liz,” Tristan answers, his body going still beside me.

Those names hit me like individual bullets. Girls I grew up with. Girls from Whitney’s inner circle who used to come to sleepovers and braid my hair.

“What else?” My breathing is growing more shallow, and the anger inside of me is building to a peak.

Owen’s already moving, rising from his chair with his hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “Bianca, breathe⁠—”

Freddie shifts beside me on the couch, his hand hovering near my arm but not quite touching. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.”

“Bianca.” The low timbre of Weller’s voice fills the air. “Focus on me.”

But I can’t focus on anything but punching a knife through her throat. Can’t escape the images flooding my brain of Whitney orchestrating this sick puppet show.

My whole body starts trembling, hands shaking so hard I can’t control them.

“She will die for this.”

Tristan’s fingers wrap around my wrist, warm and steady. “Easy, little bee.”

But I can’t do easy. Can’t process this level of cruelty breaking inside.

“Why?” The word comes out flat, empty, as anger too intense to tamp down eats me alive. “Why would she want her own mates to fuck other people? To hurt each other?”

Their eyes find each other across the room… wordless messages flying between them that make me uneasy.

I want blood for this, and I want it right fucking now.

Weller leans forward, holding eye contact with me. “Whitney’s interest in us stopped being about having mates a long time ago.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“She doesn’t want us,” Freddie says, his hand raking through his golden curls with enough force to hurt. “Not anymore. We’re just for show now.”

“Then what does she want?”

Owen speaks first. “To ruin us so thoroughly that you could never...” He stops, swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Never what?”

“Never want us,” Tristan finishes.

She’s been torturing them because of me.

Every bruise that’s marked their bodies, the haunted look in their eyes—she inflicted that because they chose me instead of her. Because they wanted me. Not her. My chest caves inward, lungs struggling to expand against the weight of it.

She’s the same kind of monster that sends people running for refuges… the kind of monster I know well.

The cruelty makes me want to vomit, but my fingers itch for blood payment.

“The girls… her friends. They knew what was happening?”

Owen’s head jerks up. “They knew. They enjoyed it.”

Murder flashes through my mind—clear as day, in great detail.