16. Bianca
BIANCA
I slouch in the uncomfortable chair beside Winston’s bed, watching his face for any sign of change. His responsiveness today is reassuring, but we’re still waiting for him to fully wake up.
One, two, three, four. In through my nose. Hold. One, two, three, four. Out through my mouth.
My fingers tremble. I press them against my thighs, feeling the rough denim under my palms. Focus on that texture.
Whitney drugged them. Bonded them. Used them. Hurt them.
When I can’t handle the emotional warfare of considering all the implications of this, I just imagine all the creative ways I can kill her.
Clara sits on Winston’s other side, her fingers wrapped around his hand like she’s afraid he’ll slip away if she lets go. She’s been here all night, hasn’t left except when I forced her to eat a sandwich from the cafeteria.
I touch his leg through the hospital blanket and shake it. “Winnie, it’s time to wake up.”
I’m not expecting him to; it’s been hit or miss, but I catch the movement of his fingers wiggling against Clara’s palm.
“Oh my god,” Clara breathes, her free hand flying to her mouth. “Winston? Baby?”
His eyelids flutter. They don’t open but move like he’s trying to surface from somewhere deep underwater.
“Winston,” I say, louder this time. “Come on, you pain in the ass. Open your eyes.”
Another finger twitch. Stronger this time. His breathing changes, becoming less even, more like someone fighting their way back to consciousness.
“Should I call the nurse?” Clara asks, but she doesn’t let go of his hand.
“Not yet. Let’s see if he can get there on his own.”
We wait. I count my breaths, trying to stay present instead of spiraling. One, two, three, four. In. Hold. One, two, three, four. Out.
But my mind won’t stay quiet. Last night keeps playing on repeat—the way Tristan’s tone dropped to that register that used to make me weak. The closeness of him in that elevator, all warm skin and undeniable longing. I wanted to pull him down and kiss him until neither of us could think straight.
Fuck .
My body’s a complete traitor. Standing that close to him, feeling his chest under my palms…
it would’ve felt too good to give in. That’s the problem, isn’t it?
If I give in to one of them, there’ll be no stopping.
They’ll consume me whole, and I’ll let them because some sick part of me wants that still, even after everything.
But what then? What happens when Whitney comes back and finds out they’ve been talking to me?
Nothing good.
I press cool fingers into my temples, trying to massage away the headache building there.
Going back to the refuge would be easiest. Safest. Back to Megan and her terrible pottery. Back to the morning routines and training sessions and the simple clarity of survival.
Back to Ezra.
The thought of Ezra brings up complicated emotions.
He’s been my anchor all this time, the steady presence that helped put me back together when I was nothing but bloody pieces.
The thing between us isn’t a love story in the typical sense; it never has been, but I depend on him and his friendship.
He knows every scar, every trigger, every wall I’ve built to keep myself safe.
And I love the refuge. I love the work we do, the way we help people find their strength again. It’s good work. Important work.
But.
The alphas still feel like home.
Even as twisted and fucked up as this situation is, they still feel like the missing parts of myself I’ve spent years hunting to find.
The hungry spark in Tristan’s eyes when I challenged him.
Freddie’s quiet, urgent need to soothe every hurt I’ve ever experienced.
Owen, practically vibrating with the impulse to keep me close and never let me out of his sight again.
And Weller, the man who used his control like armor, stripped bare and left with none…
stolen by someone who never had the right to take it from him.
It’s heartbreaking.
We’re all damaged in our own ways now.
If Whitney blamed the bond rejection on me, then they’ve suffered ever since because of me. They’ve been trapped in a nightmare I can’t even comprehend, while I’ve been relatively safe in my mountain sanctuary, trying my hardest to hate them.
Fuck. The guilt might kill me.
Winston’s eyes flutter open. Just for a second, unfocused and confused, before they slip closed again. But it’s progress.
“Winston?” Clara gets closer to his face, speaking softly. “Baby, we’re here.”
