That I, the one who’d been wronged, should apologize. A laugh — bitter and dry — escaped my lips.
Then I noticed the pain.
Glancing down, I saw a long gash along my own shin, deeper than Trisha’s, blood running freely down my ankle.
I bit my lip, swallowed the sting in my throat, and crouched to pick up the shards one by one.
No one helped me. No one even noticed.
When I finished, I went to the bathroom, cleaned and wrapped my wound, and sat back on the couch in silence.
Later that night, my phone buzzed.
It was my mother — dozens of pictures of wedding rings filling my inbox.
Choose whichever you like best, my sweet moonflower, she’d written.
I scrolled through the pictures absently. Then I called her. Her voice was warm and bright, but after a moment she hesitated.
“Allison,” she said softly. “Is something wrong? You sound… tired.”
I blinked hard against the tears that threatened to fall.
“I’m fine,” I lied smoothly, my voice even. “I’ll be done here in about four days. How’s the wedding planning going?”
The words felt strange in my mouth, but I said them anyway.
I didn’t see them come in, but I heard the front door click shut behind me. Ryan and Warren’s scents hit me a moment later — wild and familiar.
They froze where they stood, hearing the last words of my call.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw their faces darken. Their gazes locked on me, and then on each other — sharp as claws.
And they spoke at once, voices low and dangerous. "Wedding? What wedding?”
