Page 94 of Seven Lost Summers
Bianca.
Her name inked over his heart in delicate script.
My breath snags. Guilt slams into me, a cold punch to the ribs that hollows me out from the inside.
Because this isn’t just lust. It’s betrayal. Twisted. Wrong. A sickness I can’t shake.
They were Bianca’s. Both of them.
She loved them in that impossible, all consuming way only she could. And they loved her right back.
And here I am, heartbeat skittering in my chest, wanting something that was never meant to be mine.
The ink on Nate’s chest burns itself into my mind, branded into his skin like a promise he’ll never stop carrying.
I used to watch them with her—how their hands lingered, how their eyes softened with love. I wanted to be loved like that so badly it made my chest ache. I still do.
God, what’s wrong with me?
She was my best friend.
My other half.
The one person who knew every ugly part of me and never turned away. And now here I am, wanting the two people who still belong to her.
I tear my gaze away, forcing my eyes back to my coffee, fingers gripping the cup as if it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. What the fuck am I even thinking? They were Bianca’s. Not mine.
“Hey, Quinn,” Nate says.
I lift my head, heart stuttering as I meet his gaze. That fucking smile. He has no idea what it does to me.
“Hey, Nate,” I manage, forcing my voice steady even though everything inside me is shaking.
He moves past me toward Theo, who’s still standing in front of the open fridge, rummaging like he’s forgotten what food even looks like.
Nate steps in behind him, arm slipping around, hand brushing across bare skin. He leans in, chest pressed to Theo’s back, face tucked close. A small hug.
“Morning,” Nate says.
Theo leans back into the touch for a second before muttering something about eggs.
I tear my gaze away, staring down at the coffee gone cold in my hands.
Theo shuts the fridge and crosses the kitchen with a carton of eggs in one hand.
Nate heads for the coffee machine, pouring himself a mug like this is any ordinary morning and not a goddamn test of my willpower.
“You want some eggs?” Theo asks, cracking one single-handed like it’s nothing.
“No, I’m not really hungry.”
A lie.
My appetite’s shifted somewhere else entirely.
The testosterone in this room is suffocating. It’s thick in the air, clinging to the walls, curling in my lungs. It should be a crime to look that good before seven in the morning.
And the worst part?