His lips move, like he’s trying to speak, but no sound comes out.
“Don’t try to talk,” I tell him, leaning closer. “Just rest. You’re safe.”
His fingers squeeze Clara’s hand—definitely intentional this time. She makes a soft sound, half sob and half laugh, her shoulders shaking with relief.
“He’s coming back,” she says, tears streaming down her face. “He’s really coming back.”
I watch my brother fight his way back to consciousness as I try to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with my life.
Being near the alphas again is dangerous. Getting attached is dangerous. Getting my hopes up is dangerous. This whole situation is messy and complicated, and I don’t have a good feeling about any of it.
What can I do that they can’t? There are four of them and one of me. They’ve had years to get out of this bond, and they’re still trapped. There must be a reason they haven’t killed Whitney by now.
Their fathers are involved. Dr. Montgomery too. The man who’s been my doctor since I was a child, who delivered that devastating diagnosis right after graduation, who convinced me I was incapable of ever being whole.
What if he lied?
What if everything he told me was bullshit designed to keep me away from them?
What if he did damage me to get me out of the way for Whitney?
The thoughts hit me like ice water, my spine going rigid against the chair.
What about the scent match I used to be so convinced of?
I’ve spent years downplaying it and accusing myself of making it up.
Is it even a scent match, or did we just bond from childhood?
I’m conflicted about whether to say anything without knowing if I’m capable of ever being their mate, in the event we’re even able to get rid of Whitney.
It seems cruel to dangle the carrot if it changes nothing at all for us.
The only person I know to ask is now enemy number one and the reason my life is in tatters.
How do I get answers to all of these questions? How do you prove medical malpractice when the doctor in question has the kind of power and connections Montgomery has?
Will I ever know the truth?
God only knows what Montgomery would do if I walked into his office trying to get to the bottom of things. He might have some new, fucked-up experimentation to try on me, just like he did with the alphas.
Winston’s eyes open again, staying open longer this time. His gaze finds Clara first, then drifts to me. I can see recognition there, cloudy but real.
“Hey, asshole,” I whisper, and his mouth curves in what might be the beginning of a smile.
He tries to speak again, but no sound comes out. The frustration that flickers across his face is so familiar, so purely Winston, that I almost laugh.
“Don’t,” I tell him. “Save your strength. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”
His eyes close, but the relief is overwhelming.
A knock on the door interrupts the moment. I look up to see Weller standing in the doorway, perfectly dressed as always despite the early hour. His eyes find mine immediately.
“How is he?” Weller asks, stepping into the room.
“Better,” Clara says, not taking her eyes off Winston. “He’s waking up.”
Weller nods, but his attention stays on me, his gaze heavy with unspoken words. “Bianca, could I speak with you for a moment?”
I grip the arms of the chair. The careful way he’s holding himself, the softness in his request… this isn’t a casual check-in.
“I should stay with Winston.”
“I’ll be here,” Clara says. “Go.”
I stand, legs shaky from sitting too long, and have to steady myself against the bed rail before following Weller out into the hallway.
The waiting area is mostly empty this early in the morning. He chooses a corner where we’ll have some privacy and settles into one of the chairs. I sit across from him, hands underneath my legs to hide the trembling, my knees angled away like I might need to run.
“How are you?” he asks. “After everything last night.”
A bitter laugh rises but dies on my tongue. How am I? I’m a disaster. I’m questioning everything I thought I knew about my life, my body, my future. I’m torn between two worlds and don’t know which one is real anymore.
“I’m fine.”
Weller’s eyes sharpen, cutting through my lie without effort. “Are you?”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re sitting on your hands,” he says softly, every word precise and relentless.
“Your breathing’s measured, careful, as if you’re counting each inhale just to stay in control.
