An hour passed before he called. By then, exhaustion had dulled the edges of my rage. I answered, hoping for an explanation. But his voice was cold, dripping with frustration.
“What now, Isla?” His tone was sharp. “Lucia was in an accident, she’s scared. Don’t twist things with your dirty assumptions. If I was really interested in her, why did I choose you to be my chosen mate instead of her?”
His words cut deeper than any rogue’s claws. My leg throbbed painfully beneath its cast, but the ache in my chest was worse.
“I’m hurt too, Bryce,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m at the infirmary—”
“Bryce,” a soft voice called from his end. “I forgot to grab a towel. Can you bring me one? I’m already undressed.”
It was like my heart stopped upon hearing Lucia's voice. They were back at the pack house together, and he hadn't even told me.
My hand tightened around the phone as Bryce rushed to explain, “I’m just helping her, Isla. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d overreact. So please, stop this drama.”
Dramatic. That’s what he thought of me. I bit back the wave of emotions rising in my throat and replied, flatly, "Right. I’m the one being dramatic."