Page 87 of Sweet Torment

Winston is standing at the end of the driveway, leaning on a walker, looking like he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t need it. His posture is stiff and proud, but I can see the effort it’s taking him to stay upright. My big brother. My protector. The one who taught me how to throw a punch when I was seven.

I don’t wait for the car to fully stop before I throw open the door, the seatbelt cutting into my neck as I fumble with the release.

“Winnie!”

I rush to him, throwing my arms around him. Something about seeing him at our parents’ house like this takes me back in time.

“Little sis.” His arms tighten around me, and I pull back to look at his face. He looks more exhausted than I’ve ever seen him. “Clara wanted to come. I thought it might be a lot tonight. But soon, yeah?”

“I’d like that.”

“Are those fucks treating you well, B?” Winston’s eyes catch on a bond mark peeking out of my shirt.

“Winston...” I sigh, nodding. “You know how they are with me. Yes. None of this was their fault.”

It was mine.

Dr. Montgomery’s guard sits in the car behind us, watching. I can feel his eyes boring into my back. Winston stares the guard down over my shoulder, then looks back at me, his jaw tightening.

“Part of my release conditions,” I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

“Weller didn’t say much, but enough to know I want to strangle that fucker for what he’s done to you. Whitney is all over the news. Have you seen?” My blood turns to ice water. “What?” We turn toward the house and make our way to the door.

“She and her friends went ‘missing’ on a yacht trip.” His voice drops so low I have to lean in. “A yacht belonging to Dr. Montgomery. But no yacht and no bodies have been found.”

So this is how he is covering up my killing spree. I swallow hard.

“I’m glad she’s dead.” He looks at me knowingly, then says, on a much lighter note, “Mom and Dad have been cooking since dawn. Prepare yourself.”

The moment I step through the door, I hear my mom’s voice.

“Bianca?”

She appears in the hallway, dish towel in hand, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth as she takes me in.

“My baby,” she whispers, and then she’s rushing toward me, pulling me into an embrace so tight it hurts. “My baby, my baby, my baby. You’re home.”

Dad appears behind her, his tall frame filling the doorway to the kitchen. He joins the hug, his big arms encircling both of us. “Bianca, honey, we’ve been so worried about you.” When we finally pull apart, my mom is quick to examine every visible inch of me. Her eyes linger in various places like she’s trying to picture all that she’s missed.

Her eyes catch on one of the bond marks.

“You awakened...” she whispers, wonder and concern mingling in her voice. “Bianca, excuse my language, but what the fuck is going on? Where have you been? I know you wouldn’t go anywhere with your brother in the hospital like that. I’ve been worried sick.” Her voice rises slightly. “Did those boys do something to you again? Or is it something else?”

“It’s a long story, Mom.” I conjure up a wobbly smile, knowing it doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’m okay now.”

She gives me a look that says we’re definitely not done with this conversation, her eyes narrowing slightly as she presses her lips into a line. It’s the same expression that used to make me confess to stealing cookies when I was seven and made Winston admit he’d been the one who put a dent in the car when he was sixteen.

Oh, there will one hundred percent be another conversation. The mom look hasn’t lost its power. Being around my family is making me feel like an emotional wreck. My body feels the urge to break down and cry, and that is not a very Bianca thing to do.

“Come, I hope you’re starving.” She tugs me toward the dining room, her hand warm around mine.

The table holds every food I’ve ever loved in my entire life: pizza with extra cheese bubbling on top, a tray of burgers with all the best toppings scattered around, mashed potatoes, spaghetti, a giant bowl of fruit, and beyond that, a separate smaller table filled with desserts of all kinds. I’m overwhelmed. This feels like way too much.

“You didn’t have to do all this. Wow.” They both disagree, talking over each other about how it was no trouble, how they wanted to make it special.

“Please, sit,” Mom urges, pulling out a chair for me.

I slide into it, setting my backpack carefully on the floor beside me, keeping one foot pressed against it. Winston takes the seat across from me and kicks me under the table just like he used to when we were kids. The familiar gesture nearly undoes me again.