13. Bianca
BIANCA
The machines keep their steady rhythm. Beep. Pause. Beep. Like Winston’s heartbeat translated into electronic language, each sound a promise that he’s still here, still fighting.
I slouch deeper into the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, studying his swollen face. The bruising’s gotten worse since yesterday—purple spreading like spilled wine across his jaw, down his neck. But his breathing sounds stronger. More natural.
“So,” I say casually. “Your friends showed up yesterday.”
Winston doesn’t respond, of course.
“Looking like the walking dead, honestly.” I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “Though I guess being bonded to Whitney would drain the life out of anyone.”
The memory of yesterday’s encounter burns through me. The way their scents slammed into me like a physical assault threw me off. Fucking roses mixed with a smell that used to mean home, safety, and everything good in my world is particularly offensive.
The humiliation of my freak-out still makes my cheeks burn. I haven’t been that out of control in years. Haven’t felt that vulnerable since those first months after I left.
“They wanted to talk. Had the audacity to give me an address, like I’m some obedient little omega who’ll come running when summoned.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “Guess they didn’t realize I grew some fucking teeth while they were playing house.”
I take a sip of water.
“By the way, I stabbed Owen.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “Right in the thigh. He seemed to enjoy it, which is... concerning. Even for him.”
There’s something off about them. Wrong. They don’t feel like the guys I remember, the ones who used to make me feel safe just by existing in the same room. There’s a darkness there now, a desperation that makes my skin crawl. Or maybe that’s just what five years of Whitney does to people.
I wish Winston could tell me what’s been going on. What they’ve been like these past years, how they’ve changed, why they all look half-dead.
“I’m so fucking lost here, Win.”
His fingers twitch.
Not his whole hand. Just his index and middle fingers, an almost imperceptible movement against the white hospital blanket.
My pulse races like it wants to escape my body.
“Winston?” I lean closer, grabbing his hand. “Did you just...?”
His fingers move again. Deliberate. Intentional.
“Oh my god. CLARA! Someone get Clara!”
I’m on my feet, pressing the call button repeatedly while holding his hand. The movement was small, but it was there. Real.
Footsteps pound down the hallway. Clara bursts through the door first, eyes wild with hope and terror.
“What happened? Is he–”
“His fingers moved,” I say. “Twice. When I was talking to him.”
Clara drops into the chair on Winston’s other side, taking his free hand. “Win? Baby, can you hear me?”
She goes still, staring down at their joined hands. Then her breath catches.
“Oh my god, he’s... his fingers just... Winston! Baby, do it again, please do it again!”
She’s sobbing now, clutching his hand to her chest like a lifeline. “I felt it, I felt him squeeze my fingers! He knows I’m here!”
Tears stream down her face as she leans over him, pressing kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, anywhere she can reach. “I need you to come back to me right now, Winston.”
Dr. Kelty arrives with two nurses, pushing past us to check Winston’s vitals, shine lights in his eyes, and test his reflexes. I stand back, bouncing on my toes, watching every movement for signs of change.
“His neurological responses are definitely improving,” Dr. Kelty says after what feels like hours of testing. “The finger movement is encouraging. We’ll run another EEG, but this could indicate he’s beginning to surface from the coma.”
“Could?” Clara’s voice goes up an octave. “What does that mean?”
“It means we wait,” he says. “These things happen gradually. But this is the best sign we’ve had since the accident.”
When the medical team leaves, Clara and I sit in charged silence. Both afraid to hope too much, both desperate for more.
“I need to call Ben and Matt,” Clara says, standing. “They went to grab dinner. And your parents–”
“I’ll get us a snack,” I offer. “Smoothie? You haven’t eaten anything today.”
She nods gratefully. “Mango if they have it, and one of those muffins, please.”
I squeeze her shoulder.
The smoothie place in the hospital lobby is crowded, the line moving slowly. I check my phone while waiting.
Thirteen minutes until their deadline.
I know what I saw. And no amount of pretty words can change that.
I dial Ezra’s number.
“Bianca.” I smile when I hear him say my name. “How are you? How’s Winston?”
“He’s doing a little better. His fingers moved earlier. Doctors think he might be starting to wake up.” I lean against the lobby wall, watching people stream past. “It’s the first real sign of progress since the accident.”
“That’s incredible news.” He sounds genuinely relieved. “And what about you?”