And your pulse—” his eyes drop to my throat, lingering there, “is racing so hard I can practically taste your anxiety. Please don’t lie to me, Bianca. ”
I swallow hard, unintentionally proving his point. Of course, he sees straight through me. He always has. Tears sting behind my eyes, hot and unwelcome, and I quickly look away from him. “I’m just—trying to wrap my head around it,” I say softly, my eyes fixed on the wall. “It’s... a lot.”
He slowly leans forward, cautious, as if approaching an animal that’s sure to bolt.
I catch just the faintest hint of his scent, warm and dangerously familiar.
It curls through me, making me ache to lean closer, to breathe him in fully and forget everything else.
“Bianca,” he says roughly, “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?” My voice trembles, already aware his answer will tear me apart.
“For everything.” His eyes burn into mine, so intense I have to fight the urge to look away. His hands flex against his thighs, tension radiating from every muscle. “For failing to protect you. For not finding a way back to you sooner. For letting you believe that we didn’t want you.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?” he protests. “We were supposed to keep you safe, Bianca. We failed you.”
“Stop,” I whisper sharply, panic flaring. My own guilt rises, choking me. “What could you have done?”
His eyes are warm but sad.
“I need you to know that I’ve missed you every single second,” he says, his voice gravelly, stripping away any defense I have left. “The emptiness of losing you, knowing you believed we abandoned you… it was more unbearable than anything she’s done to us.”
My breath catches, and despite all my effort, tears slip free and trail down my cheeks.
“Look at me,” he whispers. He leans forward until his knees nearly brush mine, his warmth sinking into my bones.
Slowly, I lift my gaze, and what I see there steals my breath.
“I’ve changed, Weller,” shame heats my cheeks. “You don’t want me.”
“What I don’t want is a life without you in it.” He runs a hand over his face.
Then his palm cups my cheek. My eyes close, and for a moment, nothing else exists except his warmth on my skin.
“This is dangerous,” I keep my voice low.
“I agree with you.” He rises to his feet, gathering me into his arms as if I’m valuable… rare. His embrace is steady and strong, his heartbeat pounding beneath my cheek, filling the hollow spaces I’ve carried inside for years. “But you’re worth any consequence.”
His scent is very light, but it surrounds me, teakwood and bergamot seeping into my senses, pulling forth memories I’ve tried to bury. Tears blur my eyes, and I clutch at his shirt, grief and relief tangled tightly together. The faint rose note makes me ache with sadness at the wrongness of it.
“Come to dinner tonight,” he says into my hair, a gentle plea woven through his words.
I should say no, cling to the remnants of my resolve, but the warmth of his body against mine has already unraveled every thread.
“One dinner… and lose the blockers. The lack of smell was weird.” My shoulders sink, resistance slipping from my grasp.
He exhales deeply, body easing, tension leaving him like he’s been holding his breath for years. “No blockers. Seven o’clock. I’ll send a car for you.”
“I can drive myself.”
He smiles faintly, shaking his head, eyes softening as he holds me a moment longer. “Bianca, please. Let me take care of you.”
His arms remain around me, reluctant to let go, before slowly, carefully releasing me. The loss of contact leaves my skin cold. He straightens his jacket, slipping effortlessly back behind his careful mask. But his gaze lingers on me, exposing the pain beneath.
He presses a light kiss to the top of my head before moving toward the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”
I nod as I watch him leave.
I press my fingertips into my temples, still feeling the ghost of his touch everywhere, and try to breathe through the sharp ache behind my eyes. Inhale. One, two, three, four. Hold. Exhale. One, two, three, four.
It doesn’t ease the pain.
I take a shaky breath and force my legs to carry me back to Winston’s room to find him fully awake, eyes focused and alert. Clara’s crying happy tears, clutching his hand like a lifeline.
“Hey, Winnie,” I say, grabbing his other hand and settling into my chair. “Welcome back.”
His gaze finds mine immediately, and I can see all the questions in his eyes: surprise, concern, that protective instinct that’s defined him since we were kids.
“Did you plan this just to get me to come home?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
His mouth curves into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Even waking up from a coma, my brother’s a menace.