“Eager for him to wake up.” I pause, checking the time. “I decided not to go.”
He knows immediately what I mean. After I hung up so abruptly yesterday when their scents hit me, I called him back within the hour to explain the whole garden encounter—the confrontation, the address, their demand that I show up today.
“Hey, put me on speaker,” I hear Megan say in the background. “Is that Bianca?”
I hear Ezra chuckling as the phone shifts. “You’re on speaker now.”
“Bianca!” Megan sounds chipper as usual. “I miss you so much it’s disgusting. Everything here is boring without you. Marc tried to make your vegetable soup last night, and it tasted like sadness.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Tell Marc he needs to add more salt.”
“I already did. He told me to mind my own business and stick to pottery.” She pauses. “Which reminds me, I made you a bowl. It’s terrible. You’ll love it.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
“Come home soon, okay? Ezra’s not funny like you.”
Ezra laughs, sounding genuinely offended. “Excuse me? I’m hilarious.”
“You’re about as funny as a funeral, Ez,” Megan shoots back cheerfully.
We talk for another few minutes—about Winston’s progress, about Clara’s relief, about Megan’s latest pottery disasters.
When I hang up, I grab the smoothies and head back upstairs, ignoring the phantom sensation of being watched. Every shadow feels like it might contain familiar faces; every smell makes me tense. But the hallways remain empty of anyone I recognize.
My paranoia is getting ridiculous. They’re back home doting on their omega... message received loud and clear.
The thought should be satisfying. Instead, it makes me feel sick.
Clara takes the mango smoothie gratefully, settling back into her spot beside Winston’s bed. I perch on the window ledge, sipping mine and watching the parking lot below.
A few hours later, I can’t stand the hospital anymore. I need air. Space. My own bed.
“I’m going to head home,” I tell Clara. “Get some real food, a shower. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”
Clara gives me a hug and promises to call if anything changes.
I take the elevator down to the parking garage and look for my mom’s car. The underground space is dimly lit, shadows pooling between concrete pillars. My footsteps echo off the walls.
I pull out my phone to text her about Winston’s progress. She’s going to be so disappointed she missed it. My fingers move across the screen as I walk, half my attention on the message.
The attack comes without warning.
Hands grab me from behind, one clamping over my mouth before I can scream. My phone clatters to the concrete as I’m dragged backward. Pure panic floods my system. They’re odorless, which makes everything worse.
Training kicks in.
I drive my elbow back hard, connecting with ribs. Whoever’s holding me grunts but doesn’t let go. I stomp down on an instep, bite the hand covering my mouth, taste blood.
“Fuck—”
I break free, spinning around to face my attackers.
Tristan steps into the light, blood running down his forearm from bite marks on his hand. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, and he’s grinning like I just made his fucking year.
“Impressive,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming with dark fascination. “You’ve learned some interesting skills, little bee.”
“I’m going to cut your knots off and shove them down your throats.”
His grin widens. Blood from where I bit him drips onto his shirt. “You’ve always had a wild imagination.”
I lunge for him, fingernails aimed at his eyes. He catches my wrists but not before I rake deep scratches down his forearm. The wounds bloom red against his skin.
“Fuck yes,” he breathes, pupils dilating further. “More.”
Owen emerges from behind a pillar, keys in hand, moving like he has all the time in the world. He stares at me like he has the right to.
“Hello, Princess,” he says calmly, like we’re meeting for coffee instead of him kidnapping me. “You missed our appointment.”
“Missed it?” I spit, struggling against his hold. “I never considered it, you pretentious assholes.”
Tristan moves behind me while I’m focused on Owen. I feel his presence a split second before his arms wrap around me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides.
I throw my head back, trying to crack his nose with the back of my skull. He moves just enough that I only catch his chin, but it’s enough to make him grunt.
“Bianca, stop fighting,” he says, his voice maddeningly level. “You’re making this unnecessarily difficult.”
I twist in his grip and manage to get enough leverage to punch Owen in the jaw. The impact sends pain shooting up my arm, but the satisfaction of seeing his head snap back makes it worth it.
Owen laughs. “Good form, Princess. But I could teach you better technique.”
“Stop calling me that, fuckface!” I drive my knee toward his injured thigh, trying to reopen the wound from my makeshift shiv. He dodges but not entirely—I catch him on the outer edge, making him hiss.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Tristan murmurs against my ear, his breath warm on my neck. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”